Death Call (9 page)

‘There’s a few beers left in the fridge if you’re still thirsty....’

‘Did the care worker come around today?’ Dan asked, making for the fridge.

‘That woman is more of a discomfort than this bloody chair. I swear I’ll swing for her one of these days....’

‘What’s she done now?’

‘Why they send idiots like her to look after people is beyond me. The woman doesn’t have a sensitive bone in her body.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, she’s supposed to be my care worker, but she spends the entire two hours drinking tea and telling me how her love life is in a mess. If I wanted to know about that kind of thing I’d buy a magazine and read the problem page....’

‘Ah sure, she’s only a young one....’

‘She’s thirty-five. You’d think she’d know better....’

‘But what happened to that young Irish girl who used to visit you?’

‘That was last month. Now, sit down and I’ll get you something to eat....’

It was useless arguing with Sarah. Dan knew that, and wasn’t in the mood to disagree. He had never won an argument with her in the twenty years they had been married, and he certainly wasn’t going to try it now.

Sarah always had been a force to reckon with – in or out of a wheelchair.

Chapter 9

The Greater Manchester Police were very helpful. It must have had something to do with what Carroll had often heard described as ‘northern charm’. Either way, Detective Inspector Halloway had gone out of his way to be of service to the investigation.

Halloway had arranged to have two of his men check James O’Brien out – the guy who owned the mobile phone, and who, presumably, was the self same man that hired Joanne McCrae the night before she was murdered.

As it turned out, O’Brien had been in the hotel on the night in question and had paid for Jo Mac’s services with cash. He had been wearing only underwear when she arrived, he had said, and absolutely nothing when she had left. No sportswear, no oil-stained jeans. Only a pair of Y-fronts. Although somewhat unhappy about it, O’Brien agreed to give his fingerprints to the Manchester detectives. All of the details that they had been sent up by Grant had checked out. Times, places, hair colour, appearance. It was amazing how much could be deciphered by the forensics people these days. Just a few hairs and that was it.

Joanne, O’Brien had told the Manchester boys, was a rough sort of girl who didn’t waste any time. She went right down on the job in hand and stayed there until it was done. She was there no more than thirty minutes – not the hour or hour and a half that they had been told by Lynn, her boss back at the Dream Date Escort Agency. That was the last O’Brien had seen of her. She went off out into the night and back to her base, presumably, he had said. Only she hadn’t gone straight back to the escort agency.

Dream Date’s offices were a short taxi ride from the Towcester Hotel in Piccadilly. A ride that would only have taken around twenty minutes. There was another half hour or thereabouts that was still unaccounted for.

When Grant received the fax from the Greater Manchester Police and read down through their report, it was the one thing that struck him. Whatever Jo Mac did in that half hour could have had considerable bearing on what happened to her the next morning in Horseferry Road. It was just something they had to check out, even if her killing seemed to be an act of random murder.

Carroll’s first thought was to check out the hotel receptionist. Not the one they had already spoken to, but the woman who was on the desk on the night Jo Mac did her thing in room thirty nine for a certain Mr. O’Brien.

Carroll got on the phone straightaway and had a word with the manager of the Towcester Hotel, Mr. Winterbottom. Winterbottom was more than a little unhappy to hear Carroll’s voice again.

‘Look, Mr. Carroll, no crime was committed here and you’ve wasted enough of our time already – not to mention upsetting my staff and inconveniencing guests....’

‘We need to speak to the woman who was on the night shift. The girl who covered the reception desk. Can we have her name and address, Mr. Winterbottom?’

‘So you won’t be coming back to the hotel?’

‘Not if we can help it, sir. Now if you’d just get me the details, I’ll let you get on with your business....’

‘Very well.’

