Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller
Page 17
“We could try other days?” suggested Michael.
“Let me check my diary. It’s in my bag by the bar.”
A moment later, she was back, flicking through a diary. She suddenly hit the heel of her hand against her forehead.
“God! I’m stupid. I remember now, I didn’t stay here at all in May; it was in April. The night I was in Nottingham in May, my secretary booked me in to the Riverview by mistake. I gave her hell. I much prefer this place; it’s so convenient. I’ll pop down to the Riverview in the morning and ask them.”
She put on her best guileless grin. “Sorry to cause you so much trouble.”
C hapter 22
By eight the following morning, Jennifer was back at her apartment. She didn’t fancy the hotel’s breakfast and having had one close encounter with Sheryl, she didn’t want to push her luck by checking out once the girl’s shift had started.
As she sipped her coffee, she opened her laptop and called up the Google searches from the previous day. She knew she should be methodical and continue checking through all relevant murders in the country over the last ten years or so. If the killer had used the same MO, there would be a hotel associated with each case. Once she’d made a shortlist of likely cases, she could visit each hotel and spin a line in the hope that she could get sight of the relevant guest list.
But was she wasting her time? Suppose the killer hadn’t used the same MO, or worse, used different names?
There was one way to find out: the Bristol case. It had a similar pattern. She closed her laptop’s lid. Bugger being methodical; she was itching to check out the Bristol hotel.
She was already tapping on Google maps on her phone before she realised that she’d made no notes on Derek’s visit, and worse, he hadn’t mentioned the name of the hotel where the councillor was found. Some detective I am, she thought as she hit Derek’s name on her favourites list.
The call was answered in two rings.
“Derek, hi, it’s Jennifer.”
“Hi, Jen, how’s it going?”
“Good. Look, this isn’t a difficult time, is it? You’re not about to go to a meeting with the boss?”
“Hang on a moment.”
His voice became more distant as he held the phone away from his mouth. Jennifer heard him cough and say, “Sorry, Olivia, you’ll just have to wait a minute, this is an important call. No, no ‘buts’, it’s Jennifer. Learn some patience.”
“OK, Jen,” he continued, the phone now back to his mouth. “I’ve put my meeting on hold and Freneton has gone off in a huff.”
“Idiot!” laughed Jennifer. “Where are you?”
“About to drive into work.”
“No time for a detour?”
“Very tempting; Cotton’s Cuisine and Coffee was brilliant, but I only made it in by the skin of my teeth the other day. What about tomorrow morning?”
“You’re welcome to pop in, but the info I’m after I need today. Now, in fact.”
“Shoot.”
“I’ve been thinking about the Bristol case and there’s something I want to check. What was the name of the hotel where the councillor — what was his name?
“Gordon Dewi Rees.”
“OK,” she said, scribbling in her notebook. “What was the name of the hotel where Councillor Rees was found dead?”
“The Bristol View. Why do you need that?”
“I want the guest list for the night he died there.”
“You’re going to march in and demand to see the guest list? You’re joking; you have no authority.”
“I’m not going to demand anything. I’m intending to use a little feminine guile. It worked last night at the Old Nottingham with Michael, the night receptionist. I came up with two names from the twenty-ninth of May that look interesting. I want to see if there’s any overlap at the Bristol hotel.”
“Why did you do that? We already have the guest list for the Old Nottingham; I remember getting it.”
“Yes, but you haven’t committed it to memory any more than I have, and if you start leafing through the case file, someone might get suspicious.”
“Good point, but I think you might be pushing your luck with the feminine guile thing. From what Norrie told me, the Bristol View is pretty smart. The receptionists will likely be on the ball, not naïve like that twit Michael. And the trouble is that you can only try your approach once.”
“Not quite true, Derek. If I fail, I could wait until there’s a change of shift and ask a different receptionist.”
“And hope that she hasn’t been told anything by the first one.”
“You’re all encouragement, Thyme.”
“Just being realistic. When are you planning to go?”
“Right now. I was walking out the door when I realised I didn’t have the name of the hotel.”
Three hours later, Jennifer pulled into the car park of the Bristol View Hotel and her heart sank. Derek had been right: this hotel was completely different from the Old Nottingham. From its elegant entrance to its huge sash windows and granite stonework, the late Victorian design put her in mind of somewhere Hercule Poirot might have stayed in the 1930s. It even had a doorman in full morning suit and top hat.
She checked her hair in the sun visor’s mirror and replaced her slip-on casual shoes with a pair of high heels she’d stowed in the footwell of the passenger seat. She was pleased that she taken heed of Derek’s comment about the hotel and changed into a business suit before leaving. At least she wouldn’t look out of place. Grabbing her briefcase and handbag, she climbed out of her car and locked it.
She looked up at the hotel and wondered if she should have made a reservation, tried her story on the night staff again. Perhaps she should, but at least she’d check out the reception area and if it all looked too daunting, she’d make a reservation on her phone and then while away a few hours on her laptop in a coffee shop before she checked in.
As she walked towards the entrance, she cursed her lack of forethought. She didn’t even have an overnight bag. If she did decide to spend the night, she’d have to buy one.
