Kevin took a gamble on Robbie Trehearne being exactly as dim as he appeared to be. ‘Not if you just show it to me.’
‘Oh. OK.’ He put the comic book down and turned the computer monitor on the desk so Kevin could also see it. His fingers flew over the keys with surprising dexterity and a page appeared on the screen, headed with the date. Only the rooms that were occupied appeared. Six rooms were listed, accompanied by names, addresses, car registrations and means of payment. Three of the six had paid cash.
‘Do you verify the information people give you when they check in?’
‘Verify it how?’
‘Like, do they have to show any ID? Do you check the registration matches the car?’
Trehearne looked at him as if he was an alien. ‘All I’m supposed to be bothered about is if the credit card works. If they want to lie about their names and addresses, who gives a shit?’
‘Yeah, why would you want to keep accurate records?’ Kevin’s sarcasm was lost on the kid.
‘Exactly. More trouble than it’s worth.’
‘Can you print me a copy anyway?’ Kevin said. ‘Do they fill in registration cards?’
‘Yeah, but we just bin them once we’ve put the details on the computer.’ He gave a smug little smirk. ‘No DNA for you tonight, Mr Copper.’
Kevin thought this was looking increasingly like the place. Anyone who’d ever been here once would know exactly how perfect the layout was and how slack their processes were. ‘I know it’s going to be hard for you to cast your mind back, Robbie, but do you remember any of the staff or the customers complaining about a room being wet underfoot? Or a really wet bathroom? Unusually wet.’
‘That’s a very fucking strange question,’ Robbie complained. ‘Like, bathrooms are full of water. Baths and showers and toilets and basins. They’re meant to be wet, you know?’
Kevin had children. He knew that you loved them unconditionally, whatever they did or said or turned out to be. But he was struggling to believe that anyone could love Robbie Trehearne. ‘I said, “unusually wet”,’ he said, struggling to keep a grip on his patience.
Robbie excavated his ear with his index finger then inspected it. ‘I don’t know what night it was, OK? But when I came on duty one teatime, Karl said did I know if anything weird had gone on in number five. Because the chambermaid said all the towels were soaking wet. Like, dripping wet. And the carpet in the room was soaked through, over by the bathroom. That what you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Kevin said, taking another look at the screen. Room 5 had been let that night for cash to someone called Larry Geitling. The name meant nothing to him. But it was a start, at least. ‘I’ll need to talk to the chambermaid.’
‘She comes on at six tomorrow morning.’
‘Tonight?’
Trehearne giggled: a soft, unnerving sound. ‘I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know her second name. Buket, that’s what we call her.’
Misunderstanding, Kevin frowned in disgust. ‘You call her “bucket”? What? Because she’s a cleaner? You can’t even be bothered to use her name?’
‘Boo-ket, not bucket. It’s her name. She’s Turkish.’ Trehearne looked delighted to get one over on Kevin. ‘I don’t have a mobile number for her. The only way you’ll get to speak to her is if you turn up when she’s working. Six till twelve, that’s her hours. Or you could maybe catch her at the carpet warehouse down the road. She cleans there eight till ten some nights.’
It wasn’t satisfactory, but there was nothing Kevin could do about it. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back. And she better be here, Robbie. Or there’ll be all sorts of trouble for you and your boss.’
35
Vance had made six stops at service stations between Leeds and Worcester. At each one, he’d bought a plastic five-litre container and filled it with petrol. At the last one, he’d gone inside the main concourse building and bought a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. On the outskirts of Worcester, he slipped out of the heavy early evening traffic and booked into an anonymous motel. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Tired people made mistakes, but that was something Vance couldn’t tolerate in himself.
The receptionist barely glanced at him, so engrossed was she in a conversation with a colleague. ‘Breakfast is half past six till ten,’ she intoned automatically as she handed him a plastic oblong. ‘Your key works the lights, you put it in the slot by the door.’ Another novelty, Vance thought.
In the room, he drew the curtains, kicked off his shoes and undressed to his Calvin Kleins. He slipped between the sheets and turned the TV on to a news channel. The double murder made the second item on the news after the latest uprising in the Arab world. No ID yet, of course. A copper with a dense Yorkshire accent talked of tragedy and lines of inquiry. In other words, Vance thought, they had absolutely nothing on him. There would be forensics, of course. He hadn’t bothered to cover his trail. He didn’t mind them knowing he was responsible. What mattered was staying ahead of the game so he could complete his agenda before he left the country.
His own headline came towards the tail of the bulletin. He was, apparently, still on the loose after his daring jailbreak. The police officer they’d wheeled out in front of the camera looked furious to be there. He was a big guy with a shaved skull, skin the colour of strong tea and shoulders that bulged tight under his suit. He looked like he was better suited to sorting out a closing-time brawl than solving anything that needed finesse and intelligence. If that was all he had to contend with, Vance wasn’t too worried about being recaptured.
He set the alarm on his phone then closed his eyes for the nap that would leave him prepared for his next act of revenge. When he woke up, it was dark outside, the night a grimy grey with low cloud blocking the sky and greasy rain on the window. Vance took out the laptop and pulled up a set of camera views. The substantial Edwardian villa still showed no sign of life. It was what he expected. The bastard who lived there had more than enough going on to keep him busy right now. But it was always better to be careful.
He wondered what was happening back at the barn. The police investigation should be well under way by now. He’d save that for later, though. He wanted to crack on with his remaining task for the day. Vance pulled on a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, then headed for the car.
