‘What?’ Durand’s voice was sharp.
‘If they were hotel-issued, I doubt housekeeping would leave them on the glass cabinet. Candle bases get hot. They’d far more likely put them on that.’ I pointed to a wooden dresser at the right of the frame.
I felt Durand shrug. ‘Maybe she brought them with her.’
‘Could the candles signify a ritual?’
‘It’s possible. The killer may have wanted to re-create some sort of romantic fantasy.’ I didn’t even react to the absurdity of that comment. Eight years on the newsdesk had taught me there was no limit to human depravity.
I swiped to the next picture. A green quilt flung over the arm of a powder-blue armchair and, on the seat, a pair of red-soled high heels. On the floor in front of the chair was a black holdall with clothes spilling out of it. I studied the bedside table, a small mahogany unit with one drawer. On top was a telephone, a blank notepad and a glass containing an inch of clear liquid.
‘Water?’
‘Probably. It doesn’t smell alcoholic.’
I zoomed in on the cluster of gems on the bedside table. ‘Her jewellery is still there.’
‘So is her purse. It seems the killer had no interest in taking anything from her.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Apart from the obvious.’
Durand had taken a photograph through the crack in the bathroom door. Bottles and make-up brushes were scattered across honey-flecked marble.
The next photograph hit me, a jab under the ribs.
‘Jesus Christ.’
The last time I’d had seen that butterfly tattoo, its blue wings had stood out against Natalia’s milky-white skin like the veins on a Stilton cheese. Now those lifeless, twisted hands were the same bruisy colour. Fingers curled into ugly claws, as though reaching for salvation that never came.
She lay on her back. Her gold brocade dress hung low at the side exposing her ribs. The past week had taught me that each bone poking out of Natalia’s body told a tale of denial and rejection. You could trace your fingertips over them like Braille and read her unhappy story. Blood had soaked through the ivory eiderdown beneath her lower half and I was grateful the dress hid whatever the killer did down there. I zoomed in on her face. The back of my throat burned as I took in the butchered mess. A small stub of nose was visible but nothing more. I forced my eyes downwards to the purple bruising on her throat. It was a couple of moments before I realised Natalia’s hair had been hacked off into a cropped, boy’s haircut.
Durand cleared his throat. I tore my eyes away from the photos and made a big show of returning my phone to my bag so he couldn’t see how shaken I was.
I took a deep breath. ‘Her name is Natalia Kotov. She’s Russian. Moved to London last July to pursue modelling. She came here for a better life.’
Durand paused, letting that statement hang in the air. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Nineteen hours ago.’
‘Where?’
‘The Goat in Boots on Brixton High Road.’ I filled Durand in on how we met and he listened quietly, without interrupting.
‘And you have no idea who her attacker is?’
I shook my head. ‘She never identified him. But I believe he’s in the fashion industry.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just a hunch.’
Durand looked thoughtful. ‘The timing is curious. Natalia is killed the day after she gets cold feet about ID’ing her rapist. If she kept quiet, why kill her?’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t trust her.’
‘Or the rape had nothing to do with her murder.’ Durand leaned against the wall and folded his arms. ‘How did she seem to you yesterday?’
‘Tense. But sources often get cold feet.’ I gave Durand a wan smile and rubbed my eyes, feeling as if I was in a dream. ‘I thought I’d give her a day or two and then try again.’
An image of Natalia’s broken body smashed through my brain and my stomach heaved. ‘What caused the bloodstain on the bed?’
‘I won’t know the details until the pathologist gets here, but it looks as if she’s been mutilated. Her underwear is missing.’ Durand’s tone was matter-of-fact, but I detected an edge.
I shivered. ‘It’s a bold move, killing her in such a public place and not hiding the body. And it doesn’t look like there are signs of forced entry. So, either she let her attacker in or he had a key.’ I watched Durand closely but he knew better than to comment before the crime scene had been analysed. ‘Who found her?’
Durand’s phone rang. He frowned at the screen but ignored it. ‘Housekeeper. Walked past this morning and noticed the door was open.’
‘What do you mean “open”?’
