Behind Closed Doors (13 page)

She made her appreciation known by grabbing me as I cleared the table and pushing me back onto the sofa with some dirty suggestions, but both our stomachs protested so painfully that there was no chance of following through. So much for results. We got ready to go out.

While I was changing I caught Arabel in my loft, trying to sneak a look at her portrait. I drove her off with threats that the picture would turn into an ogre if the sitter uncovered it before it was ready. The real reason was that I didn't want her to spot imperfections before I worked them out. Pride. I liked her to think that painting came natural to me. Like cooking. My reputation for both would crumble if my techniques were known.

‘When are you going to have it finished, babe?' she said. ‘At the rate you're going you'll need to add wrinkles.'

‘Art determines its own time,' I said. ‘You can't hurry. Ask Picasso how long it took to create his masterpieces.'

‘Picasso could finish stuff in three days,' she informed me. ‘I heard he did that Reclining Nude in one.'

Education can be a pain. My fault for introducing Arabel to the Tate.

‘The guy was all rush,' I said. ‘Do you want to end up looking like his Weeping Woman?'

‘Not if you want to live, Flynn.'

‘Then keep your nose out until I'm through. I'm not ready to die for my art.'

We climbed into the Frogeye and headed over to the Royal Festival Hall. I had tickets for the London Philharmonic performing Elgar. Next to jazz I went for the classical composers. Next to soul, blues, reggae, hip hop and half a dozen other things so did Arabel. She would never admit to having an ear for the classics, but the only time I saw her listening to music with tears in her eyes was when I took her to a Dvorak symphony. Somewhere amongst those curves was a cultured soul, savouring what she'd denied herself in her squandered youth.

The evening was almost balmy. I put the top down for the ten-minute trip.

‘Have you been working all day?' Arabel asked.

‘Justice never sleeps,' I said.

She laid her hand on my neck. ‘Not even a nap at the weekend? This detective stuff draws you too tight, Flynn. You take the burden with the case.'

‘That's how it is sometimes,' I said. ‘Divorce, petty crime, that kind of thing we get the weekend off. But sometimes we're involved with something more serious.'

‘Like when you worked for Scotland Yard?'

‘Not like that. With the Mets I didn't need miracles – my clients were all dead.'

‘What about Rebecca?' Arabel asked. ‘Is she dead?'

I took a moment to answer. I'd mostly got away from that side of crime since I'd quit the Mets.

Eventually I said: ‘I don't think so. But she may be mixed up in something that's going bad. It's hard to take weekends off when you might be someone's only hope.'

‘Poor babe,' Arabel said. ‘And who's going to save you?'

I had no answer for that.

The Mitsubishi Warrior had been sat for an hour and a half on a meter across from Eagle Eye. So far they'd avoided inserting cash but time was running out. The parking Gestapo was moving up on the far side of the junction and the guy would reach them inside two minutes. Sod's law said that the second they slotted coins into the meter their quarry would break but it was the lesser of two evils – the risk of wasting a few quid against the certainty of a fixed penalty notice. Roker went with the probabilities.

‘Feed it,' he said.

Mitch broke off from feeding Pringles into his face and swore. The vehicle rocked on its springs as he climbed out. He stood on the pavement with the coins in his fist but dispensing with them was like giving blood. Mitch preferred to psych the warden out. Induce him to cross the street and ignore the Warrior. What Roker preferred was to stay low-profile. He leaned across and smacked his palm on the dash. Mitch gave him a dirty look and slotted the coins home. When he climbed back into the vehicle Roker was tempted to slug him. Resisted. Going with the odds again: Mitch could be unpredictable.

Mitch grabbed the wheel like he was going to wrench it off.

‘I hate these uniformed little gits,' he said.

‘Just stay focused,' Roker told him.

They watched the warden as he walked up. He passed the Warrior without turning his head but he'd spotted their game, gave them a sideways evil eye. Mitch turned to glare after him then attacked his Pringles again. ‘When's this clown going to move,' he said.

‘Soon,' Roker said. He went back to watching the building. Now that they'd fed the meter the guy would be out double-quick.

