A Song for the Dying

42

‘… Are you serious? It’s gone midnight!’

‘How much?’

There was silence from the other end of the phone as I hobbled into reception. Then Rock-Hammer Robertson was back. ‘Hundred and twenty a day. Plus expenses.’

‘And I want a full background check by seven a.m. Parents, childhood, police, the lot.’

‘Tomorrow morning? You’re off your-’

‘Thought you said you were good.’

There was no sign of the night porter as I popped behind the reception desk and searched through the keys on their hooks. Three-one-four was missing. Which meant Dr Fred Docherty probably had it on him. One key, right at the bottom of the rack, had a red leather fob with the word ‘Master’ on it.

‘Not exactly giving me a lot of time, are you?’ A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.’

I grabbed the master key, limped to the elevators and thumbed the button.

‘When I checked with your employers they said you weren’t as gormless as the nurses’ halls made you look. I’m trusting you not to screw this up. Because if you do, we’re going to be having words, understand?’

‘I told you, it wasn’t my fault. A job like that should’ve had-’

‘And this is strictly between us. Nothing goes through the company books. You report to me, and if anyone asks you’re just taking a couple of days off for personal reasons. Tell them you’ve got the norovirus or something; there’s a lot of it going around.’

Ping — the lift doors slid open, bringing a wash of Vivaldi’s ‘Four Seasons’ with them.

‘Done.’

I pressed the button for the third floor. The lift whirred and clunked its way up the building as I pinned the phone between my shoulder and my ear and snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. ‘I want to know where he goes, who he talks to, if he’s got a lock-up, or a house somewhere.’

‘I’ll be all over him like plukes on a teenager.’

Ping — the doors opened on a tartan-floored corridor. A sign on the wall: ‘ROOMS 301–312 ~ ROOMS 313–336

The corridor to the right took a dogleg, then up a couple of steps.

‘You see anything dodgy, you call me. You don’t touch anything, you don’t go charging in, you call me.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know the-’

‘Say it.’

A sigh. ‘I call you.’

‘Good.’ I took out the master key. No sign of light seeping out under the door of 314, so either Dr Docherty was already asleep, or he was out. ‘Now shut up for a minute.’

The key slid into the lock. Turned delicate and slow. Then click. I eased the door open.

The curtains hadn’t been closed properly, letting in a thin wash of yellow light that leached the colour out of the room, turning the tartan carpet monochrome.

Bed was still made, the blanket tucked in tight, a room-service menu on one of the pillows. Nice room. Big enough for a small couch and a coffee table by the window. Spotless.

Back to the phone. ‘I want you outside the Pinemantle Hotel on Porter Lane from half five at the latest.’

‘And you want a full background tonight as well? You have heard of sleep, haven’t you?’

‘Time for that when you’re dead.’ I hung up and slipped the phone back in my pocket.

One bedside cabinet had nothing but a Gideon Bible and a hairdryer in it, the other was neatly layered with socks and pants. The narrow drawer under the desk was stuffed with all the usual hotel information bumph — folders, binders, and leaflets. Nothing under the bed. Bathroom: a stick deodorant, pink toilet bag, toothbrush in a plastic holder, toothpaste, floss, two tubs of hair gel, bottle of aftershave.

The wardrobe hid a red wheelie suitcase. I hauled it out and had a rummage inside. A Tesco carrier-bag full of dirty underwear sat in one corner, a couple of books in the netting pouches built into the lid. There was a solid, zipped compartment above them. I eased it open.

Well, well… I reached in and pulled out three pairs of black lacy thongs. A scarlet lipstick was next, then a pair of dangly silver earrings with blue stones in them, and right at the bottom: a push-up bra.

I sat back on my haunches. So, maybe he liked to dress up and become Susan at the weekends? Didn’t prove anything. They all went back where they came from.

The two suits, three shirts, and the overcoat hanging in the wardrobe got a quick search, then I was back out in the corridor, as if nothing had ever happened.

Locked the door again.

Stood there, frowning at the wood.

Docherty wasn’t likely to leave anything incriminating lying about in his hotel room, was he? Housekeeping would find it. He wasn’t thick, after all…

Retching echoed out from the open bathroom door of the adjoining room. Alice’s feet stuck out at right angles to each other, white socks twitching as she heaved.

She’d only been in it twenty minutes and her hotel room already looked like a teenager’s bedroom. Clothes all over the floor, more on the chair, the bed rumpled, papers spread all over the little desk.

Her socks twitched again.

‘You’re a disaster…’ I picked up the jeans, folded them and draped them over the back of the chair. Hung the jacket up in the wardrobe, and the stripy tops. Picked up the scattered socks and underwear. Put them back in the suitcase. Stuck it in the corner.

Alice groaned, then appeared in the doorway. Pink pyjamas buttoned up wrong. Her hair hung in a lank curtain, covering her face. ‘Urrgh…’

‘Well, whose fault is that?’

‘Where were you? I … I needed … someone … hold my hair.’

I pulled back one side of the blankets. ‘Did you drink a pint of water?’

‘Bounced.’ She shuffled over and collapsed, face-down onto the bed. ‘Where were you?’

‘Had to hand some keys in at reception. You want to be sick again?’

‘Urgh…’

Her legs were like lead as I rolled her round the right way. Folded the blankets back over her. Then fetched the hotel bin and put it beside the bed.

‘You’re going to end up with liver failure, that what you want?’

‘Urrrrrrgh…’

‘Thought so.’ I paced to the window and pulled the curtain back a couple of inches. A car drifted by on Porter Lane, headlights picking out the bones of trees. ‘What would you say if someone suggested Dr Docherty might be the Inside Man?’

‘I’d … I’d say … leave me alone … I want … to die.’

The branches trembled, and a fistful of rain beat itself to death against the window. ‘He’s the right age, he ticks all the boxes you were talking about, and he’s on the inside, isn’t he? Can’t get more inside than he is.’

‘It’s a bit… He can’t be the … Inside Man … he’s … he’s a knob.’

The curtains fell back into place. ‘What, serial nut-jobs can’t be knobs?’

‘He… He…’ She squinted at the ceiling. ‘What do we … do we know about his … background? Does… Does he have a mother? Well, of course he’s got a mother, but is she alive and did she beat him when he was little, and why’s the room going round like that, make it stop!’

I brushed the hair from her damp face, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Your breath’s minging, by the way.’

‘What if … what if it’s not him? What if we go chasing … chasing after … and Dave…’

‘He fits your profile, that’s all. We’re not abandoning everything else.’

She wobbled a hand at the adjoining door. ‘Leave … leave it open?’

‘Promise.’ I turned out the bedside lamp. Now the only light was what filtered through from my room. ‘No booze tomorrow, OK?’

‘Ash?’

‘What?’

‘If I hadn’t seen you … seen you carrying Paul Manson’s body … off into the … the woods… Why … why did you lie to me?’

‘When Rebecca’s guinea pig died, we hid the body and told her it’d gone away to live on a farm. Didn’t want its death to darken her.’ I picked at the handle of my cane, scraping back a patina of varnish with my thumbnail. ‘Suppose it was a bit like that…’

Silence.

‘Alice?’

‘Thank you for trying…’ Her voice was little more than a fuzzy mumble in the darkness. ‘Ash? If … Dr Docherty is … is the Inside Man, then … then … why start again, after all this time? Eight … eight years, nothing, just like that.’

‘Go to sleep.’

‘Maybe … maybe he… Maybe he misses the screaming?’