Times of Trouble (16 page)

As we drove through
the city to the second- to-last hotel on the list, I recognised the
suburb ‘Kings Cross’. I remembered mum had said we weren’t going to
stop there on one of our trips to Sydney, as it was full of ‘low
lifes and criminals’. Liam was less judgemental in his description
of the suburb as ‘the red light district and quite a good nightclub
strip’. If there was anywhere in Sydney where Sophie would fit
right in, it would be here, I thought to myself uncharitably. The
street the hotel was on was busy with city traffic, and there were
no car parks. Liam pulled up right outside the hotel and undid his
seatbelt.

‘
This is a no
standing zone, I really don’t think you should park here,’ I said,
not budging from my seat.

‘
You are such a
worrier! We’ll be five minutes!’

‘
I’ve heard what
parking tickets cost in this city. Can you afford a $200 fine?
Because I sure can’t.’

‘
Ok, ok! I’ll wait
here. You take the photos in, and talk to them. If I have to move,
I’ll go round the block, and meet you back here.’

I jumped out of the
car and hurried into reception. As much as I tried to be optimistic
that each hotel held the chance of a sighting, it was hard not to
remember just how long a shot it was. The man behind the desk
looked bored. He was staring at a TV screen with a shot of the
empty lobby on it, the same view he would have for real if he sat
up straight, and glanced out over the desk. He didn’t look up until
I started to speak, not even bothering to ask if I would like
anything.

‘
Excuse me. I’m
looking for my sister. She is missing, and I think it’s possible
she stayed in this hotel in the last couple of months.’

‘
We’ve had hundreds
of people through these doors. There’s no way I’d remember
her.’

His voice lacked any
emotion; the monotone manner sounding like it came from a recorded
message.

‘
I know, but there’s
always a chance.’ I tried to remain polite. ‘Can you at least look
at her photo, just to make sure you’ve not seen her?’

He grunted, and
glanced at the photos, desperate for me to leave him to his boring
solitude.

‘
I’ve seen
her.’

What! He was pointing
at the photo. I was so surprised by his response I almost thought I
misheard him.

‘
You’ve seen her?
When?’

But just as my hopes
rose, I noticed his thick, grubby finger was pointing at Katie in
the photo with Sophie.

‘
Oh, hang on, you’ve
seen the dark skinned girl? Not the one with the long hair? Is that
right?’

‘
Yeah, that’s what I
said, I’ve seen her.’

‘
Are you
sure?’

‘
Yeah, sure I’m sure.
She was hot. I remember her. Hot mamma. She had a kid.’

It was definitely
Katie then, if she had Charlie with her.

‘
When was it that she
stayed here? Do you remember?’

‘
I saw her last week,
maybe Thursday, Wednesday, can't remember?’

So this must have
been where she was staying just a few days before she was
killed.

‘
Do you remember
anything about her? Did you ever speak to her, ask her where she
was going, or anything?’

He looked like he
regretted saying anything at all, and kept peering back at the
empty foyer on the screen, hoping that I’d be gone when he turned
his head again.

‘
I don’t know
nothing. I just saw her. She stayed here for a few days. She was
hot.’

He’d said that
already. I wanted more information, but he wasn’t keen on talking,
and it wasn't clear how anything he told me could help find Sophie.
But I gave it one last try.

‘
So you never spoke
to her, you only saw her, and you think she stayed here for a few
days during the last week. Is that right?’

‘
Yeah. I told you. I
don’t know nothing else. She had a kid. She was a hot
mamma.’

Ok, ok! She was
hot!

‘
Do you remember if
she paid with a credit card? Did she show any ID? Would her name be
on your guest list?’

‘
You don’t know her
name?’

He was starting to
look annoyed, and about to reach his limit of
concentration.

‘
Yeah, of course I
do. But I wanted to know if she had changed it.’

‘
No, I’m not looking
up no guest list. I don’t know how she paid. I didn’t check her in.
I never spoke to her.’

‘
Do you have any idea
who might have checked her in?’

But he’d had
enough.

‘
No, no…how would I
know that? I don’t know nothing. Piss off, I’m busy’.

Busy doing nothing. I
thanked him for his help and left, relieved to see Liam hadn’t left
his illegal parking space and driven round the block. I had already
learnt that a ‘block’ in Sydney can turn into a 20 minute round
trip.

As I climbed back
into the car, Liam could tell by the expression on my face that I’d
found out something.

‘
What is it? Did she
stay there?’

‘
Katie did... Just in
the last few days before she was killed. She had her baby with
her.’

I could see the cogs
in Liam’s brain whirring, trying to work out how this information
could help us. But like me, he couldn’t think of a way.

‘
Well at least it
proves she was trying to save her dollars, not spending up big on a
proper hotel. It makes it more likely Sophie is doing the same
thing,’ I said, hoping to find some optimism in the
situation.

‘
Yeah, I guess. Also
proves for sure they weren’t together. He probably would have
remembered Sophie if she had been with Katie.’

Liam looked
disappointed; my expression must have lifted his hopes more than I
meant to.

After visiting the
last Formule 1 hotel on the list, and again getting nowhere, we had
to concede there were hundreds of other cheap hotels Sophie might
have come across, and plenty of Formule 1 receptionists who we
hadn’t showed the photos to, many who wouldn’t work again until the
weekend. The thought of repeating our journey enough times to cover
every hotel, every shift, filled me with dismay. This mammoth task
would take forever. Liam’s last couple of months must have been
spent much like today. Starting off with hope, and then living
through each dead end, moving to the next one, a little more
disappointed than at the last one. How did people do this for a
living? It must be hell! And Liam didn’t even seem too concerned
about getting paid.