He was. Their quarry came out of the front entrance exactly three minutes later and disappeared round the back of the building.

Mitch stashed the Pringles and started the engine. Roker watched the street.

‘Go,' he said.

Mitch rolled. The quarry had pulled out of an access road up ahead and was already crossing the junction. Mitch put his foot down.

‘What the hell's that?' he asked.

‘Stay back,' Roker said.

Mitch growled. He didn't need Roker's advice. He could tail a guy all day and they'd never know he was there.

‘It's a friggin' Tonka Toy,' Mitch said. ‘I had a bigger pedal car when I was two years old.'

Roker sneered. Mitch was shut in a room getting smacked around his head when he was two years old. Pedal cars didn't figure in it.

‘Is it a vintage?' Mitch asked.

‘Yeah,' Roker said. ‘Forty years. Probably ninety percent rust.'

The car was the size of a shoebox. Racing green, black soft top. The Warrior would run right over it if their brakes failed.

‘No way you'd get me in something like that,' Mitch said, ‘unless they were burying me.'

‘Not even then,' Roker said. ‘You'd need a Transit.'

Mitch held back then floored the pedal when the Tonka turned at the main road. They hit the junction five seconds behind. He swung the wheel but the traffic closed up, blocking them. The Frogeye was disappearing towards Bayswater. If the midget car got into the heavy flow they'd lose it. Mitch slammed his foot down and skidded out in front of a van. The van fishtailed and missed them by inches and the driver stayed on his horn long after he needed to. Any other time Mitch would have been happy to climb out and discuss the situation. Horn-jockeys pissed him off. It was White Van Man's lucky day.

Mitch accelerated to within four cars of the Tonka. It turned east towards Paddington Station then took a left and drove ahead of them across the bridge onto the A40 ramp. Mitch hung back and let the vehicle get up into the Westway traffic. No risk of losing it there.

They settled two hundred yards back on the carriageway. The Warrior's high vantage point gave them distance without risk of losing the Tonka. Secure tails took a minimum of three vehicles but when you wanted the best single-vehicle job you put Mitch behind the wheel.

For the moment Mitch's skills were redundant. The Tonka stayed with the A40 and drifted towards the M25 in the mid-morning flow. Easy. At the junction the car took the long slip and split left into the south link onto the Orbital. The variable limits were on and they cruised in the second lane at a stately fifty-five, holding well back. Heathrow came and went. The Tonka was in no hurry. They were past Reigate before the vehicle indicated and took the slip road for the M23.

Mitch had substituted the Pringles with a ball of gum. He chewed furiously, focused on their quarry. Roker stayed silent, puzzling over where their target was headed. The M23 had opened up possibilities.

‘Gatwick,' Mitch guessed.

Roker said nothing.

‘Are they saying this guy's a player?'

‘Maybe,' Roker said. ‘He'd just better know the rules.'

‘What do they want us to do?' Mitch asked.

‘They want us to watch and learn,' Roker said. ‘We're on a fishing trip, that's all.'

The M23 was busy. The Tonka's diminutive size made it easy to lose but Mitch stayed cool. Fifteen minutes on they passed Gatwick. Continued south. Roker stared ahead and felt something beginning to gnaw in his gut. When the M23 petered out the Tonka continued towards the coast and Roker knew they were headed for Brighton.

As they got onto the roundabout north of the town Mitch closed up the distance. There was too big a risk that the Tonka might make a sudden turn amongst the town traffic. But the car kept to its southerly course and in a couple of minutes they were in the centre. The Frogeye swung around the park and continued towards the sea. A minute later they came out at the pier.

The Tonka crossed the roundabout three cars ahead and took a right along the seafront. Mitch jumped the queue and forced his way across, ignoring the horns. He accelerated past a truck and got his quarry back. The Tonka was moving steadily between the hotels and the beach. They rolled west for sixty seconds before the quarry indicated and turned across oncoming traffic into the walled-off parking lane fronting a five-star hotel. Mitch continued a hundred yards further then swung the Warrior in a U-turn to get back to the hotel. He stopped short just as the guy was extracting himself from the midget vehicle. They watched him go in through the hotel entrance.

