London Calling - James Craig [21]
‘Don’t we all.’ Prentice chuckled.
‘Anyway, my shift is finishing soon,’ Brolin added. ‘Why don’t you just see what it says?’
‘OK.’ Carlyle sighed, recalling that his own shift had finished over an hour ago. This is what happens when you dick around, he told himself. He’d forgotten his keys two or three times recently. Maybe his mind was going: short-term memory loss. Maybe he should start carrying a spare set at all times. That was a good idea. He’d just have to try to remember it.
Into his head popped a mental image of his wife snoring happily under the duvet in his beautiful warm bed. Then it slowly, cruelly, receded into the distance until it faded to black. With a sigh, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. ‘Let’s see what this says and then we can both go home,’ he murmured. Dropping the empty envelope on the desk, he unfolded the sheet of paper and scanned the contents.
It was a standard piece of hotel stationery, but good quality, heavy grey paper with the hotel name and email address embossed at the top. The same writing as on the envelope simply stated: BODY IN 329. NOT THE FIRST & NOT THE LAST. Beneath the text there was a couple of dark splashes that looked like blood. They had soaked into the paper but hadn’t yet dried.
Carlyle waved the handwritten note first at Prentice, then at Brolin. ‘Know anything about this?’
‘No,’ said Brolin sulkily, ‘I told you I didn’t.’
This note was, Carlyle already knew, 99.9 per cent certain to be time-wasting bollocks. A body in a hotel room, if there even was one, would be suspicious, but not necessarily criminal. Charing Cross Police Station had registered seven ‘suspicious’ deaths last year, five of which were subsequently deemed murder or manslaughter. All of those cases had been duly solved, and none of them had involved tourists or hotels. Halfway through the current year and they had already had six suspicious deaths, five of which were criminal, with the other one still a matter of some debate. The law of averages told Carlyle that this note was someone’s idea of a joke. People, as he knew only too well, did some incredibly stupid things. And, as he knew even better, they usually got away with it, leaving other people chasing their tails or cleaning up the mess.
Of course, bollocks or not, he now would have to go and look for himself, just in case. Carlyle saw several hours of time wasting ahead of him and felt his body sag. He gritted his teeth to help keep hold of his anger.
‘This,’ he said, pointing a finger at Brolin, ‘had better not be one of your fucked-up guests pissing about.’ Aching with tiredness, Carlyle could feel himself starting to go off on one, but he was saved by Prentice putting a hand on his arm, gently telling him to give it a rest. It was a timely intervention, and Carlyle acknowledged it with a nod. He understood the sergeant’s point: don’t shoot the messenger – even if he does appear to be a moron.
Brolin held up his hands in supplication. ‘All I did was bring you the letter.’
Carlyle scratched his head. ‘OK, fair enough.’ He took a deep breath and tossed the sheet of paper next to the envelope lying on the desk. ‘Better bag those up, Dave, just in case this is for real. Get one of the constables down here now, and then we’ll go and take a look.’ He turned to Brolin: ‘You wait here. I’ll be back in a second, once I’ve collected my keys.’
SEVEN
The Garden Hotel on St Martin’s Lane, just north of Trafalgar Square, was a 1960s office block which had been bought by in the early 1990s by Mexican billionaire Jeronimo Borgetti. Borgetti had then hired an über-cool American designer called Alan Wall to turn it into a luxury boutique hotel. For the billionaire, it was a nice addition to his global property portfolio, as well as somewhere to stay whenever he too was in town. It was one of those places that always made Carlyle uncomfortable, however. The place tried soooo hard to be soooo stylish that mere mortals like him could