Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (6 page)

‘Aye, right,’ said Peroxide with a snarl that even Milly would have been proud of.

‘She wouldn’t have hurt you, you know.’

‘Tuh.’

Trevor headed for the doorway. ‘Come on, Milly. Hurry up.’

Milly jumped down off the bed and took a step towards the two women. This time, both of them screamed as if they really were being savaged by a demented hound from hell.

Trevor was almost at the stairs when Milly came bounding up behind him, her tail held almost perpendicular and wagging like a hyperactive windscreen wiper.

CHAPTER TEN

With a full stomach and the prospect of being two grand richer in the next couple of days, Sandra Gray felt nothing but utter contentment as she strode out of the hotel dining room. When she reached the foyer, she saw there was a queue for the lift.

What the hell, she thought. It’s only two flights, and the exercise will help salve my conscience about the extra toast.

She made her way to the staircase and started to climb. Rounding the corner onto the first floor landing, she had little time to register the man who was hurtling down the stairs towards her. The collision was inevitable, and she almost went down under the force of the impact but managed to stay on her feet by grabbing hold of the handrail.

She pulled herself upright and realised that the guy seemed to have come off worse than she had. He’d dropped his canvas holdall and was supporting himself with one hand against the wall and the other clutched to his chest as he fought to catch his breath.

‘You all right?’ she said.

‘S… sorry… ‘bout that.’ He wheezed out the words between gulps of air.

If she hadn’t been feeling quite so pleased with herself, Sandra would probably have given him a good tongue-lashing, but instead she settled for: ‘That’s okay. No harm done.’

She waited for him to recover, not knowing what else to say until she spotted the black and tan mongrel gazing up at her and frenetically wagging its tail.

‘That your dog?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘I didn’t think you were supposed to—’

‘No, you’re not. But we’re leaving now anyway.’

‘Ah.’

His breathing seemed to have returned to normal, and he stooped to pick up his bag. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m in quite a hurry and I—’

‘Sure.’ Sandra smiled and stepped to one side to let him pass.

‘Sorry about…’

‘Don’t worry. No broken bones.’

‘Come on, Milly,’ he said and nodded a goodbye.

Sandra reciprocated and watched him scurry down the staircase with his dog and disappear from view into the foyer.

Nice enough, she thought as she began to climb the second flight of stairs, and not bad looking in a rabbit-in-the-headlights kind of way. The eyes were a bit on the boggly side, and the thick, mousey hair could have done with a trim, not to mention a comb, but other than that, not bad at all. Sexy? Five out of ten maybe, although, to be fair, the grey fleece jacket didn’t do him any favours, and the jeans were much too saggy to tell whether he had a decent arse on him. There was something odd about him though. Something… furtive. Perhaps it was just that he was in a hurry, or possibly it was her private detective mind being a little overactive.

By the time she reached her room, Sandra had all but forgotten him and was planning what she would need to do in the next few hours. She closed the door behind her and headed straight for the bathroom. Too much coffee always had this effect on her.

What the f—

The open-topped cistern and the pieces of broken porcelain on the floor stopped her in her tracks. A moment later, her heart almost stopped as well.

Oh Christ, no.

She dropped to her knees and rummaged frantically amongst the shattered remains of the cistern lid.

No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

Sandra’s bladder reminded her of her pressing need, and as she sat, she leaned forward and continued to sift through the broken porcelain. But it was no good. The bloody thing just wasn’t there.

Okay, girl, calm down. It can’t have vanished into thin air. It was here last night when you arrived, exactly where you’d been told it would be, and it was still here an hour ago when you went down to breakfast. So somebody must have taken it. Why though? And more importantly, who?

All right, think about who had access to the room, who had been in here last… Then she remembered passing a metal laundry cage in the corridor a few minutes earlier. Of course. The cleaners must have accidentally dropped the cistern lid and then spotted the envelope and put it somewhere else.

She scanned every surface in the bathroom as she got to her feet and rearranged her clothing. Not here.

She rushed into the bedroom and searched desperately but fruitlessly, all the while trying to suppress the rising panic in her chest.

The buggers must have nicked it. But why would they? What possible use could it be to them?

Sandra immediately realised the futility of asking herself these questions when the culprits themselves were probably still just along the corridor.

She swept out of the room and almost ran along the hallway to where the linen cage was parked outside an open door. Without even thinking of knocking, she marched into the bedroom and saw two women in white housecoats, one of them talking on the telephone and the other sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.

‘Excuse me.’ Sandra’s voice was firm to the point of authoritarian.

The woman on the phone barely acknowledged her presence and continued her conversation, anxiously fiddling with a loose strand of heavily bleached hair. ‘… That’s right. A bloody dog… ‘

The girl on the bed slowly lifted her head and stared myopically in Sandra’s direction, her eyes red from crying.

‘Have you just been in to clean my room?’

‘Dunno,’ sniffed the chambermaid.

‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ Sandra’s patience was already strained to the limit.

‘We clean loads. What number?’

‘Twenty-five.’

‘’Appen we musta done.’

‘Well, in that case…’ Sandra peered at the card pinned to the girl’s housecoat. ‘…Denise. Perhaps you could explain to me how you came to break the lid of the toilet cistern and what you’ve done with the…’ She tailed off, not wanting to give out too much information in case the chambermaids might actually be innocent. ‘There’s also something missing from my room.’

‘Eh?’

‘Do I have to call the manager?’

‘Sorry, I just dunno what you’re on about.’ She turned towards her colleague. ‘Maureen?’

Maureen was still in mid conversation and gestured to her to be quiet. ‘… Well, it were one of you lot let him in in the first place…’ She was clearly involved in a heated argument with whoever was on the other end of the line.

