Dead Tomorrow

100

Pulling his coat on, Glenn Branson left Bella Moy sitting in the warmth of the unmarked police car, crossed the narrow street behind the Metropole Hotel and once more rang the bell marked 1202, J. Baker. Then he stood outside the tower block in the icy wind, waiting for any sound to come down the speaker system.

Yet again, silence.

It was now just after four in the morning. In his pocket was the search warrant that had been signed at eleven last night by Juliet Smith, a senior magistrate he had always found helpful. Since then they had maintained a vigil here through the long night, only driving off for two brief periods.

The first had been to visit one of Cosmescu’s known haunts, the Rendezvous Casino in the Marina, but the manager told them, with some regret in his voice, that unusually Mr Baker had not been there for a few days. The second had been to get bacon sandwiches and coffee from the Market Diner, one the city’s few all-night cafés.

He got back into the car shivering, slamming the door gratefully against the elements. The smell of greasy bacon lingered.

Bella looked at him wearily. ‘I think it’s time to wake up the caretaker,’ she said.

‘Yup, seems very selfish to be the only ones appreciating this beautiful night,’ he said.

‘Very selfish,’ she agreed.

They climbed out, locked the doors, then walked back across to the front door. Glenn pressed the button marked Concierge.

There was no response. After a few moments he tried again. About thirty seconds went by, then there was a sharp crackle, followed by a voice with a strong Irish accent.

‘Yes, who’s that?’

‘Police,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We have a search warrant for one of your flats and need you to let us in.’

The man sounded suspicious. ‘Police, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fek! Just be giving me a minute, will ya, to get some clothes on.’

A short while later the front door was opened by a strong-looking, shaven-headed man of about sixty, with a broken, boxer’s nose, wearing a sweatshirt, baggy jogging bottoms and flip-flops.

‘Detective Sergeant Branson and Detective Sergeant Moy,’ Glenn said, holding up his warrant card.

Bella produced hers too and the Irishman squinted at them in turn with suspicion.

‘And your name is?’ Bella asked.

Folding his arms defensively, the concierge replied, ‘Dowler. Oliver Dowler.’

Then Glenn produced a sheet of paper. ‘We have a search warrant for Flat 1202 and we’ve been ringing the occupant’s bell regularly since just after eleven last night, with no response.’

‘Well, now… 1202?’ Oliver Dowler said with a frown. Then he raised a finger and gave a cheery smile. ‘I’m not surprised you’re getting no answer. The occupant vacated the premises yesterday. You’ve just missed him.’

Glenn cursed.

‘Vacated?’ Bella Moy queried.

‘He moved out.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ Glenn asked.

‘Abroad,’ the concierge said. ‘Fed up with the English climate.’ Then he jabbed his own chest. ‘Just like me – I got two more years to go, then I’m retiring to the Philippines.’

‘Do you have a forwarding address or a phone number?’

‘Nothing at all. He said he would be in touch.’

Glenn pointed upwards. ‘Let’s go to his flat.’

The three of them rode the lift and stepped straight out into the penthouse.

True to Oliver Dowler’s word, Cosmescu had indeed vacated the place. There was not one piece of furniture left. No carpet, rug, not even any rubbish of any kind. A couple of bare light bulbs hung from their flex, and a few down-lighters burned starkly. There was a strong smell of fresh paint.

They walked through each of the rooms, their footsteps echoing. The whole place looked as if it had been professionally cleaned. In the kitchen, Glenn opened the fridge and freezer doors. Inside they were bare. As was the dishwasher. He checked the inside of the washing machine and tumble dryer in the utility room and those were empty too.

There was nothing that either Glenn Branson or Bella Moy could see, in this cursory inspection, that gave any clue as to the previous occupant, or indeed that there had ever been one. There weren’t even any shadows on the walls from where pictures or mirrors might have been removed.

Branson rubbed his finger down one pale grey wall, but however recent the paint might have been, it was now dry.

‘Did he rent this flat or own it?’ Bella Moy asked.

‘He rented it,’ the concierge said. ‘Six-monthly renewable lease, unfurnished.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘About the same as me. Ten years I been here, next month.’

‘So his lease just expired?’ Glenn Branson said.

Dowler shook his head. ‘Not at all. He’s paid up for about three months still.’

The two detectives frowned at each other. Then Glenn handed him a card.

‘If he gets in touch with you, will you contact me, please? We need to speak to him very urgently.’

‘He said he would be dropping me a line or an email, with a forwarding address, like for the bills and stuff.’

‘Can you tell us anything about him, Mr Dowler?’ Bella asked.

He shook his head. ‘In ten years I never had a conversation with him. Nothing. Very private.’ Then he grinned. ‘But I saw him a few times with some lovely ladies. He had a good eye for women, he did.’

‘What about his car?’

‘Gone too.’ Then he yawned. ‘Will you be needing me any more tonight? Or shall I leave you to be getting on with your search?’

‘You can leave us. I don’t think we’ll be very long,’ Glenn said.

‘No,’ the concierge said with a grin, ‘I don’t think that you will.’

After he had departed Glenn smiled at something. ‘Got it!’

‘What?’ Bella enquired.

‘Who the concierge reminds me of, the actor, Yul Brynner.’

‘Yul Brynner?’

‘The Magnificent Seven.’

She looked puzzled.

‘One of the greatest movies ever made! Also had Steve McQueen, Charles Bronson, James Coburn.’

‘I never saw it.’

‘God, you’ve led a sheltered life!’

From the crestfallen look on her face, he realized he’d touched a raw nerve.