“Good morning, miss,” said the doorman as he pulled open one of the large, brass-edged double doors.
“Thank you,” said Jennifer, smiling at him. She took a deep breath, walked into the lobby and once again felt her confidence draining. Every one of the hotel staff seemed to be in uniform: bell boys, receptionists — three of them — and a concierge.
She took a few steps forward and stopped to survey the scene, trying to decide on her strategy. Right now, making a reservation looked the most promising idea: there was no way she would be given sight of one of the computers by any of the staff presently on duty.
To her left were several sofas for guests or visitors. As she took a step towards them, she heard a man’s voice from close behind her.
“Jennifer Cotton?”
She spun round to see a racially mixed but predominantly Indian-looking man of about her age, dressed smartly but casually in a pair of beige trousers and a lightweight, designer rain jacket over a mid-blue Polo shirt. His dark eyes pierced into hers, his mouth set.
“Y…yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”
The man pulled a leather document holder from his pocket and flashed a warrant card.
“I’m with the Bristol City police,” he said, pocketing the card before she’d had a chance to read his name. “I’d like a word, if I may.”
He indicated the sofas; there was clearly no ‘may’ about it.
Jennifer was worried. The last thing she wanted was for the police to be involved.
“What’s it about?” she asked, not moving.
“If we could just sit down over there, Ms Cotton.”
She sighed and sat on one of the sofas, her briefcase placed protectively on her lap.
The police officer sat in a chair at right angles to Jennifer’s, took out a standard police notebook and opened it. He flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted.
Jennifer didn’t reply. She couldn’t; she was in shock. She attempted to maintain a look of calm while she frantically tried to work out what was going on. The only people she’d told about the case were Derek — who’d told her about the possible Bristol connection — Charles Keithley and Sally Fisher. One of them must have informed the Bristol police. It couldn’t have been Charles, he was working for Henry and could be trusted implicitly, and it couldn’t have been Sally, surely, so it had to be Derek. Then she remembered that only Derek knew she was coming to Bristol that morning. He must have set her up, be working for the DCI, or worse, directly for Freneton. God, she’d trusted him, told him all about what she’d found out at the Old Nottingham and the ruse she’d used to get it. She was well and truly screwed.
She tried to compose herself, but the tension remained. When she spoke, she could feel her throat constricting.
“What did you say your name was?”
The police officer frowned. “Frampton. DC Norman Frampton.”
It was Jennifer’s turn to frown.
“I know that name. Where have I heard—”
She stopped as she saw Frampton’s frown dissolve into a wide grin.
“Derek said you’d shit yourself.”
“What!”
“Derek. Derek Thyme. Me mate. He called me, said you were coming to Bristol to stick your neck out. He was worried about you, asked me to help out, but thought I should wind you up a bit first.”
“You bugger,” cried Jennifer, sagging back into the sofa. “Derek … Thyme. I’ll kill him!”
Frampton was still grinning as he held a finger to his mouth to shush her. Several people nearby had turned their heads at Jennifer’s outburst.
“Had you going, though, didn’t I?” he chortled.
“Jesus!” snarled Jennifer as she tried to contain her anger.
She sat up and took a deep breath. “Did he tell you what it was about?” she said, glaring at him.
Frampton leaned forward, suddenly businesslike, his voice quiet.
“Only that you’re interested in the Natasha Pircu case, the prostitute who was murdered here last year. It was the first big case I was involved with once I joined the CID. When Derek told me the details of the recent case in Nottingham, it kind of rang a bell. Lots of similarities. Not that my bosses would be interested. The Pircu murder is all sorted as far as they’re concerned. Rees was the man. Their only regret was that he dropped dead on them. They would like to have seen him put away; he wasn’t exactly popular. But they certainly wouldn’t want anything affecting their statistics, the bosses.”
Jennifer was still on edge. She looked at Frampton’s clothing.
“You’re rather casual for a DC; it’s all suits in Nottingham.”
He laughed. “Tis here too, but it’s me day off. I’m on me way to visit me folks; they don’t like jeans and T-shirts, so I compromise with this lot. Me dad’s not so bad, but me mum’s Indian, and a bit formal with it. Derek called me this morning and told me when you’d be arriving. He gave me your car number, so I hung around in the car park waiting for you. He also told me what you were thinking of trying at reception. Don’t think you’d have got too far; they’re a pretty professional lot here and they would likely have made a connection with the date you were going to ask about and called the nick.”
Jennifer’s face fell. “Yes, that was my worry. Once I saw the place, I decided to book a room and try my luck with the night staff.”
Frampton pursed his lips and shook his head.
“The night receptionist’s a difficult sod. Don’t reckon it would have made any difference.”
Jennifer sighed, “I must’ve struck lucky at the Old Nottingham.”
“Yeah,” nodded Frampton, “I reckon you did.”
He paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “It was the guest list for the night of the murder that you were after, wasn’t it?”
Jennifer missed the look; she was staring at the floor. “Yes,” she whispered, the dejection clear in her voice.
