London Calling - James Craig [26]
At the end of the corridor, Shue turned right into a shorter corridor, which led to a dead end. She came to a stop outside door 329 in the middle of a cluster of six rooms, three ranged on either side, towards the back of the hotel building. Outside the door, the remains of the room-service order were stacked neatly on a tray, beside an empty champagne bottle.
Shue nodded at the label. ‘Krug. From the 1995 vintage; the good stuff. It costs five hundred pounds a bottle.’
Carlyle shrugged.
For a moment, she just stood there, pass key in hand. ‘God,’ she whispered, turning to Carlyle, ‘I hope you’re right about this.’
‘What?’ Carlyle asked, with gentle amusement. ‘You mean that you’re hoping that he’s really dead?’
‘No.’ Shue smiled weakly. ‘You know what I mean. If he’s asleep … or shagging or something …’ Her unease seemed genuine.
Despite his aching tiredness, and against his natural instinct, Carlyle took a deep breath and summoned up the energy to try some empathy: ‘You must have seen all sorts in your time?’
‘No.’ She took a step away from him, looking strangely put out. ‘No, not really. I’ve only been doing this for six months.’
Giving up on the small talk, Carlyle pulled his shoulders back and assumed his most official tone, the one that didn’t normally sound like him. ‘Don’t worry. This is formal police business and I will take full responsibility for upsetting your guests.’ He rapped gently on the door and counted to ten. There was no response from inside. He knocked on the door, harder this time, before again counting to ten. Still nothing. He gave Shue a knowing smile. ‘Please, unlock the door and then stand back.’
The night manager did as requested. Carlyle opened the door firmly but slowly. Without saying anything, he stepped inside the tiny vestibule. To his left was an empty wardrobe; on the right was an equally empty bathroom. Ahead of him extended the room proper. It was illuminated only by the light from a floor lamp in the far corner, and Carlyle could see one foot dangling off the end of the bed. There was no snoring to be heard, and there were no noises suggesting than any sexual activity was in progress either.
Closing the door behind him, he took two steps into the room proper, in order to confirm what he already knew.
The note had not been a joke.
EIGHT
Cambridge University, June 1984
Life is short, but the day is long.
There were signs. Signs everywhere. It was the hundred and sixty-ninth day of the year. It was one hundred and sixty-nine years to the day since the English had triumphed at Waterloo. It was a time for history. A time for destiny. And, above all, a time for pain.
In the here and now, it was the end of the summer term, the end of the academic year and the end of life at university. The big, wide world was out there waiting for them, ready to shower them with money, status and power. Of course, they would make it wait until they were damn well ready. That was their right. They had been taught from birth that the world waits for gentlemen, not the other way round.
Liberty was being traded for power. All of this would be missed.
The celebrations had lasted for more than thirty hours now, an endless tour of bars and parties, running into the same people again and again. Now, drawing deep on their second wind, they had returned to his rooms for the unspoken, much anticipated finale.
The club was in session.
It had started to rain. A heavy summer downpour at the end of a baking day was accompanied by the rumble of distant thunder. The weather only added to the fin de siècle feel of it all. They were washing away the past, preparing the ground for the future. Sad, weary, but expectant.
The sight laid out before him was like a porno version