Death Call (7 page)

‘Well, then call me when you get off. I’m Judy, Juicy Judy. You won’t be disappointed....’

Grant looked over at Carroll and shook his head. What is that man playing at, he thought, as he thanked Lynn for her co-operation.

With any luck, Mr. Smith would have left details of his permanent address on the hotel register, which could be checked, along with the numerous fingerprints he would’ve left behind him. If Smith was black-haired and was nowhere near the scene of the crime, then they would know for sure that the murderer was blonde, wore gloves and didn’t use a condom. Also, depending on what Smith wore, Carroll and Grant could decipher whether the killer wore a track-suit or oil-stained jeans. It would be a small step, but a valid one, nonetheless. As the clues appeared before them, Carroll and Grant began to get the feeling of satisfaction that came with progress on a case. Whoever the killer was, they were sure that he would make himself known to them before too long.

Chapter 7

There was a time, not too long ago, when you were greeted on the steps of a hotel by a footman or concierge who would welcome you in and carry your bags. Not any more, Grant thought, as he climbed the four concrete steps to the front door of the Towcester Hotel in Piccadilly.

There was a plethora of such hotels in London, each one greyer than the next. The en-suite bathrooms in these hotels always smelled of carbolic soap and bleach. That, in itself, was no bad thing. But whoever entered such a bathroom, usually came out smelling the same. The smell would cling to your clothes all day.

Cheap reproduction paintings hung on the lobby walls, presenting a sort of second-hand opulence to the outside world, where the only real money was to be found. A Constable and a Van Gogh hung miserably together. Hardly willing bedfellows.

The receptionist was a young woman with long dark hair, neatly tied back in a pony-tail. She had an American smile, but English teeth.

‘Good day, gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ she said upon seeing the two men approaching the desk.

Carroll’s mind mulled over several possibilities – none of which could be described with ease. Even in the Karma Sutra. Whatever it was, Carroll thought, he’d like a slice of it. It had been quite some time since he had last enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, though this was not because he didn’t want to.

Grant filled the vacuum left by the receptionist’s question. ‘I’m Detective Constable Grant, and this is DS Carroll. We’re here to ask you a few questions about one of your guests,’ he said, flashing his warrant card.

‘Who exactly are you looking for?’

‘A guy called Smith, room thirty-nine, I think,’ Carroll said.

The receptionist was called Emma. A name tag on her chest said so. Emma smiled like a fallen angel and looked through the hotel register, where she found the entry for Smith.

‘John Smith, room thirty-nine. He checked out yesterday.’

‘Did he leave you a home address?’ Grant asked.

‘Erm, no. But he did leave a phone number. Do you want that?’

‘Please.’

‘It’s a mobile number,’ she said, scribbling it down on a small piece of paper. ‘We usually get an address, but I think he said he lived in hotels most of the time. I believe he said he was a salesman....’

‘How did he pay?’ Carroll asked, hoping he might’ve used a credit card.

‘Cash. He only stayed one night.’

‘Is there anyone in that room now?’ Grant asked.

‘Erm, no – not at the moment. What’s all of this about? Is this man a criminal? He seemed quite nice, you know....’

‘Did he have any visitors on Sunday night?’

‘I’m not on duty on Sundays....’

‘May we have a look at his room?’

‘I’ll have to phone the manager. You’ll have to tell me what it’s about....’

‘A murder inquiry. We believe that Mr. Smith can help us with a few questions....’

Emma’s smile vanished. The thought of having spoken to someone who was involved in a murder inquiry rattled her brain. This kind of thing only happened on TV, and even then, only in the States.

Carroll straightened himself up and inhaled loudly.

‘Do you remember what Mr. Smith looked like, Emma?’

‘He was about thirty-five, with black hair and a sallow complexion. Like he had some Italian blood in him, you know what I mean?’

‘What kind of clothing did he wear?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, did he wear a suit, or was it something more casual?’

‘When he left on Monday morning he was wearing a suit.’

‘So you didn’t see him wearing old jeans or maybe some sportswear?’

‘I don’t remember. I’ll just ring the manager....’

While Emma dialled for the manager, Grant spoke to his partner.

‘Well, it looks like our man has flown the coop, eh?’

‘At least we have his number. That way we can trace him through the mobile phone company.’

‘Yeah – doesn’t look likely that he’s our man, but it would be interesting to talk to him.’

‘To see what kind of clothes he wears?’

‘And to see how much he paid Joanne McCrae for an hour and a half on the night before she was killed....’

The manager arrived at the hotel less than five minutes later. The hotel chain, he said, had seven such hotels in central London. That explained a lot – every grey-looking hotel in London must be run by these interior design geniuses, Carroll thought.

