Tom cocked his head. "The problem with addicts, be it drink, drugs or whatever, is you can't trust a word they say. They're selfish, devious, manipulative… and can be incredibly convincing when it suits. Even when they are telling you the truth there is every chance they are also lying. After all, an addict is not only able to lie about what they've done, are doing or plan to do, they are also more than happy to lie to themselves. Bearing that in mind, how easily do you think they'll find it to lie to you?"
"There speaks the voice of experience."
Tom smiled. Kerry seemed worried she'd overstepped the mark, making a move to apologise. He stopped her.
"Yes. I might know a little bit about it."
"Do we trust Tice then? With his suggestion that Billy was in with – how did he put it – players?"
"As I said, there's always a grain of truth in the stories of a man like Danny Tice. He might be a low-life but did you get the impression he was a killer?"
If Kerry thought she was being tested then it didn't bother her. She shook her head. "No. I wouldn't say so. Quite the opposite."
"Me too."
"Not that he wouldn't sell his mother for the price of a wrap if needed," she said, with a half-smile.
Tom grinned. "I'd agree with you there too. Come on, let's have a nose about the other buildings."
They moved through the barn and on into the cobbled yard. The other buildings were in a similar state of repair, all bar one, a single-storey building to their left. The roof of this building had been repaired in places and the ventilation slits in the side walls were blocked from the interior side. Tom gestured towards it and they crossed the yard. The wind rattled across the open ground and they were pleased to reach the barn and step into the lee.
There was only one entrance door, the others having been blocked off. The door was stiff, the wood having swollen within the frame, but with a bit of effort and Tom's strength, it opened inwards. Tom's first thought that this outbuilding was far better maintained than the others was clear as soon as they entered. The interior was shrouded in complete darkness. There was no light slipping through from the outside other than from the open door.
Kerry pointed to several cables laid across the floor, black and roughly three quarters of an inch thick. It was an armoured power cable, the type usually buried in the ground when extending a domestic supply to an outbuilding but one requiring a large degree of load.
"Can you smell that?" Kerry asked. He could. It was sweet, aromatic and very distinctive. Tom looked around and found a light switch. He flicked it and the sound of two fluorescent tubes above them sparking into life carried. Where they stood, Tom could see the cables trailing across the floor and up the interior wall separating the room they were in from the next and disappearing into the rafters. The door to the next room was closed and Tom opened it. Here he found another set of light switches, although these were not mounted to an interior wall and hung precariously free, dangling from the cable dropping down from above.
Reasonably happy that he wasn't likely to be electrocuted by touching them, he flicked the first two on and a series of lights flickered into action, a process repeated for the remaining length of the building, easily thirty metres to the gable end.
"Well, I'll be damned," Kerry said quietly.
The place had been emptied, and recently judging by the detritus that was on the floor. In their haste, they'd harvested as much as they could but remnants still remained. The walls of the building were lined with rigid insulation board, the silver-foil lining reflecting the glare of dozens of UV lamps back at them. Tom looked up where the rafters were infilled with the same material, held in place with makeshift battens. Cables hung unfixed from the rafters. Rigid aluminium ducting was strung throughout the rafter and disappeared through an opening punched through the exterior wall. Tom knew that was to aid ventilation. Portable heaters were positioned throughout the building, many also strung from above in between the lights.
It was an electrical health and safety nightmare. Not that whoever did this was even remotely interested in the safety of those using the facility. Plastic sheeting lined the floor and upon it were set out multiple rows of seed beds. The whole building was set up as an industrial-sized hydroponics bay. Although the crop had been cleared out, and rapidly by the look of it, the smell of cannabis still lingered. It was impossible to shift.
Tom exhaled slowly. "It looks like we found out where Billy got the weed from."
"What's with all the UV lights?"
Tom glanced up at the nearest row of them. "The ultraviolet light increases the levels of THC in the plant, the elements of it that get you stoned."
"Do you think he was running all of this… Billy?" she asked.
Tom dropped to his haunches and picked up a broken stem of a plant at his feet. There were a half-dozen leaves still attached. This was a young plant, yet to flower. He plucked one of the leaves and rolled it between thumb and forefinger. It was still pliable. He shook his head.
"Not unless he found his way back from the dead to harvest his final crop, no. Someone has been through here," he said, pursing his lips. "And they did so in a hurry."
Chapter Sixteen
Cassie slipped her arm through her coat and turned as she heard Tom and Kerry enter ops behind her.
"Off somewhere?" he asked her.
"We've had a call from one of the local hoteliers in Hunstanton, a guest matching the description of Balodis has been staying there recently; at the Admiral Nelson Hotel. He dropped his key into reception a few days ago and they don't think he's been back. We're just going over there now. How did you get on exploring Moy's farm?"
Tom hung up his coat. "It looks like Danny Tice was telling us the truth, partially at least. There was an established cannabis-growing operation going on in one of the outbuildings along with evidence of larger events in the same location."
"Larger events?" Cassie asked. "Like what?"
Tom caught Eric's attention. "Eric, do you know if Rory still has his finger in illegal gambling?"
