A Song for the Dying

41

Carriage lamps cast discreet golden blooms on either side of the front door. A little sign was screwed to the wall above the bell, telling residents to ring after eleven p.m. if they wanted in. So that’s what I did.

The Pinemantle Hotel sat two-thirds of the way down Porter Lane — less than five minutes from Division Headquarters — its concrete-and-granite bulk nestling amongst the crumbling grandeur of sandstone townhouses. A front garden, thick with rhododendron bushes and denuded beech trees, lurked in shadow behind Alice’s Suzuki.

She peered out at me from the passenger seat, one eye closed, swaying from side to side. Blinking in slow motion. She fumbled with her seatbelt and creaked the door open. Puffed out her cheeks. Slapped a hand over her mouth.

Perfect. Just what we needed at check-in — her blowing ribs and chips all over their gravel driveway.

A pause. Then she shuddered and picked herself out of the car. Lurched over, stiff-legged, to the portico. Slumped against me. ‘Mmmsleepy.’ The words slithered out in a fog of Jack Daniel’s and barbecue sauce.

A shadow moved across the rippled glass panel in the door.

‘Try not to look like you’re about to puke everywhere or they won’t give us a room.’

‘Sleeeepy…’

Great.

The shadow filled the pane, then clunk — the door opened.

A man in slippers and a black cardigan blinked up at me, his face lined and sagging. Wafts of Ralgex and peppermint rolled out of him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I need two rooms.’

He did a bit more blinking, going back and forth between me and Alice. ‘I see.’ He flexed his shoulders beneath his baggy cardigan then glanced down at Alice’s suitcase and my holdall. ‘Would you like some help with your bags?’

‘We’re fine, thanks.’

Alice tugged at my sleeve. ‘Twin room. I don’t want … want to … alone?’

‘Two rooms. Have you got anything adjoining?’

A handkerchief appeared in his hand, followed by a long snottery honk on his nose. ‘I think we might be able to accommodate you.’ Then he turned and doddered back into the hotel.

Tartan carpet surrounded a wooden reception desk with a stag’s head mounted above it. Hunting scenes and portraits of men and women in olde-worlde uniforms and dresses punctuated the walls — surrounded by heavy golden frames.

The man took our names, car registration, an imprint of Alice’s credit card, then held out a pair of room keys. ‘Breakfast is from half six till nine thirty in the Balmoral Room. I’d suggest you leave it until after seven though — we have a large party of police officers staying with us and they tend to hog the buffet.’ He pointed off to the left. ‘And if you’d like to put your car in the car park around the side, I’ll give you a token to get in.’

‘Thanks.’

He rummaged under the desk for a bit. Then emerged with a frown. ‘Could’ve sworn they were here… Just be a tick.’ And he was off, slippers scuffing at the tartan carpet.

Soon as he was out of sight I reached over and plucked the register from the reception desk. Flicked back through it a couple of days.

The page was covered in cops. Rhona was right: the whole team from the Specialist Crime Division had checked in, along with Jacobson and his Lateral Investigative and Review Unit.

And last, but not least: Dr F. Docherty, room 314.

‘… was Love Amongst Ruin and “Home”. Five to midnight and you’re listening to the Witching Hour, with me, Lucy Robotham.’

The token I’d got from the night porter opened a barrier that led into a car park built beneath what looked like conference facilities. I took the Suzuki between the thick concrete pillars and dumped it in the first available space. Sat there for a minute with my head back as my right foot throbbed.

‘… take a look at tomorrow’s papers and the Daily Record leads with “Gotcha!” Scandal rocks Number Ten as the Business Secretary Alex Dance is arrested for perjury and attempting to pervert the course of justice…’

Another couple of breaths and it had settled down a bit.

‘… Press and Journal has “Parents’ fear for missing Charlie”, going with the hunt for missing five-year-old Charlie Pearce…’

God what a day…

‘… The Independent and the Scotsman both go with the ongoing manhunt in Oldcastle for the Inside Man. While the Castle News and Post devotes its front page to a letter supposedly sent in by the killer to-’

I clicked the radio off. Levered myself out of the car. Leaned heavily on my cane, and hobbled back towards the exit.

Couldn’t get a mobile signal in the car park, but as soon as I stepped outside it was up to four bars. My thumb picked out the numbers, the hotel concrete scraping against my jacket as I leaned back and listened to it ring.

A porridge-thick Easterhouse accent brayed out of the earpiece. ‘Police Scotland, Oldcastle Division.’

‘That you Daphne? It’s Ash Henderson. I need to know if you’ve still got Rock-Hammer Robertson kicking about.’

‘Ash, you auld bugger, how’s the foot?’ The sound of fingers attacking a keyboard rattled down the line.

‘Like I’ve got a hedgehog in my shoe. Joe well?’

‘Silly bugger fell down the stairs and broke his collar bone… No — according to this Mr Robertson has been released without charge.’

After what he’d done to Cooper and Jacobson? Lucky Mr Robertson.

‘Got a number for him?’

‘Give us a minute…’

Wednesday