70
Lennon had called Gordon’s direct line the moment he saw the splintered door frame, but got no reply. He had tried three more times since, then tried the station’s front desk. Still nothing. He might have wondered why if not for the more urgent worry of the hotel room. He made another tour of it, circuiting the bed, the chair, the open-faced wardrobe, the small bathroom.
The staff had been as indifferent and professional as he expected. They’d had to wait for consent from the manager to be in compliance with the law, but he’d been at a training day across the water. He’d come straight from the airport and had taken Lennon and the hastily assembled team to the room personally. The manager had looked at the forced door, then at Lennon, and said, ‘Well, at least I don’t need to call the police.’
Now Lennon watched the team work, pointless as it was. He knew they’d have turned up nothing useful, even if the door hadn’t been forced. The suspect was too smart to leave anything incriminating here. Lennon could only stand by and wait for Gordon to reply to his voicemail.
Fergal Connolly, a fresh-faced constable, worked through the contents of a hold all he’d found at the foot of the bed: cheap hoodies, T-shirts and jeans, along with a selection of socks and underwear. Everything was still wrapped in carrier bags from Dunnes, Primark and Matalan. Their man had been disposing of his clothes as he went along.
‘Clever bastard,’ Lennon said.
The room was neat, at least it had been before the search team started on it. The suspect had chosen a decent hotel because he knew the staff would keep it spick and span. Lennon doubted if there’d even be a hair in the plughole.
He checked his mobile for the tenth time since he’d been here. No missed calls or messages. He knew Marie and Ellen would be fine, but still, he couldn’t dislodge that sour weight from his gut.
Having run out of things to lift, turn over, open, or generally inspect, the three constables now ambled around the room like sheep in a pen. They’d start searching one another soon, Lennon thought.
He spoke to Connolly. ‘Have one last tour of the place, then pack up and secure the door. I want one officer to stay here and make sure no one crosses the threshold, you understand? Meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes. I want a word with the desk staff before I go.’
Lennon walked to the elevator bank and hit the button. He looked up and down the corridor. He took the phone from his pocket again and found Marie’s number. Should he call her? Maybe, hopefully, she was getting some sleep. Wouldn’t do to wake her. But he’d be happier if he knew she and Ellen were okay. And Marie would probably be happier if she knew Lennon was concerned enough to check in with her. He hit the dial button.
Marie answered with a sigh. ‘What?’ she said.
‘Just wanted to see how you were,’ Lennon said.
‘I was asleep,’ she said. ‘That’s how I was. Now I’m awake. And so is Ellen.’
Lennon heard a ping, and one of the elevator doors slid open. He stepped inside and pressed G. Ellen’s voice rustled against his ear, all yawns and grumbles. The doors closed, and Lennon felt that odd weightlessness.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘We’re okay,’ Marie said. ‘We’d be better if we were still asleep.’
‘Yeah,’ Lennon said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you said.’
The phone died. The elevator’s doors opened onto the reception area. Only one of the receptionists had seen the suspect’s comings and goings. Lennon beckoned her over to a pair of soft armchairs. Her badge said her name was Ania, and she spoke Polish, Lithuanian, Russian and English.
‘I saw him only a few times,’ she said, her words spoken with a careful and deliberate clarity, her accent softened by years of Belfast living. ‘He never said hello. He always kept his head down and walked right past. But once …’
‘Once what?’ Lennon asked.
‘On the floor, after he had walked past reception, there was something on the floor, like dirt or mud. It was very small, like a coin. I took a tissue and went around the desk. When I wiped it up, it was red. It was blood.’
Her face remained devoid of emotion, as if she was telling him special room rates. Just a week or two ago, Lennon might have tried his luck with her. Now her hard good looks stirred nothing in him.
‘What about today, has anyone unusual been here? We requested that no one be allowed near that room. Could anyone have got past reception without being noticed?’
‘I saw no one,’ she said. ‘But people come and go all the time. They have meetings here, business people, salesmen.’
‘Is there another way in? A way to get to the rooms without coming through reception?’
‘There is an entrance from the car park,’ she said. ‘But the car park is locked, unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘There is a camera overlooking the gate. They are not supposed to, but if a car pulls up, often whoever is on the desk will just press the button to open the gate without checking. The customers get annoyed if they have to get out of their cars and walk to reception, so it is easier just to let them in and out. I tell them not to do it, but they do it anyway.’
‘So someone might have—’
Before Lennon could finish the question he heard the static crackle of a radio over his shoulder. He looked around to see Constable Connolly half running across the lobby towards him, his face sickly pale.
‘What?’ Lennon asked, standing.
Connolly skidded on the tiled floor. He found his balance and said, ‘We need to go.’
Connolly looked like he might throw up. ‘It’s bad,’ he said. ‘Really bad.’