Eric joined them. "McInally?" Tom nodded.
"Remind me, who's Rory McInally?" Cassie asked. The name didn't ring a bell and she was confident they'd not crossed paths, although she hadn't been in the area long.
"Rory is an established figure in the community," Tom said.
"The traveller community," Eric said.
"Urgh… pikies," Cassie said, her upper lip curling as she spoke.
"I don't think you can make assumptions about an entire community like that—"
"I beg to differ, Eric, I beg to differ," Cassie said.
Eric ignored her comment. "McInally used to tip his hat to all sorts of endeavours back in the day; off-books gambling, hare coursing… even supplying security to local businesses at one time which was ironic. That type of thing."
"Drugs?" Tom asked.
Eric shook his head. "Not that I recall. He was always a bit old school about that type of thing. At least, that's what he always said. Not his cup of tea."
"Ah," Cassie said. "Why haven't I come across him?"
"He's settled down a bit these days," Eric said to her before looking at Tom. "As far as I know he's still living out on that site between Fring and Sedgeford."
"Thanks, I'll have a word."
Tom didn't have any further questions so Cassie tapped Eric on the arm and gestured for them to make a move. The drive to the hotel didn't take long and it was largely made in silence. Eric was still preoccupied and it was clear to her what was on his mind. They parked directly outside the hotel, pulling the car up onto the pavement. Eric glanced at Cassie.
"There's a car park at the rear," he said, indicating along the road to the next turning. "You take that left and there's an access road—"
"We'll not be long," she said cheerily, gently elbowing his arm and getting out. She heard him sigh as he followed. "Besides, what are they going to do, call the police? We're already here."
Eric shook his he
ad at her. He was such a stickler for the rules. It wasn't the first time he'd pulled her up on this sort of thing. It must be hard living in a world where you're constrained by adhering to every rule and regulation.
"It must be exhausting for you, Eric."
"What is?"
"Being such a nice bloke all the time. Don't you ever want to just throw off the shackles and live a little?"
He looked confused.
"You know, stay out late, drink too much… not pay a bill on time?" She realised belatedly that the last one was a little too on topic, Eric's eyes lowered to the floor. "Sorry, Eric. I didn't think. Have you managed to speak to Becca about it yet?"
He shook his head. "Not quite. She was asking again last night but I ducked the conversation… went to bed early, saying I had a headache."
"Come on, let's go and take a look inside. It'll take your mind off it."
The Admiral Nelson Hotel was part of a terrace of old Victorian townhouses, two of which had been knocked through to form one large premises. There was an outdoor seating area at the front set behind a low wall separating it from the pavement and the road. The building was stylish with bay-fronted ground and first-floor windows. The upper floors would have a great view of the sea beyond the leisure buildings on the other side of the street.
The lady at reception called through to the manager and he ushered them away from the desk in the narrow entrance hall and deeper into the building.
"Mr Balodis checked in ten days ago," the manager, Colin Peters, said, checking past them to ensure no one could hear them. He looked very apprehensive.
"Is something wrong, Mr Peters?" Cassie asked.
"No, no, not at all. Why do you ask?"
Cassie shook her head, dismissing the question. She took out a picture of him provided by Interpol and handed it to the manager. "Is this your guest?"
He nodded emphatically. "Absolutely, yes."
"How long did he book for?" she asked, tucking the picture back inside her pocket.
"A fortnight, this time."
"This time? Has he been here before?"
"Oh, yes. Mr Balodis has been a frequent visitor in the past… um…" his face fixed in concentration, "eight months or so. Yes, I think this is his third stay with us. He usually stays for a few days. On this occasion it was much longer."
"Do you know why he was here?"
Peters looked thoughtful. "I remember I asked him once, but he was a little vague. I think he was uncomfortable with the question. I know I was."
Cassie trained her eye on him and he looked awkward. "Why would you say that?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. H–He had a look about him. I thought I shouldn't ask again, so I didn't."
"What type of a guest was he?"
"Perfect, I would say," Peters said, smiling. "He was never any trouble, rarely ate at the hotel other than at breakfast and even then we hardly ever saw him. He was a trouble-free guest."
"You said he was here before. How often?"
"A couple of nights every six weeks or so, maybe a little longer. Bookings like his are a bit tricky in the off season, but as I say, he was an easy guest to have."
"Tricky? In what way?"
"Well, we don't have a lot of business through the winter as you can imagine. We are busy March through September, sometimes a little later if we have an Indian summer. The hotel is rather large and we can't keep it fully staffed for what little trade we see, so it pretty much comes down to my wife and me and a couple of cleaners to keep things ticking over. Winter bookings can be a bit of a pain in that way. And, let's face it, we're not getting any younger."
A lady appeared at the end of the corridor, attracting his attention.
"This is my wife, Audrey," he said, excusing himself and stepping away from them.
"Could we see the room?" Cassie asked.
"Yes, yes, of course." Peters returned and handed her a room key. He indicated the stairs behind them. "First floor. Room seven. I'll join you in a moment."
Cassie followed Eric to the stairs, briefly overhearing the woman speak in a hushed voice as her husband approached. The agent wants to bring someone around this evening.