Durand suddenly looked irritated. ‘Open. Caught on the latch.’
I wondered who’d just called him. ‘When will her name go public?’
‘We’ll release a statement in a few hours but be sensitive, Sophie. We haven’t informed next of kin.’
I thought briefly of Natalia’s mum; a survivor, a woman who’d endured enough hardship for one lifetime. ‘I’ll keep her name under the radar for now.’ I didn’t tell Durand that not naming Natalia worked in my favour. It gave me a head-start. I could pull together information without the competition getting in my way. But if Durand thought I was doing him a favour that worked for me too.
‘Boss.’ A warning shot rang down the corridor.
I slid my notepad into my bag, feeling as if the adrenaline had left my body.
Durand must have noticed. ‘Are you OK?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s a shock. I only saw her yesterday.’
‘That’s not what I –’
‘Yeah, I know.’ I didn’t meet his eye. ‘I’m fine.’
Durand’s shrewd gaze unsettled me. I strive to be a closed book, but he’s one of the few people who can read me.
‘Really? Because you look terrible.’
I snorted. ‘You really know how to boost a girl’s confidence.’
His eyes lingered on my face and I thought he was going to say something else. Instead, he turned away and disappeared into the room of death.
5
I stepped out of the lift and into the lobby, noticing a shift in atmosphere. The air was charged, a flame licking at the fuse. News had spread. Outside, reporters were being pushed back by police officers who had sealed the exits. I’d managed to slip through the net but I didn’t have long. I sloped over to an ornate rosewood cabinet and pretended to inspect the jewellery on display, while reaching into my bag for my phone. I flicked on the video camera and, holding it close to me, filmed a 360-degree sweep of the lobby. Raising my gaze, I spotted two CCTV cameras, red lights blinking.
My shoes squeaked as I crossed the lobby to a heavy green door marked Staff only. I glanced over my shoulder, then pushed it open. A lanky waiter was wheeling a table along the corridor towards me.
I smiled brightly. ‘I’m looking for the security room.’
‘Third door on your left.’ He nodded in the direction he’d come from. ‘Roger’s there.’
‘Thank you.’ I scuttled away before he could ask who I was. I opened the door a crack. A burly security guard with short, grey hair sat with his back to me. One meaty hand was wrapped around a chipped mug of tea, the other poised to turn the page of a car magazine. I slipped in and closed the door quickly.
He looked round in surprise and half-rose from the chair as if he was the one who’d made the mistake. ‘Can I help you, madam?’
The room reeked of fried breakfast and BO. ‘Roger, I’m Sophie Kent and I’m with The London Herald. I’m investigating the incident that happened here last night. Do you mind if I ask a couple of questions?’
He frowned, drawing together thick eyebrows, so dark they looked as if they’d been filled in with charcoal.
‘How did you get in here?’
‘I’ll cut to the chase. I need to see last night’s CCTV footage.’ He gave me an incredulous look. ‘I know. You can’t, you’ll lose
your job. Here’s the thing. You and I both know that images from that CCTV footage will be released to the press eventually. I’m asking for a head-start.’
Roger stood up. His body looked as though it was made out of building blocks.
He careened towards me and I ducked out of his reach, finding myself next to a corkboard covered with personal photos. Roger dressed in a plaid shirt with his arm round a petite, brunette woman I took to be his wife. Next to it was a photo of a teenage girl with Roger’s heavy build, but her mother’s delicate features and dark hair.
I had my angle.
‘Listen, I know the girl who died.’ I deliberately used the word girl, not woman. ‘When I saw her yesterday, she was terrified. And now she’s lying upstairs in a hotel suite bleeding out of her eyes.’ An image of Natalia’s mottled throat flashed across my eyes and I began to sweat. ‘CID is conducting the investigation their way, which means thorough and slow. They’ll interview every guest and member of staff. How long do you think that will take in a hotel this size? Meanwhile the killer is out there thinking he’s got away with it.’ I nodded towards the photo behind him. ‘He’s probably choosing his next victim and, by the looks of things, he likes them young, pretty and brunette. I am going to hunt down the monster who mutilated this girl with or without your help. But I’ll get there much faster if you help me.’
