The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) (3 page)

Roscoe looked at her for a moment, and then started to run up the stairs.

Taking the steps two at a time, he made his way up to the fourth floor. At the next turn, he found Stanley Samson collapsed against the door leading to the hallway.

His shirt was soaked in blood.

FROM THE MOMENT
he’d met Stanley, Roscoe had recognised what a huge contribution he would bring to his team. His boundless enthusiasm and determination to do the right thing were combined with a sharp intelligence and a deductive mind. And when the two men had started working together, Roscoe had got to know and grown to respect a man who was always thinking ahead and ready to risk his own safety to get the right result.

Now, crouching at Stanley’s side, Roscoe thought of how, since he’d been a small child, his friend had dreamt of becoming a police officer and working every day at New Scotland Yard. At the age of nineteen he’d applied to become a member of London’s Metropolitan Police Service; at the age of twenty-one he’d applied for a second time; and at the age of twenty-three he’d applied for his third and final time. Each time Stanley had failed the force’s physical – perhaps his love of chocolate-frosted doughnuts played no small part in his failure. Three months after his third failed application, however, Stanley had been recommended for a role as a civilian employee with the London police force, and after two interviews with Jon Roscoe he was in.

When Roscoe resigned from the Metropolitan Police and was soon after appointed to the position of Global Head of Security at Tribeca Luxury Hotels, he’d had no hesitation in offering the role of his assistant and de facto number two to Stanley. At first, Stanley had hesitated. He loved his job working with the police and perhaps still hoped one day he might become a commissioned officer. But two weeks of no longer working alongside Jon was all it took for Stanley to realise that while working in the Metropolitan Police might have been his dream, working with Jon had made it a reality, so he gave his notice and headed out of New Scotland Yard. Since joining Jon at Tribeca Luxury Hotels, Stanley had loved every single day, working on different challenges across the world. He simply couldn’t imagine working with anyone else.

Minutes earlier, standing in the lobby of the new hotel and hearing the glass shatter on the floors above, Stanley had been the first to react. Recognising there was no help to be given outside the hotel, he had made his way up the stairs in the hope of finding the killer attempting an escape.

And that was when he’d heard the noise on the stairs above him: footsteps flying down the stairs, a body crashing from side to side as it made a rapid descent. With no time to react, Stanley decided to stand his ground. He quickly made his way up to the fifth-floor landing, giving himself the space to tackle the man head-on. While he might not be the quickest, he had the strength and weight to bring most men to the ground.

One-on-one, Stanley knew he could take the man down.

A man appeared at the top of the flight of stairs, wearing a black ski mask to conceal his face.

Jumping down three steps, he launched himself forward, knocking Stanley sideways. Stanley grabbed hold of the man’s wiry frame, and the two grappled on the floor. Stanley felt the man wrap his hands around his throat and start to squeeze. Seizing hold of his adversary’s arm, Stanley sensed the strength of the man but could tell he didn’t possess the same basic power as he did. Turning his body, he flipped the man over and pushed himself free.

But the man was quick and jumped Stanley before he had a chance to recover. Suddenly the pair were rolling down the next flight of stairs, still locked in combat. They hit the fourth floor landing and Stanley was able to pin his opponent to the floor.

He had the man trapped.

And then a desperate, gut-wrenching pain ripped through his stomach and flooded across his body. He’d been stabbed. Stanley started to shake as pain poured through every sinew.

Powerless and unable to move, his strength ebbing away, he lay paralysed as the man ripped the knife out of his stomach and raced back up the building.

Seeing Stanley lying in the corner of the stairs, Roscoe knelt beside his friend. He lifted Stanley’s head to speak to him, gently holding him in his arms. He could see immediately Stanley was badly hurt and was beginning to lose consciousness.

‘Talk to me, buddy,’ he said, desperately trying to keep Stanley awake.

‘He went back up the stairs, Jon,’ whispered Stanley, summoning all of his energy to speak. ‘Go after him. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Not until we get you some help.’

‘You can’t let him get away.’

‘I’ll get him, but first off we’ve got to sort you out.’