Carroll sat back at his desk looking up at the ceiling, as Winterbottom went in search of the personnel records. The squad room could badly do with a once over, Carroll thought. Paint was peeling from the walls and ceiling, the linoleum covered floor was so badly worn and marked by shoes that the original colours of blue and red were almost impossible to make out. As for the desks, well, a quarter of a century of bored detectives with pens in their hands had decorated them with graffiti and doodles ranging from the absurd to the obscene. Winterbottom returned.

‘Sharon Walpole,’ he said, reading out her address and telephone number to Carroll, who eagerly scribbled them down in his notebook.

‘Okay, thank you, Mr. Winterbottom. You’ve been very helpful. I think that’ll be all for now. I’ll ring you again if I need any more information, okay?’

‘I don’t mind as long as you don’t cause any more disruptions at the hotel.’

Winterbottom hung up and Carroll thought about the guy’s name. Winterbottom. The thought crossed Carroll’s mind that perhaps, somewhere out there, there was a Springbottom, a Summerbottom and an Fallbottom. There were most certainly Longbottoms to be found lurking around the countryside, but Shortbottoms were thin on the ground. Fatbottoms mostly, Carroll thought. That’s what you’ll find wandering the streets of London. Fat bottoms.

Forensic Scientist Noel Harrigan had phoned while Carroll was busy with Winterbottom. Grant had taken the call. There was only one set of prints that they lifted from the hotel room that were the same as the prints that had been found on Jo Mac’s body. Mainly on her shoulders and breasts. The earring that Carroll had been given by the Gibsons hadn’t given up any fingerprints at all. But what they had obtained, was a definite match with the blood from the earring and the semen sample taken from the victim. Whoever owned the earring was responsible for Jo Mac’s murder. DNA samples don’t lie, Harrigan had said.

The two detectives looked at each other across their desks. They both had a piece of news to share, a lead to go on. Their smiles told the story.

‘So, what now, Tonto?’

‘Well,’ Grant said, ‘we can be sure that the murderer was wearing oil-stained jeans and some sort of sportswear. And we now know that the semen and the earring are from the same person. That was forensics on the phone just now. What did you get?’

‘The night duty receptionist’s details. Fancy going to see her?’

‘Why not?’

The tensions that were so obviously present earlier in the week were now easing. Grant had even begun to feel bad at the thought that because Carroll was white, and what was worse, Irish, he must be a racist. Carroll was proving to be anything but that in Grant’s eyes. No more visions of white hoods or impending nigger jokes. No more looking for double meanings in every second word. This, he thought, would make working with Carroll much easier.

Sharon Walpole was an ugly woman – unlike her day-time colleague, Emma, whom Carroll had so much admired for her posterior charms and what he himself had thought was an exquisite turn of ankle. Sharon Walpole was just plain ugly. It must have something to do with the fact that she works on the night-shift, Carroll thought, greeting her at the door of her house.

Rented accommodation, Grant thought, looking at the young woman stood before him. A girl who works in a hotel during the night couldn’t afford such a nice house. He was wrong. Sharon, it turned out, had been left the house by her uncle Ted, who had dabbled in the property market before drinking himself to death. Carroll didn’t really see how that was relevant to their inquiries, and proceeded with a more direct approach once pleasantries were put to one side . Sharon stood wrapped in a dressing gown, framed by the kitchen door, staring at the two detectives who had taken a seat without being asked.

‘Can you tell me what it is you are here for?’ she asked, with her brow furrowed.

‘It’s to do with last Sunday night at the Towcester Hotel. You were on duty in the reception area that night?’

‘Yeah, I do nights four times a week, usually the weekends....’

‘So, you were on the desk that night?’ Carroll asked.

‘I just said so, didn’t I? Is this about the murder inquiry I’ve heard about?’

‘Yes, it is. Okay, about twelve midnight or just after, a woman came in to visit someone in room thirty-nine, yes?’

‘Yeah – she looked like a tart....’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘She was wearing a really short leather skirt that showed the tops of her stockings when she walked. What else would she be doing visiting a hotel in the middle of the night dressed like that?’

