Aftershock

Ninety-one

The bar was empty of customers, and the bartender was absent. The two Scots found a table, out of the direct sight of the check-in desk, but from which they could watch it, reflected in a mirror.

The man was smiling, relaxed, as he signed in, and took his key card from the receptionist. He glanced to his left, in the direction of the elevators, then turned, with his companion, and walked towards them.

‘Well?’ Skinner asked, as he passed out of sight. ‘Was that him?’

‘If it is, he’s changed, or he’s been changed, a lot,’ said McGuire. ‘There’s the beard, for a start, and the glasses; his nose is different too, narrower, and his ears. You have to remember that I met the guy very briefly, and that he was sitting down all the way through our conversation. But the ears are the biggest change: Davor’s ears stick out, if you’ve noticed. They’re not quite in the Dumbo class, but pretty prominent. When I saw him, Dražen’s were the same. Now they’ve been pinned back, literally.’

Skinner’s mobile sounded. He fished it out of his pocket. ‘Yes, Rosalie,’ he answered. ‘Yes, thanks. We’ve just found that out for ourselves. Can you get down here?. . Good. . Yes, bring back-up, but be very discreet.’

As he repocketed the phone, he saw that his companion had left him and walked round to Reception, where he was in conversation with the clerk. ‘Yes,’ the DCC heard her say as he approached. ‘That is the name: Ignacio Riesgo. He’s in room five two four.’

‘Who’s the woman?’

‘Her name is Chandler Lockett.’

McGuire laughed. ‘He and Richards must really be buddies. Ifan’s lent him his girlfriend for the occasion.’

‘What do you think?’ Skinner asked. ‘The inspecteur’s on her way; do we wait?’

‘She’s got a gun, we don’t.’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ He turned to the duty manager behind the desk. ‘Has his case been taken up yet?’

‘No.’

‘Then hold it for a minute and get me a porter’s jacket.’

The man looked at him doubtfully. ‘I don’t know about that, sir.’

‘It’s either that or armed police go up to get him. Will the boss fancy that?’

The manager reached a decision. ‘Maybe I can find a jacket to fit you,’ he said, then stepped through a door to his right. He came back within a few seconds, holding a brown tunic. ‘This is the biggest I have.’

‘That’ll do.’ Skinner took it from him and slipped it on; it was a tight fit, but he managed to fasten the buttons. ‘Gimme the cases,’ he ordered. The manager pointed at a trolley beside him, laden with two suitcases and a vanity bag. He nodded and pushed it towards the lift.

‘Fifth floor?’ McGuire asked.

‘Yup.’

He pressed the button. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent most of my career listening to you complain whenever you have to be in uniform, and now look at you. Nice gear, but it’s not your colour.’

The lift came to a halt and the doors opened. The floor layout was the same as theirs, one below: Skinner pushed the trolley along a corridor to the right of the small lobby area. The door was the fourth along. He stopped outside it, allowing McGuire to pass beyond him, then rapped on it twice, not too hard, not wanting to sound like a cop.

‘Who is it?’ a male voice called.

‘Baggage.’

The door opened and he found himself face to face with a man he had never met. ‘Come in,’ said Ignacio Riesgo.

As Skinner pushed the trolley through the narrow opening that led into the suite, he passed the bathroom door. It was ajar and he caught a glimpse of the woman inside, in her underwear.

‘Just dump them on the bed for now,’ he was ordered.

‘Si,’ he said, and unloaded the vanity case, then the suitcase below it. The man was watching him. ‘Como es tu culo?’ Skinner asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ he replied.

The DCC grinned, and nodded at a point behind him. He turned to see the bulk of Mario McGuire facing him.

The head of CID did not possess the hand speed of a Floyd Patterson, but when he threw a punch, there was something inevitable about it, a certainty that it would land. The blow hit its target flush on the chin. It lifted him off his feet and flung him backwards. He would have hit the floor, had not Skinner caught him, twisted him round and flung him face down on the bed for McGuire to seize his wrists and secure them with plastic cuffs.

‘What the. .’ A small female scream came from behind them, as Chandler Lockett stepped out of the en-suite, naked.

‘I’d get back in there if I were you,’ Skinner told her. ‘We’re the police, and your man’s in the process of being nicked for murder.’ He looked down at the captive. ‘Isn’t that right, Dražen?’

‘My name is Ignacio Riesgo,’ he hissed.

‘Panamanian?’

‘Yes.’

‘In that case you need to brush up on your native language. I just asked you how your arsehole was, and you didn’t bat an eyelid.’