‘You’re the best, Jon,’ said Stanley, the pain surging through his body. Wave after wave swept across him. He closed his eyes, ready to embrace the darkness. Softly his head fell into Roscoe’s arms and he drifted away.

‘Stanley!’ Roscoe cried, ripping off his jacket and bundling it up to support Stanley’s head.

Stanley opened one eye. ‘Can’t a guy get any peace and quiet round here?’

‘Thank God! I thought you were checking out on me. We’re going to get you some help, buddy, I promise you.’

Carefully he opened Stanley’s blood-soaked jacket, seeing the size and severity of the knife attack. Blood continued to ooze from the wound. He cursed himself for leaving Stanley alone to chase the killer, telling himself that he should never have gone outside. He was the one who knew how to stop a killer, not Stanley.

Roscoe tore off his shirt and pressed it onto Stanley’s stomach in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Stanley yelled out as the pain shot through him.

‘It’s okay, buddy. We’ve got to stop this bleeding.’

‘It’s not good, is it, Jon?’ Stanley murmured.

‘I said I was going to get you some help, and I will.’

Roscoe bent down and summoned all his inner strength. With a guttural cry he strained every muscle in his body and lifted Stanley into his arms.

Staggering under Stanley’s not inconsiderable weight, he made his way down the four flights of stairs to the lobby. At the foot of the stairs, he kicked open the door and stumbled out. Carefully he lay Stanley down on the marble floor. As he did so he collapsed, exhausted.

Down on his knees beside his friend, Roscoe called out urgently across the lobby, ‘Man down! I need help here right now.’

COVERED IN SWEAT
and smeared with Stanley’s blood, Roscoe shouted again.

‘I’ve got a stab victim. He needs immediate medical attention!’

Aware that his blood-covered T-shirt was sticking to his body, Roscoe staggered to his feet. Two paramedics raced across the lobby.

‘He’s been stabbed in the stomach,’ he explained as the two women approached. ‘I’ve tried to stop the bleeding, but he’s still losing a fair bit of blood.’

As the paramedics knelt beside Stanley and started to tend to him, Roscoe took a step back. He felt dazed. He wanted to give them space to work on Stanley and to give himself space to think where he went next. Minutes earlier he was drinking a coffee and looking forward to the opening of the most prestigious hotel in London. Now he was standing in the lobby of that hotel, covered in the blood of one of his closest friends and colleagues, while the owner of the hotel lay dead on the front lawn. A killer was on the loose somewhere within the hotel’s forty floors and he had no idea where. He knew the killer had been in the Presidential Suite because that was where Jackson Harlington had been killed. He knew the killer had access to private rooms. But where he would head next, Roscoe had no idea.

He looked out across the marbled lobby, a vast room filled with dignitaries and journalists. Some looked fearful, but all of them were waiting in anticipation to see what happened next. He had noticed a number of the journalists snapping pictures of him as he’d carried Stanley into the lobby, and he imagined them already appearing on Twitter feeds and news websites around the world. Hotel staff had started to congregate in the lobby, adding to the general levels of confusion. Roscoe realised if the killer could make it to ground level he might easily take the chance to slip away in the midst of all the chaos – that was, if escaping the building was what the killer wanted to do. But now he wasn’t so sure. Why had he run back up into the hotel after attacking Stanley? Why not head for a way out?

Roscoe knew he had to try to get inside the killer’s head; he needed to see his brutality close up. He wanted to see what had happened on the thirty-eighth floor.

‘He’s going to be okay, you know,’ said Anna Conquest, making her way to Roscoe’s side as he unlocked the elevator bank.

He turned to face the lobby manager, who even in a time of crisis seemed to him to radiate a calming beauty. ‘Hey. I didn’t see you there.’

‘You were a million miles away. Stanley’s in good hands now, Jon,’ she continued, placing a reassuring hand on his back.

Roscoe breathed out and nodded.

‘I know, but it should have been me, not Stanley, chasing down the killer.’ He looked across at the paramedics still tending to Stanley. ‘That should have been me.’

‘You did everything you could. You went straight upstairs without a second thought.’

‘I was wasting my time looking at video screens when I should have been out there,’ said Roscoe, pointing towards the hotel gardens. ‘But I’m not going to make that mistake again.’