‘And you knew she was a prostitute, but didn’t say anything?’

‘It was none of my business. If a guy rents a room for the night, he can do whatever he wants, you know....’

‘What time did she leave the hotel?’ Grant asked.

‘She was only there for a half an hour or so – he must’ve been eager. Listen, I’ve got work tonight and I need to get some sleep, okay?’

‘Just one or two more questions, Sharon. Did the woman call a taxi from the lobby of the hotel, or did she just walk out?’

‘I don’t remember.’ Sharon looked a little bored with the conversation.

‘Well, then please think,’ Grant said, looking over at his partner.

‘I think she headed over to the café across the road, but I’m not sure.’

‘Did you see her leave the café or meet anyone outside it?’

‘No – now can I get back to bed?’

‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful, Sharon. We may need to speak to you again, and if we do, I’ll give you a call first, okay?’

Sharon shepherded the two detectives out of her house and closed the door behind them. Yeah, she was ugly. Greasy hair and a rather obvious and protuberant overbite. She would never make a toothpaste commercial, Carroll thought. Not in a million years.

‘So, she went for a cup of tea,’ Grant said.

‘Looks like it, but I suppose we’d best check it out anyway, yeah?’

‘Suppose so, man. Shall we?’

Carroll wasn’t in the mood for another few hours of asking questions. The idea of a nice quiet pint grew quickly from desire to necessity. It was as if he had to have a drink in order to survive. His suggestion to Sam that they go for a ‘quick one’ was greeted with more than a little annoyance. It was only three in the afternoon, there were reports to be written up, and DCI Jones wanted to have another word with them about their progress on the case. Forcing himself into the mould, Carroll tried to shake off his new-found desire for a beer and applied himself to the task at hand.

Grant drove through the city streets like a Sunday driver, and his partner couldn’t stand it. Whatever it was that was making him irritable, it wasn’t Sam’s driving. Grant liked being right all the time, even if he wasn’t, Carroll thought. Always on time, always looking the part, always polite with people he was interviewing. How did he manage to maintain such a level of professionalism while his wife was spreading her legs for the men of London? Carroll just couldn’t figure it out.

Dan thought he had seen another side of his partner the night before in the King’s Head. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was just the beer. Maybe Grant was a tight-arsed idiot with more opinions than sense. The guy should’ve been sent out on a white fuckin’ horse with a Colt .45 strapped to his side. He hadn’t even bought a round of drinks the night before, but sat there dumbly staring into space when the glasses fell empty. Dan was just wound up. It happened often, and would soon pass. Hopefully before he opened his mouth and put words to his thoughts.

The café wasn’t anything special. A counter full of salad rolls and baps wrapped in cling-film, a fridge full of cold fizzy drinks, huge tea and coffee pots, and an old woman wearing an apron and a greasy smile.

‘Breakfast is over for the day, gentlemen,’ she said on seeing the two men stare at the menu board as they entered. No sausages, no beans, no rashers, no black pudding. Only tea, coffee and sandwiches after two in the afternoon, she had said. Carroll took a ham roll and a cup of coffee. Grant had a coffee. The old woman had been working on Sunday night, serving the pimps and prostitutes of Piccadilly until four in the morning.

She didn’t seem to think Jo Mac had been with anyone. She just sat in the corner with a mug of coffee, a bar of chocolate and had a cigarette or two. Nothing special. She only stayed about twenty or thirty minutes. She couldn’t say whether Jo had used the phone or had hailed a cab outside when she had finished her coffee. All in all, the visit to the cafe was of no help whatsoever, except that they now knew that Jo Mac hadn’t met or left with anyone. It seemed she had just gone for a quick cup of coffee and a smoke – presumably to get the taste of James O’Brien’s rubber-coated penis out of her mouth. The cup of coffee she had was probably very, very welcome, Carroll thought as he munched away on his ham roll. The thought of a pint surfaced again in his thirsty mind.