The hotel's name was marked in fifteen-foot letters across its white façade: ROYAL TRAFALGAR.

Mitch killed the engine and chewed noisily. The place meant nothing to him.

Roker's face told a different story. ‘Shit,' he said.

Mitch turned.

‘We got a problem?'

Roker's face stayed neutral but his eyes were locked on the hotel entrance. He was wondering what the hell was going on. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

‘Yes,' he said finally, ‘we've got a problem.'

Revolving doors spat me out into a marble and glass foyer that echoed with the muted reverence of a cathedral. Five-star perfection gleamed in every polished surface, and the shine on the floor was enough to have you watching your balance.

The foyer was busy with big-hotel Brownian motion, people endlessly going somewhere else. Reception held centre stage with the extravagance of a high altar. Baggage and Concierge stood back either side like lady chapels. Mahogany doors behind the desks led through to the admin area, where the people would be who could tell me what I wanted to know and who would sooner have teeth pulled. I needed a way in.

A sweeping staircase encircled a roped-off bistro opposite the check-in desks. I went over and flopped into a leather armchair. A waiter walked across and bowed from the neck when I ordered coffee. The Royal Trafalgar was old fashioned that way: you didn't need to say
latte
. They understood. The coffee was excellent, spoiled only by the bill which merited a saucer of its own. The bill was discreetly folded so as not to upset you while you drank. I'm the kind of guy who can never resist peeking. Nearly spat out my coffee. I'd have to work the thing into our expenses. Maybe if I skipped my next meal I could claim the charge as an extravagant lunch.

Larry Slater had an impressive taste in playgrounds. If the lobby was any guide then the accommodation upstairs would be truly worth seeing. A stunning nest to spend a weekend with a stunning girl. A stunning bill at the end of it, too. It looked like Slater had cash to throw away. Slater's Amex recorded him here twice, and my bet said that he had Tina Brown as company both times.

It took me twenty minutes to see a way in. I waited until the far end of the reception desk was clear, then I finished my coffee and hid a tenner discreetly within the folded bill. I signalled to the waiter and walked across to the desk.

The reception staff were bright and attentive in the way that big money demands. Selected and trained to the hotel's traditional standards, even if the tradition said that they should be paid a pittance.

The clerk at the end was a little different. When I approached the desk he was busy at his keyboard. Took a few moments too long to notice that I was there. I'd been watching him. He could do the bright and attentive stuff, but there was a phoniness he couldn't hide. His head had been up when I'd started my walk but was buried in his computer by the time I reached him. He knew I didn't fit here. Good hotel staff have these instincts. I gave him thirty seconds and then leaned over the counter to invade his space. He looked up and smiled and when he asked if he could help me I recognised a fellow actor.

He was in his mid-forties with slicked-back hair. His badge identified him as Gerald. Gerald wore black frame spectacles that hid the disappointment lines from two decades of missed promotions. He'd probably worked at another hotel in his younger years before he realised that his prospects were nil. Joined the Royal Trafalgar on the strength of a gladly-given reference. He was the oldest of the check-in clerks by a decade. Seniority: the perk of never being promoted. I leaned closer. Gave him Embarrassed to let him know he was in charge. Lowered my voice.

‘This is going to seem a little irregular...' I said.

The word cut him like I'd said something dirty. To Gerald, “irregular” was something that stayed outside the revolving doors, like a dog turd on the pavement. He threw me a frown but restrained himself with the realisation that whatever I was after, he was going to get the opportunity to trash me.

‘I'm here in confidence,' I explained, ‘on behalf of a lady.'

I looked into Gerald's eyes. His face remained polite but the expression was one of someone expecting me to vomit over his desk as he let the rope play out.

‘The lady believes that her husband has visited the Royal Trafalgar under circumstances that were...' I searched for the word: ‘…unsalubrious.'

I had a feeling it should have been “insalubrious”. So did Gerald, but he wasn't sure. And grammar wasn't the point. He was going to dish me whether I could speak English or not. I paused, worked the word in again for effect. ‘The lady believes that her husband may have visited this hotel for entirely unsalubrious purposes. She believes, in short, that he may have been unfaithful to her.'