Frampton reached inside his jacket, pulled out his phone and swiped the screen a few times.
“This one?”
Jennifer’s mouth opened in surprise. “Is that the list? How did you get it? I don’t want to get you into any trouble.”
“No problem,” grinned Frampton. “I was the exhibits officer on the case and I’m also exhibits officer on a big case we’re working on at the moment, so accessing the exhibits store isn’t an issue. I popped in on the pretext of needing something else, found the Rees case documents and snapped the list on my phone. It’s all deniable, of course, no record. I can’t let you keep it but you can have a look. Then I’ll delete it.”
He handed the phone to Jennifer.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said, as she scrolled eagerly through the list.
“Nothing to say,” shrugged Frampton. “Like I said, this isn’t happening.”
Jennifer used her fingers to enlarge the image as she scrolled down.
Frampton leaned towards her, pointing at the phone. “If you swipe from right to left, there’re four more images. I got the whole list.”
As Jennifer carried on scrolling, the frown on her forehead deepened.
Finally she looked up. “Are you sure this is from the night of the murder?”
Frampton nodded and pointed again at the screen. “Of course. Look, there’s the name of the councillor. He was only checked in for the one night.”
“Yes,” said Jennifer absently as she checked through the entire list once again. “I can see Rees’ name, but the names I’m looking for aren’t there. I was expecting one or the other of them.”
Frampton sat back. “Not there? Really?”
“Yes. There are, what, eight women registered as staying on their own, five of whom are listed as being registered for several nights. I’m discounting those. Of the other three, two of the names are foreign — one’s French and the other possibly Russian. The only English name is Catherine Doughthey. There’s no Amelia Taverner and no Sharon Peterson.”
She pulled a face. “Shit, I was convinced that one of them would be on the list.”
“That’s bad luck,” said Frampton, taking the phone from her. “Does that screw up what you’re doing?”
Jennifer nodded. “Well, it’s certainly a bit of a setback. Listen — Norrie, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Norrie, despite the big wind-up, I’m really grateful to you. I think without your intervention I might well have blown it here, jumped in with both feet. I’ll need to think through my strategy some more before I try anywhere else.”
Back in her car, Jennifer sat and stared through the window as she thought through the implications of the names she’d seen on Norrie Frampton’s phone, or rather the absence of the ones she was expecting to see. Her despondency only increased as she realised that if there was nothing apart from tenuous similarities to link the two cases, the chances of proving Henry’s innocence would become slim at best. She needed to talk to someone about it. Someone sensible.
She grabbed her phone and pressed a couple of buttons.
“Sally. Hi, it’s Jennifer. Look, are you busy? Oh, sorry, that’s a daft question to someone with a two-year-old.”
“Hi Jennifer. It’s fine, Ced’s taken Claudia-Jane for a bike ride.”
“She can ride a bike?”
Sally laughed. “How much do you know about children, Jennifer? Ced’s put a totally secure seat on the back of one of his bikes; he straps her into that. She sits there like the Queen of Sheba telling him what to do. She loves the helmet he’s bought her; wanted to wear it to bed the night he brought it home. He’ll be dressing her in Lycra next. Now, what can I do for you? You sound rather flat.”
Jennifer sighed and launched into an account of even
ts that morning, leaving out Norrie Frampton’s wind-up.
“So you see,” she said, as she finished, “my investigation has gone down the tubes. I was banking on either Amelia Taverner or Sharon Peterson being at the Bristol View on the night of the Natasha Pircu murder. Convinced, in fact, that one of the names would be there.”
Sally didn’t agree. “I don’t think it’s the end of the trail, you know. Think about it. Assuming that we’re right about the murderer being a woman, she’s demonstrated that she’s pretty clever, really thought things through. Suppose the name she registered at the Old Nottingham is false, not her real name, which is extremely likely. If she’s a serial killer with a mission, would she really use the same false name at the hotels where she’s set people up? It would be a flaw in her strategy, something that if noticed would make someone like you want to investigate further.”
“So you think she might be using more than one name?” Jennifer’s lack of conviction sounded in her voice. “But both Amelia Taverner and Sharon Peterson used credit cards, which means that if she’s not one of them, she’s somehow got hold of the real Taverner’s or the real Peterson’s cards. I know that credit card theft is common, but it would be pretty risky to use a stolen card in these circumstances. It might have been blocked, which would flag if she tried to use it.”
Sally was nodding as she listened to Jennifer’s objections.
“So perhaps she got the card some other way. Have you checked up on these two women?”
“As far as I can, yes. It turns out that Amelia Taverner is an extremely unusual name. In fact, I could only find one person with that name in the whole of the UK, using Google and the White Pages for my search. Unfortunately, Sharon Peterson is more common; there are quite a few scattered around the country.”
“OK,” said Sally, “let’s start with Amelia Taverner. Where does she live?”
“In North Yorkshire, a place called Pateley Bridge.”
“I know it,” replied Sally. “It’s in the Dales, really pretty area. How old is she?”
“I don’t know. I checked the electoral register, but that doesn’t always give ages or even approximate ages, and for her, it didn’t.”