It was, at least, a shithole with en suite facilities. Altogether, seven of them in the room. Eight, if you counted the corpse.
Thorne's gaze was dragged reluctantly across to the chalk-white figure of the man on the bed. The body was nude and lay on the bare mattress, the spots of blood joining stains of less obvious origin on the threadbare and faded ticking. The hands were tied with a brown leather belt and pushed out in front of him as he lay, prostrate, his knees pulled up beneath him, his backside in the air. His head, which was covered in a black hood, was pressed down into the sagging mattress.
Thorne watched as Phil Hendricks moved along the bed, lifted the head and turned it. He slowly removed the hood. From behind, Thorne saw his friend's shoulders stiffen for an instant, heard the small, sharp intake of breath before he laid the head back down. As a SOCO moved across to take the hood and drop it into an exhibits bag, Thorne took a step forward so that he could see the face of the dead man clearly.
His eyes were closed, his nose small and slightly upturned. The side of the face was dotted with pinprick-size bloodspots. The mouth was a mask of dried gore, the lips ragged, the whole hideous mess criss-crossed with spittle strings. The stained, uneven teeth were bared and had gnawed through the bottom lip as the ligature had tightened around the neck.
Thorne guessed that the man was somewhere in his late thirties. It was just a guess.
From somewhere above them, Thorne became aware of a rumble suddenly dying – a boiler switching itself off. Stifling a yawn, he looked up, watched cobwebs dancing gracefully around the plaster ceiling rose. He wondered if the other residents would care too much about their morning hot water when they found out what had happened in Room Six.
Thorne took a pace towards the bed. Hendricks spoke without looking round.
'Bar the fact that he's dead, I know bugger all, so don't even ask. All right?'
'I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Phil, and how are you?'
'Right, I see. Like you only came over here for a fucking chinwag…?'
'You are such a miserable sod. What's wrong with exchanging a few pleasantries? Trying to make all this a bit easier?'
Hendricks said nothing.
Thorne leaned over to scratch at his ankle through the bodysuit.
'Phil…'
'I told you, I don't know. Look for yourself. It seems pretty obvious how he died, but it's not that simple. There's… other stuff gone on.'
'Right. Thanks…'
Hendricks moved back a little and nodded towards one of the SOCO's, who moved quickly towards the bed, picking up a small toolbox as he went, The officer knelt down and opened the box, revealing a display of dainty, shining instruments. He took out a small scalpel and leaned across, reaching towards the victim's neck. Thorne watched as the SOCO pushed a plastic-covered finger down between the ligature and the neck, struggling to get any purchase. From where Thorne was standing, it looked like washing line, the sort of stuff you can get in any hardware shop. Smooth, blue plastic. He could see just how tightly it was biting into the dead man's neck. The officer took his scalpel and carefully cut away the line in such a way as to preserve the knot that was gathered at the back of the neck. This was, of course, basic procedure. Sensible and chilling. They'd need it to compare with any others they might find. Thorne glanced across at Dave Holland who raised his eyebrows and turned up his palms. What's happening? How long? Thorne shrugged. He'd been there more than' an hour already. He and Holland had been over the room, taking notes, bagging a few things up, getting a feel of the scene. Now it was the technicians' turn and Thorne hated the wait. It might have made him feel better, were he able to put his impatience down to a desire to get stuck in. He wished he could say, honestly, that he was itching to begin doing his job, to kick off the process that might one day bring this man's killer to justice. As it was, he just wanted to do what had to be done quickly, and get out of that room. He wanted to strip off the plastic suit, get in his car and drive away. Actually, if he were being really honest with himself, he would have had to admit that only part of him wanted that. The other part was buzzing. The part that knew the difference between some murder scenes and others; that was able to measure these things. Thorne had seen the victims of enraged spouses and jealous lovers. He had stared at the bodies of business rivals and gangland grasses. He knew when he was looking at something out of the ordinary.
This was a significant murder scene. This was the work of a killer driven by something special, something spectacular. The room stank of hatred and of rage. It also stank of pride. Hendricks, as if reading Thorne's mind, turned to him, half smiling.
'Just another five minutes, OK? I'm not going to get anything else here…'
Thorne nodded. He looked at the dead man on the bed – the position of him, as if he were paying homage. Had it not been for the belt, for the livid red furrow that circled his neck, for the thin lines of blood that ran down the backs of his pale thighs, he might have been praying. Thorne guessed that at the end, he probably had been. The room was hot. Thorne raised an arm to rub a sore eye and felt the tickle as a drop of sweat slid down his ribs then took a sudden, sharp turn across his belly.
Down below, a frustrated driver leaned on his horn… Thorne was not even aware that he'd closed his eyes and when he heard a phone ring, he snapped them open, convinced for a few wonderful moments that he'd woken suddenly from a bad dream. He turned, a little disorientated, and saw Holland standing next to the bedside table. The phone was an off-white seventies model, the dial cracked, the grimy handset visibly jumping in its cradle. Thorne was now fully alert but he was still somewhat confused. Was this a call for them? Was it police business? Or was it possible that whoever was down at what passed for a reception desk had not been told what was happening and had put a caller through from the outside? Having met one or two of the staff, Thorne could well believe that even knowing exactly what had happened, they might still be dim enough to put a call through to the occupant of Room Six. If that was the case, it would certainly be a stroke of luck…
Thorne moved towards the ringing phone. The rest of the team stood frozen, watching him.
The victim's clothes – it had to be presumed they were the victim's lay strewn about the floor nearby. Trousers – minus their belt – and underpants were next to the chair. Shirt, crumpled into a ball. One shoe under the bed, up near the headboard. The brown corduroy jacket, slung across the back of a chair next to the bed, had contained no personal items. No wallet, no bus tickets, no crinkled photographs. Nothing that might help identify the dead man… Thorne did not know if the phone had already been dusted for fingerprints, and he had no time to check. He reached out to grab a plastic evidence bag from the fat, babyish SOCO and wrapped it around his hand. He held the hand up, wanting silence. He didn't need to ask.
He took a breath and picked up the receiver. 'Hello…?'
'Oh… hi.' A woman's voice.
Thorne locked eyes with Holland. 'Who did you want to speak to?' He was holding the phone an inch or so away from his ear. and didn't hear the answer properly. 'Sorry, it's not a very good line, could you shout up?'
'Is that any good?'
'That's great.' Thorne tried to sound casual. 'Who do you want to speak to?' '
'Oh… I'm not really sure, actually…'
Thorne looked at Holland again and shook his head. Fuck. It wasn't going to be that easy. 'Who am I talking to?'
'Sorry?'
'Who are you?'
There was a short pause before she spoke. The voice was suddenly a little tighter. Confident though, and refined. 'Listen, I don't want to sound rude, but it was somebody there who called me. I don't particularly want to give out…'
'This is Detective Inspector Thorne from the Serious Crime Group
…'
A pause. Then: 'I thought I was calling a hotel…'
'You have called a hotel. Could you please give me your name?' He looked across at Holland, puffed out his cheeks. Holland was poised, notebook in hand, looking utterly confused.
'You could be anybody,' the woman said.
'Listen, if it makes you happier, I can call you back. Better still, let me give you a number to call so you can