Gerald's face gave nothing. He was calculating the best moment to come in. He knew I was bowling him a spinner and he knew he was going to smack the ball for six. The main thing was not to swing early. His face was a mask of patience.

‘I'm looking for some help,' I told him. ‘My client assumes that the Royal Trafalgar will have records of past reservations...' I let the thought hang between us.

Gerald let it dangle right there. The only sign he was listening was the glitter of the foyer spots in his spectacles.

‘The lady,' I whispered, ‘would be deeply obliged to the Royal Trafalgar if it was possible to make a discreet enquiry about certain reservations in the last few months.'

I gave Gerald my deeply obliged look. He gave me deeply patient. He still wanted more.

‘If necessary,' I said, ‘my client would be happy to come to an arrangement to secure the information.'

Finally we had it. The spinner was angling towards Gerald's raised bat. Now that I'd soiled myself with straight bribery he was ready. Gerald leaned forward so I wouldn't miss anything.

‘Sir,' he whispered, ‘I don't know what kind of establishment you take us for, but the Royal Trafalgar is not in the habit of divulging client information. If you'd like to leave your name and details,' – he was in agony, trying to keep his face straight – ‘I'll pass your enquiry to the manager. Together,' he said, ‘with your offer of a financial arrangement.'

I held up my hand. ‘Please,' I said, ‘that won't be necessary. My client was thinking more about a private agreement.'

Gerald looked blank.

‘She's willing to pay you,' I clarified.

Gerald smiled in the way of the devout when someone farts in the front pew.

‘Perhaps,' he said, ‘if you tried the Metropole. The lady's husband may have stayed there. It sounds more his kind of establishment. They'll be pleased to help, I'm sure. The Royal Trafalgar is not that kind of establishment however, Mr…?'

‘Marble,' I told him. ‘Private investigator.'

Gerald's smile reverted to smug.

‘Mr Marble,' he said, ‘may I ask you to step away from the desk?'

He looked for the concierge and raised his hand to bring the guy over. I shifted myself quick to block the view.

‘Wait,' I said.

He looked at me. I pulled an envelope from my jacket and opened it on the desk. Made a fan of the notes inside.

‘Five hundred,' I whispered. ‘This is yours for absolutely nothing.' I turned and nodded towards the bistro. ‘I'll be waiting over there. Give me just two minutes of your time when you take a break, and you walk away with this envelope, no strings attached. You can throw me out on my backside and the cash is still yours. With my client's compliments.'

If I was expecting a shout of joy I was disappointed. The expression on Gerald's face had more pucker than a chimp chewing lemons. His contempt had racked up to the sublime at the sight of the dirties themselves. But I recognised something behind the look. The surprise of a fish caught on the hook. For a moment Gerald was lost for words. I slipped the envelope back into my jacket and went to order another coffee. I took a table in the back this time, well under the stairs.

I was sipping the dregs when Gerald slipped into the seat across from me. He tried to combine businesslike with stealth, the act of a schoolboy with his hand in the treacle tin. He gave me a spiteful look as down payment for when this thing blew up in his face. To his credit, he remained cool when I slipped the envelope across the table.

‘My client's compliments,' I said. He didn't pick it up. He knew something was off. I nodded encouragement. ‘Five hundred,' I said. ‘It's all there.'

He worked a sneer onto his face while he waited for the flipside. Now it was my turn to stay poker-faced. Gerald broke first.

‘What's the catch?' he said.

‘None,' I said. ‘The money's yours.'

That's when he realised what the catch was: more money. I saw the cogs turn. Switched back to Sly Uncle.

‘If you help me, there's plenty more of those,' I promised.

‘What kind of help?'

I held my grin. Somewhere between the reception desk and our cosy table we'd lost the Royal Trafalgar's high ideals. Gerald knew exactly what kind of help I wanted.

I slid a piece of notepaper across the table with Slater's name on it. ‘I've listed the dates this guy stayed here. I want them confirmed plus any other dates in the last year when he registered. There's another five hundred if you get me that information.'