"That'll explain why he's nervous," she said mounting the stairs behind Eric.
"I noticed that too. Why?"
"It looks like this place is up for sale. Having the police crawling all over it because one of the guests was murdered probably wouldn't increase the saleability."
Eric chuckled and took out his mobile phone. A quick search of the internet confirmed Cassie's suspicions. He held the screen up to face her as they came before the door to room seven. "It certainly wouldn't convey quaint Victorian charm, would it?" he said, tilting his head at the phone. Cassie looked at the listing on the property site.
"Wow. Not cheap is it?"
"I'll bet it makes a fortune in peak season."
Cassie had to agree. The forthcoming summer would be only her second since she relocated to Norfolk at Tamara Greave's request and she'd been stunned by how much the population increases once the good weather kicks in. The population of the county seemed to more than double in the summer months. She slipped the key into the lock, noting the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the handle. A guest who doesn't require housekeeping must be profitable as well, she thought.
The hotel room reflected the fact that housekeeping hadn't been in for a while. The bed was unmade and clothes were lying across an occasional chair in the corner as well as the small two-seater sofa set out under the bay window overlooking the front. Cassie gestured for Eric to explore the ensuite as she picked her way across the room, careful not to disturb anything, and stood in the bay. The sun was breaking through the clouds and cast a glow across the water. In the distance the sky was less clear with dark clouds gathering, and what she figured was a deluge of rain drifting across the horizon.
Turning her attention back to the room, she cast a critical eye over what she could see. They had no reason to believe this was a crime scene but until they knew where Balodis met his end, this place couldn't be ruled out. However, there was no indication of anything untoward taking place in this room. It was messy but no more so than one might expect. Nothing was damaged or appeared out of place. A quick inspection of the walls and carpets saw no sign of blood or bodily fluids and, wherever Balodis was when he was struck in the head, there would almost certainly be blood. The carpets here were a pale cream colour, good quality, thick and shaggy, the sort of material that would absorb blood in such a way as to be a forensic officer's dream.
Eric returned from the ensuite.
"Anything interesting?" she asked.
"Towels on the floor and they're still a little damp. There are also women's toiletries in the shower. He's not been staying here alone."
"You're sure they're a woman's?"
Eric cocked his head. "Unless he was into painting his nails, I would say so, yeah."
"We'll have to ask about that."
Cassie plucked a tissue from a box on the bedside table, using it to avoid leaving her fingerprints as she eased the drawer of the unit open. It was empty. Moving to the wardrobe, she opened the door. Inside she found several shirts on hangers along with other clothing folded neatly on the shelving next to the rail. A small suitcase was at the base of the wardrobe lying on its back and it was unzipped. She knelt and lifted the lid. It was also empty.
Patting the exterior, she felt something in the zip pocket on the front. She carefully opened it and found a passport belonging to Balodis. There was also a bum bag that she thought at first glance was padded but unzipping it, she found it stuffed with cash. She angled it so Eric could see. There must have been thousands of pounds in a mixture of denominations.
"There you go, Eric," Cassie said, looking up at him, "this is your honeymoon money sorted."
Eric shook his head. He knew she was joking.
"Seriously, though. What are you going to do about your predicament?"
He was a
bout to answer when someone knocked on the door and entered behind them.
"Hello."
It was the hotel manager, Colin Peters. He came to hover around them, seemingly unsure of how he should behave.
"Mr Peters, who checked in with Mr Balodis?"
The man frowned. "No one. It was just him."
Something in his expression irked Cassie but she couldn't pinpoint what it was. He had no reason to withhold information as far as she knew.
"You're certain of that?"
He nodded. Cassie walked into the ensuite, scanning the toiletries to find what Eric described, returning with a small bottle of nail varnish remover. She held it up to him. Peters shifted his weight between his feet.
"Absolutely certain?" she asked again with a knowing look.
Peters looked over his shoulder, why she didn't know because they were alone. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We do have a policy of only allowing named visitors to stay in our rooms. But my wife…"
"But?"
"Well, I like to be discreet," Peters said, avoiding her gaze.
"I'll remind you that this is a murder investigation, Mr Peters. We don't really have time for your, or your wife's, delicate sensibilities."
"If it was only me, then I tend to turn a blind eye. I mean, Mr Balodis is – was – a valued customer."
"Always the same girl?"
Peters nodded.
"Do you know her name?"
"Not for certain, no," he said, his eyes darting between them. "I think I heard him call her Nina once. I think it was Nina anyway. His accent was very thick."
Cassie took another picture from her pocket, an enlarged copy of Sasha Kalnina's passport photograph, and passed it to him. "Is this her?"
Peters examined the photograph sternly. After a moment, he handed the picture back. "Possibly."
"Possibly?"
He shrugged apologetically. "Yes, it might be her. She looks a bit like that, only that's a brunette and this woman was blonde."
"Naturally blonde or dyed?"
He blew out his cheeks, shaking his head. "I don't know… maybe."
"Okay, what about her. How often did she stay?"
To Die For: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 9) Page 14