Chapter 15

Detective Inspector
Peter Wolcott, of the London Metropolitan Police’s
Serious and Organised Crime
Command
, was not having a good
day. His work load had been light over the last couple of months,
not because there wasn’t much work to do, but because he had become
quite adept at passing off cases he had been given to younger
detectives in his unit. After all, they were keen for as much
experience as possible. His days of working for promotion were long
gone. Some wondered if he would even make it to retirement, or if
he would quit before then. He was well liked amongst his team, and
they respected the words of wisdom he was forever subjecting them
to. But he didn’t hide his cynicism about his job. His junior
colleague, Detective Sergeant Pradesh Singh, often said he would
love a quid for every time Wolcott exclaimed: ‘Why wasn’t I a pilot
like my mother wanted me to be!’

Today Wolcott had
planned to spend his time sorting out the paperwork that had been
slowly accumulating in piles on his desk, but he had been called
into his Chief Inspector’s office, and told he had to attend to an
urgent case. Before Wolcott had a chance to suggest another
detective who might benefit from the complexity of the situation,
he was told this was not a case he could hand over to anyone else,
as it concerned a senior Tory politician. This meant it not only
needed immediate attention, but Wolcott would also have to report
back to his Chief Inspector on all matters relating to his
enquiries. The more Wolcott heard about the case, the worse his day
was looking.

As he and his
sergeant negotiated rain and the London traffic in search of the
suspect’s address, he shuddered as he thought of the interview he
had just had. Wolcott hated Tory politicians, and since this one
was not only a very senior Tory, but also encapsulated everything
he disliked about the party, he was none too pleased to have to
treat the man with the compassion and patience required when
speaking to a victim of crime. Why couldn’t he have gone to his
local nick, like anybody else? He probably played golf with the
Assistant Commissioner. The man, Matthew Harrison-Brown, was tense
throughout the interview, but he still spoke to the detectives with
an arrogant air of superiority which was quite obviously innate.
And even when talking about extremely private and sensitive
matters, the man spoke as if the detectives were fortunate to be in
his presence. He didn’t show any of the humiliation or awkwardness
that should have accompanied his statement. Wolcott now resented
the case, the victim, and in turn the suspect he was on his way to
interview.

To make matters
worse, when Wolcott and Singh arrived at the suspect’s apartment,
they found he was not answering the door.

‘
How can you be sure
he is home, sir? It is the middle of the day, and there’s no
obvious sign of a car outside his flat, or any lights
on.’

‘
Just experience
Singh. I can smell him. Plus I saw him move through the blind when
we walked up the stairs.’

‘
Oh.’ Singh
blushed.

Wolcott continued his
rapping on the door, getting louder and more insistent with every
second it remained unanswered.

‘
Police. We know
you’re in there Frank. Just open the door. We need to have a few
words with you.’

Singh could now sense
movement in the apartment as well. Frank must have been looking
through the spy hole in his front door, as there was the sound of
shuffling feet, and the door creaked as if someone was leaning
against it.

‘
We can see you
moving in there Frank. Open the door! It’s the police.’

Singh hoped this guy
would answer the door soon; otherwise Wolcott was going to take his
frustration out on him. Eventually a wavering, frightened voice
called back.

‘
Prove you’re the
police. I’m not opening up otherwise.’

Wolcott grumbled, and
reached into his pocket, pulling out his badge and flicking it open
so it could be seen through the spy hole. He wondered who else
Frank could have thought it was. People weren’t usually scared to
open up unless they had good reason.

The door swung open,
revealing a garbage tip of rubbish, and a dishevelled man, pale and
gaunt. He stood in a dressing gown that was tattered and stained;
it hung off him like a hospital robe on an invalid. Wolcott stepped
inside, introducing himself and the Sergeant to the skeletal man,
who looked so relieved he was about to cry.

‘
Were you expecting
someone else?’ Wolcott asked, trying to find a place to stand where
there wasn’t any rubbish on the ground. Singh wasn’t as careful. He
followed his boss inside, stepping on plastic bottles, pizza boxes
and empty beer cans. The heating was on, but the warm fug seemed
nearly as bad as a cold one.

‘
I wasn’t expecting
the police.’ The man’s voice was hoarse. He looked like he wanted
to dig a hole and disappear into it.

‘
We find that a lot.
But I got the impression you were pleased it wasn’t someone else.
Who might that be?’

The man just shook
his head. He led the two detectives into the living room, where
rubbish had been piled in the corners and in front of the sofa, in
a half hearted attempt to tidy up.

‘
Bin man not been for
a while?’ Wolcott offered, trying to ignore the stench of rotten
food and sweaty skin.

The man kept shaking
his head; his neck looked like it was straining under the weight of
his skull, liable to snap if the shaking didn’t stop
soon.

‘
I haven’t really
been going out much. Just busy working and stuff from
home.’

Wolcott had seen
messy home offices before, but unless this man was a garbage
collector, there wasn’t much work happening in this apartment.
Singh wasn’t doing a great job of keeping the appalled expression
off his face. So Wolcott decided to get straight down to the
questioning, to keep everyone’s mind off the state of the
apartment. There was nowhere clean to sit, so he stood at the side
of the sofa, leaning on a bookcase, while Singh stood a few feet
from him, notebook open, pen at the ready. The man stood staring at
them, still obviously coming to terms with the relief his visitors
were not someone else.

‘
Just to make sure we
are in the right place, you are Frank Sporalli aren’t
you?’

The man
nodded.

‘
Do you know a
Matthew Harrison-Brown?’

The man’s eyes went
wide and his neck reddened, his face remaining as white as a
sheet.