‘Was he?’
‘Yeah.’
Brook waited, wondering if Sally were some kind of comedian. When it became clear she wouldn’t be elaborating without further stimulus, he said, ‘Could you tell me about him, Sally?’
‘He wasn’t very well.’
Brook’s heart quickened. ‘How so?’
‘It was his hands.’
‘His hands?’
‘That’s right. Burnt they were. So he said. He had to wear gloves all the time.’
‘Did he? So that’s not his handwriting,’ enquired Brook, nodding at the folder.
‘No, it’s mine. He couldn’t write.’
‘And he paid his account with cash for the same reason.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Old, a bit sad-looking. He didn’t speak much.’
‘I’ll bet he didn’t eat in the restaurant either.’
‘No, he didn’t. He said it was too bright. He had bad eyes as well you see.’
‘Course he did. He’d need special glasses for that, wouldn’t he?’
Sally was impressed. ‘That’s right. Big thick frames with tinted lenses.’
‘So he didn’t take breakfast?’
Sally was starting to get into the swing of things. ‘No. We all wondered about that because it’s included in the price. We can’t knock anything off, you know. Not round Christmas. Not that he asked. I mean, Cook was a bit put out. He does a good breakfast. One of the best in Derby,’ she added, reverting to a professional voice. ‘But even if it was crap, people always make a point of having it, don’t they? I mean, when they’ve paid for it…’
‘Any other distinctive features?’
‘He wore a wig. I noticed that, though he kept a hat on most of the time.’ Sally was very pleased with her deductive powers. ‘Does that help?’
Brook nodded. ‘It would help more if you could tell me if he was bald underneath.’ Sally screwed up her face in concentration then shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she concluded, a little crestfallen. ‘Like I said, he had a wig on. And not a very good one.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘Quite tall.’
Brook looked up. ‘Tall? Sure?’ He looked Sally up and down. ‘How tall are you?’
‘I’m five feet three,’ she answered, a touch sensitive.
‘You look taller.’
‘I’m wearing platforms.’
‘I see. So, if you’re five-three, someone five-seven/five-eight would look quite tall.’
‘I suppose so. But I was wearing my platforms, so I guess not. He must have been taller.’
‘You’re sure you were wearing platforms when you met him?’
‘Certain.’
‘Why so certain?’
‘Because I always wear platforms.’ Brook looked a little dubious. ‘I do.’
‘If you say so.’ With a sudden inspiration Brook said, ‘Could he have been wearing platforms?’
‘Possibly I didn’t notice.’ Sally was a little defensive after being branded unreliable.
Brook whipped out the old photo of Sorenson and handed it to her. ‘Was that the man?’
She studied carefully then handed it back. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Well, thanks for trying.’ He pocketed the photo. ‘What time of day did he arrive?’
‘It was the evening. Seven o’clock.’
‘Why so precise?’
‘Because I work nine in the morning to seven at night. I was just getting off when he walked in. Kept me here for a few more minutes. Missed my bus, didn’t I?’
‘That’s a long shift.’
Sally shrugged. She didn’t need his sympathy. ‘It’s a job.’
‘Do you know how he arrived?’
‘No. You could ask Mac-that’s Bert Mackintosh. He’s on the door five ’til twelve.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He lives in a flat down the road. Number twenty-five. Flat four. It’s only a hundred yards but I dare say he’ll be asleep now. He works late.’
Brook made to leave. Before he did, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. He handed it to the girl who was surprised and pleased. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Get yourself a drink for New Year.’
‘Thanks a lot. I will. Happy New Year to
‘Didn’t she tell you I’d be asleep?’ The man yawned and covered his mouth. Not before Brook got an eyeful of false teeth shifting slightly as his jaw distended. Mac was past sixty with a thin white pencil moustache and short cropped white hair. He had a healthy sheen to his skin and his build and general demeanour added to the impression that he kept himself fit. A military man most likely.
‘She did, Mr Mackintosh. But it’s important. And I didn’t think a military man would be lying in bed all morning.’
Mac’s eyes widened, unsure whether to be pleased that Brook had noticed his army bearing. His expression betrayed an injury. He tightened the cord of his dressing gown and waited a moment, assessing Brook and the situation. The habit of an old soldier used to giving orders. ‘When you work the hours I work, it’s the middle of the night.’ He waited for Brook’s acknowledgement that he knew he wasn’t a layabout before adding, ‘You’d better come in then, Inspector…’
‘Brook.’ He followed Mac into his two rooms, noting how the essential misery of the accommodation was kept at bay by the man’s sense of pride in his meagre surroundings.
The place was tiny and down-at-heel but spotlessly clean. The first room was a kitchenette into which the old man would have led his guest had there been space for two-it was only possible for Brook to join him in the doorway, where he leaned against the frame.
There wasn’t much in the way of amenities-a sink, a worktop over a noisy fridge, a small Baby Belling electric hob with two rings-the same model as Brook’s.
The worktop it sat on was old and warped and had been stained by the rings of hot pans lain on it over the years. A half full pan of water sat atop one of the rings. Mac took the pan to the empty stainless steel sink and doubled the amount of water from the solitary tap, before setting it down and switching on the ring.
Next to the hob was a small steel teapot with a teabag in. Mac added another. Next to the teapot was a bean-stained plate with knife and fork, neatly placed together. Mac picked it up and laid it in the sink. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘When you’re on your own…’ he shrugged.
‘Don’t worry.’
Mac nodded and busied himself with the tea. He added milk from a carton in the fridge that Brook saw was otherwise empty. The lone cupboard set back on the opposite wall had glass doors similar to the one in Brook’s kitchen. The supplies Brook could see consisted of ‘economy’ baked beans, outnumbered by dozens of tins of cat food.
For a second, Brook worried that this proud, impecunious old man had descended to getting his meat from pet food, until he heard the plaintive yowl of a cat in the room next door. At the same time he spotted the newspaper-lined litter tray on the far side of the fridge.
Mac must have seen him looking. For no other reason, he said, ‘I get most of my meals at the hotel. Go through into the other room.’
Brook stepped next door. Another small room, with a low ceiling. A bay window covered by lace curtains looked down and out over the centre of Derby, every roof slick and shiny under the brief illumination of rain and low sun.