Roger glared at me, a muscle pulsating under his eye. ‘I’m eight months away from retirement. You’re crazy if you think I’m going to risk it.’ He rubbed a hand over his head and exhaled loudly. ‘You know what, I need to take a leak. The bog is a few minutes’ walk away and I drank a lot of coffee this morning so I could be in there some time.’ He gave me a ghost of a wink and strolled out.
I threw myself into Roger’s chair, wrinkling my nose as a cloud of BO engulfed me, and studied the CCTV screens on his desk. The main camera above the front door provided a wide-angle view of the lobby. A second was in the corner furthest from the entrance. I pulled up the last twenty-four hours’ worth of footage. Then I plugged in a USB stick and hit download. A blue bar appeared on the screen moving at the pace of a winded snail. While I waited, I searched for the CCTV from the fifth floor. I couldn’t find anything.
A faint whistle grew louder as Roger approached. The first camera footage hadn’t finished downloading, let alone the second, but it was more than I could have hoped for. I ejected the USB stick and sprang away from the desk.
The door opened and Roger appeared, hoisting up the waistband of his trousers.
‘You still here?’ He lumbered across the tiny space and sat down heavily, resuming the position with one hand on his mug.
‘Roger, hypothetically, if I wanted to get my hands on the CCTV footage from the fifth floor . . .’
‘Aside from the fact that you’re seriously pushing your luck, you couldn’t. It doesn’t exist.’ He pointed a stout finger to a hotel floor plan that was pinned to the wall. ‘We’re in the process of updating our security system. The first three floors have cameras outside each lift and at the end of each corridor. But the top two floors haven’t been completed.’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me.’
I slid my business card across the table and let myself out. Up ahead was a door bearing a neat, gold sign with black writing: Housekeeping. I pushed the door open and stuck my head round. The room was warm and smelled of freshly laundered linen. Housekeeping trolleys were lined up and I could just make out female voices above the drone of industrial-sized washing machines. I crept inside and saw two women sitting with their backs to me, wearing identical green dresses, their dark hair scraped back into tight buns. The one closest to me was folding towels, her slim hands moving on autopilot. The other, barrel-shaped with calves like a side of ham, had a pile of unfolded pillowcases beside her. I didn’t need to speak Spanish to know they were upset.
I moved out of the shadows and the older lady swung round. Her face was carved with wrinkles but her hazel eyes were sharp. ‘You lost, miss?’
I flashed my press card in front of her face, hoping it made me look more official. ‘Could I ask you a couple of questions?’ She shrugged. ‘Do you know what happened to that girl last night?’
She threw her hands up in the air and babbled in Spanish, her eyes watering.
‘Carlita, sshh, don’t upset yourself.’ The younger woman put a hand on the woman’s thick shoulder, glaring at me. She was in her early twenties; tall and sullen and heavily made-up. Dark eyebrows pencilled on her high forehead, thick stripes of blusher on her narrow cheeks.
‘Give her a break.’ Her accent wasn’t as thick as Carlita’s. ‘She found the girl.’
I nodded sympathetically. ‘What time was this, ah . . .?’
‘Sasha.’
She repeated my question in Spanish and Carlita looked at me warily. ‘Around seven o’clock.’ She pronounced it seben. ‘The door is open and when I look inside, I see –’ Her face crumpled like a dry tissue and my heart went out to her.
I inched towards them and took out my notepad. ‘Did either of you have any contact with the girl?’
Carlita nodded. ‘She call housekeeping when she arrive. She want a – how you say – steam?’ She looked at Sasha for help.
‘Steamer. Her dress was creased,’ said Sasha impatiently. ‘I took it to her around 6.30 p.m.’
‘And you took the steamer to,’ I looked down at my notebook, ‘Room 538?’
Sasha thought for a moment. ‘It was 340.’
I frowned. ‘You’re sure it was that room?’
‘Yes, I remember because the light outside her room was broken and I had to report it.’
‘Did she move rooms?’ Carlita shrugged and her thick neck disappeared. I looked at Sasha. ‘When you took the steamer to the girl, how did she seem?’
