I remembered the blood-covered bump I’d noticed earlier.
“And that’s what killed him?”
“Well, I hope the mutilation came afterwards, for the victim’s sake, but I don’t think so. The pathologist will let you know for sure. If already dead, the blood flow would have been heavy, but not as fierce as it would have been if the victim were still alive.
“Look.” He pointed with his pen. “The thigh’s femoral artery has been cut through. If the victim had still been alive at the time, the blood would have escaped in a spurt that might even have reached the ceiling.” The three men looked up: the high ceiling was pure white. “But, as you can see, it gushed in a great arc that reached well beyond the bed, almost as far as the wall, which suggests to me the victim’s face was cleaved first, killing him instantly, the other weapon used afterwards. The main flows have soaked the carpet, and there are splatters everywhere, some quite a distance from the general spillage, although they were probably caused by the action of the first weapon itself, sinking into the body and jerked out again with considerable force. Looks to me as if the instrument used, by the way, was a butcher’s chopper, or something similar. I’ve seen their kind of deep wounds before. Forensics will let you know for sure.”
“Whoever did this must also be covered in blood. Surely someone on the staff had to see the killer leave.”
Simmons shook his head resignedly. “Night porter and the lobby reception guy, who were still on duty, spent most of the time in the office behind the counter, saw no one suspicious and certainly no one with blood on their clothes. In fact, not one guest arrived or left.”
Coates spoke up. “There is a back entrance to the place. For staff and workmen, small deliveries, that kind of thing.”
“Unattended?” snapped Sadler.
“ ‘Fraid so,” Coates told him. “At least, some of the time. There is night security, an open cubicle near the door, but the guard on duty frequently leaves it to do his rounds.”
“Wasn’t the door locked?”
“No, Sir,” Simmons replied. “Night staff and early morning cleaners are using it all the time.”
“There has to be a bigger delivery area.”
“It’s in the basement. Heavy vehicles get to it by a ramp leading from the road outside.”
“Locked though, Sir,” added Coates. “It’s a big roll-up door and it was closed for the night. No deliveries were expected.”
Sadler considered all he had been told for a few moments, then: “Right, I want you to interview every person who was on duty during the night and early hours. No doubt the manager or the under-manager will supply a list of personnel. Question the night porter and the receptionist again. They may remember something they’ve forgotten. Oh, and the security man also. Prompt him—he might just come up with something useful.”
There were raised voices in the next-door room, the lounge area, and I thought I recognized one of them. Hurried footsteps, the rustle of my layouts from yesterday being trampled on, a sharp, “You can’t go in there,” followed by scuffling noises, and then Oliver was in the bedroom doorway.
“Oh…” is all he said, but it was an agonized sound, a soul-wrenching sound. Horror, shock, disbelief whitened his face and highlighted the few faint scattered freckles on either side of his nose. He stared at my blood-drenched remains on the bed.
“Jim…?” I heard him say in a breathless whisper.
I realized he could only assume it was me lying there.
“Who are you?” Sadler barked at him.
Another uniformed policeman was behind Oliver, holding his arm to drag him away. “I couldn’t stop him, Sir,” the annoyed policeman grumbled. “He pushed past me.”
“Leave it for a moment,” his superior ordered. The PC released his grip.
“What… what’s happened?” Oliver’s voice was hoarse now, strained, as if he could barely force the question.
One of the detectives moved towards him to block his view.
“It’s all right, Simmons,” said the chief. “Let’s hear what he’s got to say.” He addressed Oliver directly. “I’m Detective Superintendent Sadler from New Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Simmons and Detective Constable Coates. Now will you please tell me your name?”
Oliver raised both hands to his face to block out the sight on the bed. Somehow he couldn’t quite cover his eyes, though, and he continued to stare over Simmons’s shoulder through slightly spread fingers at my blood- covered carcass.
“Okay, get him back into the other room,” Sadler ordered, striding towards my distraught friend.
The uniformed policeman took him by the arm again and Simmons gently guided Oliver backwards. Sadler disappeared next door with them and I followed.
My campaign layouts, scuffed and in disarray, lay on the thick-carpeted floor and Oliver was led through them towards an armchair; he was carefully helped to sit.
“Will you tell me your name, Sir?” repeated Sadler, his voice less harsh this time, but still authoritative.
“What?” was all Oliver could utter. He was staring back at the doorway to the bedroom, but his eyes were unfocused.
“Your name,” Sadler said again.
I settled in a corner by one of the long windows as if to be unobtrusive.
“Oliver Guinane,” my copywriter managed to say.
“And do you know who the dead person in the other room is?” he was asked.
No doubt the detective superintendent knew my name already. They would have been told who occupied the suite by the management and, as Oliver was sitting in front of him, it was a fairly safe bet to assume the corpse was James True. Nevertheless he watched Oliver closely.
“It’s Jim… James True. He… he was my partner.”
“Life partner or business partner?”
Ollie’s attention was finally distracted from the open doorway and he peered up at Sadler, incomprehension masking the shock for a moment.
“Did you work together or did you live together?” the senior policeman asked patiently.
“We worked together.” Ollie was too dazed to be offended. “He was my art director. We have our own advertising agency, gtp—Guinane, True, Presswell.” He looked at the faces around him as if expecting them to know of our company. Nobody said a word, but I did notice one of the detectives, the one called Coates, give Ollie an odd look.
“We hired the suite so we could spend the weekend working on a pitch for a new client without being interrupted. We do that now and again, you know, when it’s important.”
Now he was gabbling too much. Still in shock, I assumed.
Sadler cut through it. “How do you know it’s James True lying there. The face is unrecognizable.”
Oliver cringed; the image of the chopped heap next door had almost overwhelmed him once more.
“I…” He paused, gathering himself. “It has to be Jim. It’s his room. And the clothes…”
“They’re shredded and bloodstained.”
“The shoes. Jim always wears…” He shook his head. “I mean, always wore old Nikes when we brainstormed; they were comfortable, familiar. Jim said he’d had his best ideas wearing them and it was true. They’re old and worn, but they were a good-luck kind of thing to him.”
“Despite the mess the body’s in, you managed to notice the shoes?” It was Simmons who asked the question.
“Yes. Yes. They were the only part of him that wasn’t covered in blood.”
“When did you last see Mr True?” It seemed Sadler was satisfied with the identification.
“Uh…” Oliver blinked at the senior officer. “Uh, late last night. We…” He stopped mid-sentence as if suddenly aware of the implication.
“One of the hotel staff heard loud shouts coming from this room last night,” said the detective called Coates.
“Uh, yeah. Yes, that was us.” Ollie returned his attention to the superintendent. “We had a bit of an argument. Nothing serious,” he quickly added. “Just a normal disagreement about work. Happens all the time.”
