finished her scrambled eggs some time ago and now the staff were clearing the tables. This wasn’t like her boss. He was old school. People of his generation never passed up a free meal. Whenever she and Hudson were away on work, he always made a point of eating a gargantuan breakfast. ‘If the taxpayer is footing the bill for this, we owe it to them to get VFM,’ he always said. Why men of a certain age associated lining their arteries with saturated fat and Value For Money was a complete mystery.
She drained her Earl Grey tea and marched to Hudson’s room, banging on the door.
‘Guv. You’ve missed breakfast,’ she said loudly. No answer. She banged again. ‘Guv!’ Still no answer. ‘It’s checkout in two hours. Are you okay?’ She rattled the handle and the door opened.
Grant pushed into the room. It was in darkness. The smell hit her first, then the faint noise from the bed. She walked over to the motionless form sprawled across the high mattress.
‘Guv,’ she said softly, reaching an arm out to rouse him.
Jason woke as usual, panting and clutching his throat. After an urgent inspection for gaping wounds his breathing began to slow and he slid his damp frame from under the moistened sheets. It was a cold morning and the sweat on Jason’s brow and chest was transformed into salty goose bumps within seconds. He pulled aside the heavy green curtain and peeked out at the winter morning. The sky was clear and blue and the ground covered in a light frost.
Jason checked his mobile. He had a text from Stinger.
‘I’m ready,’ he muttered, staring saucer-eyed at the ceiling.
Laura Grant walked quickly past the railway station back towards the Midland. The sun still shone and although it was lowering it still felt unseasonably warm.
She trotted up to the first-floor landing and opened the door to Hudson’s room.
The room was still in darkness. ‘Guv?’
This time the figure on the bed croaked out an answer. ‘That you, Laura?’
‘No, it’s Britney Spears.’
Hudson managed a chuckle before moaning long and low. ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, darlin’. My stomach can’t cope.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like death would be a blessed release.’
‘But you managed to get some sleep?’
‘Between projectile vomits and having the shits, yeah.’
‘Good.’
‘You know, I think there’s a competition going on to see which of my orifices can expel the most stuff. I could sell tickets.’
‘As long as we don’t see it in the Olympics. Here,’ she said, drawing out a paper cup from a brown paper bag.
‘What’s that?’
‘Chicken soup.’
‘No, I couldn’t, honestly.’
‘You’ve got to eat something, guv. It’s good for you.’
‘Not yet. Not after that bloody curry. Just the smell…’
‘Maybe some Lucozade?’
‘I’ll try. Leave it by the bed. Everything sorted?’
Grant nodded. ‘We’ve got the rooms until tomorrow. And I rang Maddy’s office to tell him we needed an extra day to follow something up.’
Hudson nodded minutely. ‘Fingers crossed I’ll be okay by then.’
‘You’ll be fine — this isn’t like you.’
‘I know. What will you do with yourself?’
‘I don’t know. Read a book. See a film. Maybe have an Indian.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘But we’re on exes, guv. We’ve got to fill our boots.’
Hudson sighed heavily. ‘Turn the lamp off on your way out.’
Sheriff Dupree stared at the frozen monitor then sat back so that McQuarry and Drexler could see the image of the shaven-headed man handing over money to Caleb Ashwell. ‘This is the last one. This is the only customer we can’t put a name to and the only one who left with a cup of coffee. Every other customer that day is a local I can vouch for, or paid by other means. Not this man. He paid cash.’
‘He fits. It’s 6.30 — just before Ashwell closed up for the night.’
‘And he was driving a motor home — a Dodge Ram 250.’
‘How do we know that?’ asked McQuarry.
‘Ashwell had some problem with thefts a while back,’ said Dupree. ‘That’s why they put a camera in. They also started logging all vehicle plates with a time.’
‘Did the DMV give us a name?’
‘No, because the vehicle was sold recently by a party in LA. The paperwork hasn’t caught up yet, but they’re tracing it.’
‘This guy looks the right height and build to be our hangman,’ nodded Drexler at the monitor.
‘It gets better. Watch this!’ said Dupree. He pressed the play button and the man began to move away from Ashwell. But before he turned to leave, he raised his dark eyes up to the camera and gave an imperceptible smile. Then he left, clutching a paper bag and his large Styrofoam cup of coffee.
‘What was in the bag? Rewind it,’ said McQuarry.
‘No need, I already seen. He bought one of these.’ Sheriff Dupree placed a sturdy penknife on the table. ‘Ain’t a fella in the county who don’t own one.’ Dupree smiled at them but only McQuarry understood why.
‘Am I missing something?’ asked Drexler.
Dupree picked up his penknife and pulled out the corkscrew attachment before placing the knife back on the table. ‘This is California. And in California we grow grapes.’
Drexler smiled. ‘Of course, the bottle of wine. We need to find this guy.’
‘And we need to ask him something. If he got a cup of coffee, how come he didn’t crash like the others?’
‘Only one answer, Andy,’ said McQuarry. ‘He didn’t drink it because he knew.’
Jason pulled in smoke and passed the spliff on to Grets, who pounced on it and went through the same ritual, looking round in the hope of seeing fear and disapproval from Drayfin residents peering out from their homes. But the light was fading fast and most curtains were drawn against the encroachment of the outside world. Finally exhaling, Grets pulled the bottle of Diamond White to his mouth and took another huge draw. ‘Gear, innit?’ he said.
‘Sick,’ drawled Banger, who took his turn on the dwindling joint. ‘Betcha din’t get no blow up at the fag farm, blood.’
‘Not this kinda blow,’ laughed Grets, coughing up smoke as the others screamed their approval and jostled each other to try and make a dent on the vat of hormones and cheap booze sluicing around their bloodstreams.
‘Get your hands off, you gay.’
‘Whatever, minger.’
‘You say you dun’t fancy me, pussy boy?’
‘Blatantly no way, man. If I