Sasha’s eyes glittered. ‘This going in the newspaper?’
‘Only if you want it to.’
‘She seemed, you know . . .’ She mimed drinking from a glass.
‘Drunk?’
‘Her words sounded funny.’
I made a mental note to find out if Natalia had ordered anything from room service and, if so, who brought it to her.
‘Would anyone have checked her minibar since then?’
Carlita hauled herself off the bench and shuffled over to a table and picked up a binder. ‘No. Look, no one go inside her room. She had Do Not Disturb on door.’
She held the binder out for me to see. On the column marked Turn Down, next to room 340 were the letters DND. I pretended to look where her finger was pointing, while scanning the page lightning-quick for room 538. Again, the letters DND.
‘Do you keep a log of which guests are in which rooms?’
Sasha shook her head. ‘That’s above our pay grade. We don’t know names, we just clean the shit off their toilets.’ Her smile stretched tight like a rubber band.
Carlita said something in Spanish and Sasha shrugged. ‘You could try Dmitri on the front desk.’ Her cheeks flushed at the mention of his name.
This was something I could use.
‘You mean the hot guy I passed on the way in?’ I leaned in towards her. ‘How long have you been together?’
Sasha grinned. ‘Almost two months. One day I found a note in my cubby asking me out for a drink. We went to a little Russian place round the corner. Forty-eight types of vodka. Dmitri showed me how to drink it the Russian way. Na Zdorovie!’ She gave a high-pitched giggle.
‘Could you persuade Dmitri to make a copy of the guest log?’
Sasha looked less certain of herself. ‘I can try but I don’t know . . .’ She glanced at Carlita. ‘Do you have money? He might do it if you pay him.’
I sighed. ‘I don’t pay for information. People talk to me because they want to help. But if Dmitri feels uncomfortable putting himself on the line for this dead girl, that’s his decision.’
‘No, Dmitri is a good man. I will tell him it’s important. He might do it for me.’
She smiled shyly. Dmitri must be something special. Sasha had gone from petulant to lovestruck in the blink of an eye.
I handed over my card. ‘Call me as soon as you’ve spoken to Dmitri.’
As I pulled the door closed, Sasha was already reaching for her phone.
6
The first time I entered Premier News, I was fresh out of university, with a blunt fringe, strident views and a trouser suit that made me look forty-five. I dropped my bag at the security gate and had to scrabble around picking up loose change, lipglosses and a good-luck cactus from my brother, Tommy. I looked up to find a security guard beaming at me. His face was round as a button, with amber eyes and bright Tic Tac teeth. He ushered me over to a chair.
‘First day?’ He spoke slowly, his voice unspooling like honey off a spoon, with a hint of an Ethiopian lilt, even though I later found out he’d lived in London for more than twenty years.
‘That obvious, huh?’
‘Some of the most important people in the world have come through those doors and they all nervous when they hit the lobby. Something about this place.’ He gave me a wink. ‘Don’t you forget, you’s in good company.’
Eight years later, Joe Vassalo’s black curls had thinned, his stoop deteriorated, but his smile was just as wide.
‘Miss Sophie, you don’t look so good. You getting sick?’
‘I’ve had better mornings.’ I rifled through my bag for my security pass, flicking him a smile. ‘Rowley in yet?’
‘It was still dark when he arrive this morning.’ Joe grinned. ‘You know what they say about the early bird –’
‘Everybody hates them?’
Joe cackled and swiped me through the security gate. I clickety-clacked across the marble lobby towards the lift, glancing up at the patch of grey sky through the glass ceiling five hundred feet above my head. The lobby’s cathedral acoustics always made me feel both small and important at the same time. They pulled me upwards, made me walk taller. Even on a day such as today.
The lift doors opened on the eighth floor and I scurried over to News, an island of desks in the far corner by the window. I sat down heavily in my chair, my hangover intensifying as I was hit with a garlicky whiff from someone’s lunch. I lay my cheek on my desk, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass. I needed to eat something but the thought turned my stomach.
Breaking Dead: A stylish, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller (The Sophie Kent series) Page 4