‘I think you’d better come with me.’ The fact that Sandra’s tone and choice of words made her sound like a police officer at the end of her tether was not entirely unintentional.

‘Eh?’ said Denise, blowing her nose on a tissue she’d taken from the box beside her on the bed.

‘If you’re going to play dumb, I’m obviously going to have to show you what I’m talking about. Come on. Up.’

‘Oh chuffin’ ‘eck. As if I ‘adn’t ‘ad enough to cope with already for one day.’

‘Tell me about it. Now shift your arse.’

As the chambermaid forced herself to her feet, Maureen slammed the phone down. She looked from Denise to Sandra and back again. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Dunno,’ said Denise. ‘Broken toilet or summat.’

Maureen eyed Sandra with undisguised contempt. ‘Sorry, madam, but you’ll ‘ave to contact reception and ‘ave ‘em send up a plumber. Not our job, see.’

‘Now listen to me,
Maureen
.’ Sandra spoke the name with heavy disdain. ‘I don’t give a shit about the bloody toilet. What I do give a shit about – a very big shit in fact – is what you’ve done with the envelope that was inside it.’ Instantly, she regretted that her anger had got the better of her resolve for discretion.

The two chambermaids exchanged sideways glances.

‘Which room?’ said Maureen.

‘Twen-tee-five,’ said Sandra, clearly enunciating each syllable.

Maureen turned back to Denise. ‘’Ang on a bit. That’s the room where the bloke came in.’

‘Oh yeah. It were.’

‘Bloke? What
bloke
?’ Sandra could feel her blood pressure mounting.

‘Summat bloody odd goin’ on ‘ere if you ask me,’ said Maureen. ‘Broken toilet, you say?’

‘Yes, but—’

Maureen brushed past her and was out of the door before Sandra could get any further. A moment later, the younger chambermaid trotted after her.

‘Oh Jesus,’ said Sandra, rolling her eyes heavenwards and setting off in pursuit.

* * *

Immediately after his brief encounter with the woman on the stairs, Trevor found himself in the hotel foyer and advanced towards the reception desk.

The woman on duty was the same one that had checked him in the evening before. She was staring intently at the computer screen in front of her and occasionally tapping on the keyboard.

Trevor dropped his holdall to the floor and reached for the wallet in his back pocket. ‘Can I have my bill, please?’

‘I won’t keep you a moment, sir,’ said the receptionist without diverting her attention from the monitor.

‘Ninety-five quid, wasn’t it?’

‘I’ll be right with you, sir.’ Her tone bristled with irritation.

‘Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ said Trevor and slapped five twenty-pound notes onto the desk.

The receptionist ponderously removed her heavy, black-rimmed glasses. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but—’ She broke off abruptly and leaned forward as if to confirm that her eyes had not deceived her. ‘Is that your dog?’

Milly sat staring up at her and panting slightly.

Trevor was getting tired of having to answer the “Is that your dog?” question and chose to ignore it. He patted the banknotes on the counter. ‘That’s a hundred quid there. Okay?’

‘Sir, I did tell you last night about the hotel’s policy with regard to—’

‘You did indeed, and now you’ve caught me red-handed.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, surprised at how cocky he must have seemed. ‘You owe me a fiver by the way.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to call the manager,’ said the receptionist and reached for the telephone.

‘Look, I haven’t got time for all that.’ He bent down and picked up his holdall. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you keep the five quid as compensation for the dog and we’ll say no more about it?’

He crossed the foyer to the main exit and held open the glass door, waiting for Milly. The receptionist had been joined by a tall, pasty-faced man in a dark blue suit and a pink and white striped tie. Both were looking in his direction, and the receptionist was pointing at him.

Trevor called to Milly to get a move on, and she was almost at the door when she suddenly squatted down and deposited a small puddle on the richly carpeted floor.

‘Hey!’ The man in the tie began to make his way out from behind the reception desk.

Out on the street, the holdall bashed repeatedly against Trevor’s knee as he and Milly ran, but by the time Trevor heard the manager shout again from the hotel steps, they were just about to turn a corner and disappear.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

His reaction wasn’t unexpected, but there was no way of breaking it to him gently, so DC Swann had come straight out with it and then braced herself for the response. Logan was sitting at his desk reading a newspaper. He folded it roughly and slapped it down in front of him.

‘Gone?’ he said. ‘What do you mean, it’s gone?’

‘As in… not there any more?’

He snatched up the newspaper and pointed it at her as if it were a loaded weapon. ‘Don’t get smart with me, constable.’

‘Hey, I’m only the messenger,’ said Swann. ‘There’s nothing on the system, and I even got Records to check the file hadn’t been put back in the wrong place.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. A missing persons file can’t just vanish.’

Swann decided this wasn’t the time to remark on the irony of his statement. Instead, she told him how she’d asked around and found out who’d led the investigation into Imelda Hawkins’s disappearance.

‘Tom Doyle?’ said Logan. ‘But he retired months ago.’

‘Still lives locally though.’

He drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. ‘I suppose we ought to pay him a visit then.’

‘Two o’clock suit you?’

Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’

Swann could detect a gradual easing of the volcanic tension as she summarised her phone call with Doyle. He’d denied all memory of the case at first, but she’d chipped away at him with the few details they had until he eventually admitted to having “some vague recollection”. Even then, he’d become defensive, almost to the point of abusive, and had been doggedly resistant when she’d suggested a meeting. In the end, it had taken all her reserves of womanly wiles and the oral equivalent of some serious eyelash fluttering to bring him round.