‘What are you doing?’ asked Anna as the elevator doors opened.

‘I’m going up to the Presidential Suite. I need to have an idea of what I’m dealing with.’

‘Surely you should wait until the police get here?’

‘Too late – they already are.’ He gestured across the lobby and paused as he watched the Metropolitan Police enter the building. ‘And look at the corrupt fool they sent us.’

ROSCOE SEIZED ANNA
by the hand, pulled her into the express elevator and hit the button for the thirty-eighth floor. As the doors closed in front of them, he could see Inspector Peter Savage looking directly across the lobby towards him. Roscoe’s expression of indifference was intended as a direct challenge to the inspector.

‘Jon, what about the police?’ asked Anna as the elevator raced its way vertically through the building.

Roscoe grinned, readying himself for the chase.

‘I need to see the Presidential Suite before that crook.’

‘What crook?’

‘Inspector Peter Savage of the Metropolitan Police. I worked with him for most of my fifteen years on the force. We never really got on. Well, I say we never really got on – we hated each other. He was one of the main reasons I quit. He’s a bully and a cheat. He doesn’t care how he gets his convictions. He’ll intimidate witnesses to get them to say whatever he needs, and then if that doesn’t work he simply plants his own evidence.’

‘If he was so corrupt, wouldn’t someone find him out?’ said Anna.

The elevator reached the thirty-eighth floor and Roscoe led them down the hallway.

‘I did. But the high-ups didn’t want to hear it. Peter Savage delivers convictions so he’s worth his weight in gold, whatever the collateral damage.’

Roscoe used his access pass to open the main door to the Presidential Suite. Stepping inside, he felt warm spring air blow through the room from the open balcony door. How different to the horrors that had taken place only a few minutes before, he thought. But as the curtains billowed into the room, his heart dropped as he saw their pure-white fabric had been daubed in blood.

Reluctantly, Anna followed Roscoe out onto the balcony, where she saw the remains of the rope the killer had used to hang his hostage from the balcony frame. Seeing the blood sprayed across the balcony floor, she knew she didn’t want to see any more and stepped back into the suite. Thinking of the horror Jackson Harlington had suffered, she walked through into the suite’s dining room, where she found beer bottles scattered across the table and a half-eaten supermarket sandwich sitting in the middle of a Royal Doulton china dinner plate.

‘Jon,’ she called as Roscoe made his way into the suite’s main bedroom. ‘In here.’

‘Looks like he made himself at home,’ said Roscoe, picking up the sandwich bag before dropping it back onto the table. ‘Must have been here a while before he struck.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait for the police now?’ asked Anna.

‘Yes, he should,’ said a voice at the suite door. Roscoe had been expecting it. ‘I’d have thought retired inspector Jon Roscoe would have known better than to tamper with the evidence at a crime scene – unless, of course, he has something to hide.’

The last time Roscoe had seen Peter Savage had been on the day he’d resigned from the police force. The final case they’d worked on together had seen a casino security guard accused of assault and attempted murder. From the outset, Savage was certain the security guard was guilty. To him it was an obvious fit. A steroid-pumped security guard was an easy target to tailor for a conviction.

But Roscoe wasn’t so certain.

Surveillance cameras both inside and outside the casino offered no conclusive evidence. For Savage, however, this meant a perpetrator who knew how to avoid being seen. It was simply a case of finding the evidence to convict his man and he ignored the fact that the two victims had been involved in a fight in a nearby pub earlier in the day.

No DNA evidence against the security guard existed until Savage was left alone to carry out a second sweep.

Suddenly the evidence materialised.

A conviction followed that Roscoe knew in his heart was dirty.

He raised an internal investigation with his superiors but it was swept away. The day the Internal Investigation Unit delivered its report was Roscoe’s last day as a member of the Metropolitan Police. He resigned that day and never returned.

‘Is this lovely lady checking in for the night?’ said Savage, looking at Anna Conquest. ‘You here to carry her bags, Roscoe? Sorry I’m not here for a longer stay myself or you could have checked me in as well – earned yourself a nice tip.’