Grant informed the manager, a Mr. Winterbottom, that they would need to get forensics people to lift any remaining latent fingerprints for identification purposes, and that it would only take a matter of hours. Winterbottom wasn’t happy. Apparently the room was being held for a Canadian couple, due to arrive any minute. Emma had forgotten to mention this.

While Noel Harrigan and his buddies from forensics got to work on the hotel room, Carroll drove Grant back to the station to follow up on their leads. Grant was going to get information on the mobile phone number they had been given, and Carroll would get himself over to 14 Horseferry Road, where Jo Mac’s body had been found. The journey would be worth it – just to make sure the Gibsons were telling the truth, and hadn’t forgotten anything important. It was routine, but then Carroll knew that routine was what worked. Overlooking the smallest thing might mean losing a case at trial, and there was no call for that. Despite Grant’s belief, one which was shared by many of Dan’s colleagues, Carroll was dedicated to his work and was more methodical than many officers he knew. His success rate proved this. It was simply his appearance that suggested otherwise.

William Gibson seemed surprised to see Carroll on his doorstep. He appeared to be in the middle of cooking dinner, and didn’t like the idea of being disturbed.

‘Can’t this wait for another time, detective?’

‘It’ll only take a few minutes, sir. Just to make sure you haven’t forgotten to tell us anything important....’

‘I told you all I know, officer. So did my wife – and we’ve hardly even got settled back in since this whole episode....’

Samantha Gibson was more welcoming in her manner. She believed that there was nothing to hide, and if they could help the police catch whoever killed the poor girl in their house, well, it was their duty. She poured a coffee for Carroll, who sat down on the leather sofa. It made an embarrassing noise.

‘It’s a noisy old thing, isn’t it?’ Samantha commented.

‘Yeah, noisy.’

‘Well, what more do you want to know?’

‘You both have alibis to say that you were at work on Monday morning, so it appears you are in the clear. I just want to know if any of these names seem in any way familiar to you....’

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Joanne McCrae?’

‘Was that the dead girl?’ she asked.

‘Just answer the questions, please.’

‘No – I’ve never heard of her. Have you, Willy?’ William didn’t like being called Willy in front of other people, it seemed.

‘No – the name means nothing to me. Who was this woman?’

‘What about the Towcester Hotel, in Piccadilly?’

‘You did an interview for a job there last year, didn’t you, Willy?’ Samantha said, nodding her head.

‘Erm, yeah, last year. I haven’t been there since, though....’

‘What about the name Smith?’

‘What about the name Smith?’ William replied.

‘Do you know anyone of that name?’

‘Doesn’t everybody?’

‘No, Mr. Gibson.’

‘Look, there’s very little else we can help you with, detective, and our dinner is getting ruined....’

‘There is one thing,’ Samantha said. ‘I found an earring in the vase on the mantelpiece last night, when I was cleaning. It’s not one of mine. It had blood on it. Maybe it belonged to the woman who was killed?’

‘Do you have it here?’ Carroll asked.

‘Yes, I put it in one of those freezer bags we have – you know the ones... I thought it might be best....’ Samantha went to a drawer by the TV stand and got the earring.

‘Great,’ Carroll said taking possession of the see-through bag. There was blood on it all right – and a little lump of flesh. It looked like it might’ve been ripped out of someone’s ear, and Carroll couldn’t remember seeing any marks on Jo Mac’s. If the ring belonged to the killer, then maybe, just maybe, there would be fingerprints on it. But how the hell did it get into the vase on the mantelpiece?

Carroll looked at Mr. Gibson with his second pair of eyes, and found no obvious trace of fear. He did, however, have black hair, was in his thirties and had a sallow complexion. It was worth a shot, he thought.

‘Did you sleep here on Sunday night, Mr. Gibson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What do you mean am I sure?’

‘I mean, you didn’t go away for the weekend on business or pleasure by any chance, did you?’

‘We were here all weekend Mr. Carroll,’ Samantha said. ‘William’s parents came to visit. They went home to Cornwall on Sunday evening.’

‘Fine,’ Carroll said, ‘that’ll be all for the moment. If I need to talk to you again, I’ll give you a bell beforehand. I have your home number here, but I don’t have your mobile number, Mr. Gibson....’

‘That’s because I don’t have a mobile....’

‘Very well, thanks again for your help,’ Carroll said, closing his mind to the possibility of William Gibson being John Smith.

Samantha Gibson smiled as she closed the door. She seemed like a nice woman. Not at all unpleasant, as their ageing neighbour had suggested.

Grant had been ringing telephone companies in an effort to find out who owned the phone whose number he had been given by the hotel receptionist, Emma. On his third call, he struck lucky. The telephone, a scrambled line, was owned by a man called O’Brien. James O’Brien, from Manchester. The phone company gave Grant the details they had on him, including his address and credit card account number, telling him when the phone was last used, and from where.