‘That's not so easy,' Gerald said. ‘Searching the invoices takes time.' But I knew he was just playing for more.

‘I'll give you thirty minutes,' I said. ‘I'll come to the desk. I want a paper copy. It's worth five hundred quid.'

I watched him doing the sums. My guess was that five hundred was a couple of week's net take-home. He gave the matter five seconds' sour consideration for the sake of self-respect then snatched up the envelope and the notepaper and headed back to the desk with as much dignity as he could muster whilst trying not to sprint.

I picked up a copy of the
Observer
and killed time until the waiter came and fingered my second saucer in a subtle hint to hand over more dosh. Places like this they don't do refills. At this rate it was going to be a contest between Gerald and the bistro to get my money.

Spending Gina's money like small change was a gamble. There was a risk that Larry Slater's trip here was innocent. Or at least unrelated to the missing girl. But I was going with the odds. Slater's Amex statement seemed to have put him here with Tina in March. Her friend Sammy remembered Tina being here the previous October also. The odds were that Slater and the girl were here a few times. If my hunch panned out I'd have not only a clearer picture of what was going on between them but also some interesting evidence to wave under Slater's nose next time I visited him. Time was running on. I needed Slater to let me in on what was happening with his step-daughter, and I figured that nothing would lubricate Larry's vocal chords like a little blackmail.

Gerald was in the back office for twenty minutes. When he came out I wandered across to the desk.

This time we didn't need words. Just a fake smile and three sheets of paper pushed across the desk. It could have been any old guest checking his bill. I scanned the sheets. Standard database prints of three invoices showing the guest's charge details. Something was off though: the two March dates from Slater's Amex were there, plus another one in January, but nothing for the previous October when Tina's friend remembered her staying here. I raised my eyebrows.

‘That's it,' Gerald said. ‘The last twelve months.'

So what happened to October?

I slid Gerald's extra five hundred across the desk.

The missing October date puzzled me. That one should have been a cert. Was Tina Brown here with another client? Maybe she'd been so impressed with the place that she'd talked Slater into bringing her back. But without a record of Slater at the hotel in October I had no concrete evidence that he was ever here with Tina. All I had were his calls to her number in March. An interesting coincidence but still circumstantial. I'd needed the October date to tie the two positively. Without that, turning up the heat on Slater might be tricky.

Then something caught my eye. Gerald's paperwork said that Slater's first visit – the January one – was charged to someone called Alpha Security. The room was prepaid, with follow-up bar charges of two hundred and eighty-seven pounds, also settled by Alpha Security. More interestingly, the January booking was for three nights but Slater's name was registered for only the second. I pushed the paper back across the desk.

‘What do you make of this?'

Gerald took a discreet glance. Discretion was the thing of the moment. His voice stayed low.

‘Mr Slater appears to have stayed a single night,' he told me. ‘The suite was reserved for three.'

Slater throwing money away? Or Alpha Security?

I scribbled the Alpha Security name on another piece of notepaper and pushed it across the desk.

‘I need all reservations or payments under this name,' I said.

Gerald was about to give me the no-no but my words stopped him.

‘Two hundred for each date you find.'

I promised to return in thirty minutes and wandered back to read my
Observer
. This time I resisted the coffee: the two-hundred-per-booking deal with Gerald might be affordable but more coffees were not. And if Alpha Security had a regular thing going at the Royal Trafalgar I'd be bankrupted when I went back to the desk. I wouldn't actually be bankrupt, of course. My remaining cash only ran to five hundred, which limited my exposure. If Gerald turned up more than two bookings he was going to get shafted. But what's corruption without occasional setbacks? What could Gerald do? Call the Fraud Squad?

After ten minutes he reappeared at his place, trying not to be obvious as he scanned the lobby for me. I dropped the newspaper and ambled back over. More discretion and paper pushing. He had two Alpha Security bookings for me. I folded four hundred into another envelope. A professional conjurer couldn't have slid the envelope out of my fingers with greater skill than Gerald.

I took a quick look at what he'd given me. Two more Alpha Security bookings. Each for three nights in the Royal Trafalgar's outrageously expensive Millennium Suite.