Close Quarters

THIRTY-ONE

I woke at six with a stiff neck and the feeling that I’d missed something. I checked the hotel. All the curtains were drawn tight and the Polo was still in the car park. A delivery truck was dropping off laundry and supplies to one side, but other than a sleepy-looking driver and a woman with a clipboard and the sullen manner of an afternoon person, the place was quiet.

I left the car and walked a short distance until I found a café with a number of workmen getting ready for the day. Or maybe they were night workers stopping on their way home for coffee and what looked like brandy or white spirit — horilka — locally brewed and flavoured with fruit. I avoided the alcohol and settled for fried potatoes and eggs, which seemed the staple breakfast diet. The nods I got from the other customers, who shifted over to allow me to sit, told me I seemed OK.

Blending in.

I finished eating and paid up, leaving an acceptable tip, then walked back to the hotel. Most of the room curtains were now pulled back. The Polo hadn’t moved. Travis had to come out sooner or later and be on his way. Unless he was waiting for the next cut-out to show up and collect him.

I waited until eight, then decided to take the initiative. The hand-over was taking too long. The more time Travis spent here the more exposed he would become and the greater was the risk he ran of being noticed.

At eight-ten I walked across the road and approached the reception desk. The clerk was male, impressively tall and snappily dressed, with four pens in his breast pocket and the manner of someone who knew what was what in the hospitality industry.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ He looked ready to vault the desk and do a polka. In the background I could hear the clatter of dishes and cutlery.

‘I need to speak with one of your guests,’ I explained again. ‘The driver of a black Polo.’

He thought about it and nodded. ‘Of course, sir. Is there a problem?’

I told the story again about scraping the Polo with my car.

‘I see. One moment, please.’ He checked his computer screen, tapped several keys, then picked up a phone and dialled a number. He waited and pulled a regretful face.

‘I am sorry, sir. There’s no answer. He must have stepped out early.’

‘Might he be in the restaurant?’

‘No, sir. I would have his meal tab. His is not one of them. Can I take a message?’

‘No. Could you try his extension again? He might be in the bathroom.’

‘Of course.’ He went through the dialling routine again, and I watched the numbers to see which room he was calling. Twenty-eight.

Still no answer.

Alarm bells were now ringing big time. Travis had no reason to go off the plan like this. Maybe he’d taken a walk like the clerk suggested. Stress needs a form of release and he would have been feeling under plenty of that in the past few days. But sightseeing was the last thing Travis would have wanted to do — he was too keen on getting home to his family.

I thanked the clerk for his help and walked outside and round to the rear of the hotel. I hadn’t seen any CCTV cameras in evidence, so I figured it was safe to take a little snoop. I found a newspaper tucked inside the pannier of a moped and grabbed it, and walked in through a back door as if I owned the place.

The stairs to the second floor were deserted, and I got to room twenty-eight without seeing anyone. The place sounded quiet save for the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner.

I tapped on the door. It opened a fraction.

I rolled the newspaper as tight as I could, with the spine edges out where the paper was thickest. As a make-do weapon at close quarters, it wasn’t great but would do. I wasn’t expecting Travis to go all physical at me, but the atmosphere here was wrong enough to make me think something bad had happened.

I pushed the door back until it bumped against the wall. The room was standard design, with a bed, armchair, night table, a line of hangers and a waste bin. The bed was undisturbed. As I was about to go in, I heard a clank and a maid appeared wheeling a small service trolley. She peered past me and saw the undisturbed bed, then walked away with a shrug of her shoulders, waving a hand and muttering about guests who never turned up.

I stepped inside the room and walked across to the window. The air smelled sour and stuffy, as if the heating had been turned up too high, and there was another aroma, too. Somehow gamey, like blocked pipes. I checked the car park. The black Polo was still there.

So where was 24d?

I turned to leave, and that’s when I saw him. He was in the corner, behind the armchair.

Even without checking I knew he was dead.