‘I have to ask. Would John have been capable of murder?’
‘He would have hated his father being in that room with Helen, but I still don’t think he could have killed them.’
‘Sisterly love protecting you from the truth?’
‘It could be.’
‘We have reason to believe that Helen Langdon was a fraud. The more we discover, the deeper we go, we find more negative aspects of the woman. In your time with her, did you ever sense anything unusual?’
‘She was besotted by my father, that was clear, but if, as you say, she was a fraud, how much was genuine?’
‘Why the hotel room?’ Isaac said.
‘Our father strayed occasionally, but why with Helen? And what about Gerald Adamant?’
‘There’s a new investigation into his death.’
‘Is the verdict against Helen likely to be changed?’
‘That’s not our primary concern. We’re focussed on who killed your father and Helen,’ Isaac said. ‘Regardless of what or who she may have been, the two were shot in that room. We’ve focussed on Helen because she has a past, but it’s always possible that the murderer was targeting your father, and if he was, then why, and why in a hotel room? It would have been easier to kill him elsewhere.’
‘Maybe Helen being with him was the reason. Maybe they wanted to destroy his reputation by exposing him as a debaucher, not a paragon of virtue.’
‘Outside of that room, his murder would have strengthened his moral campaign, but in that room, regardless of his dying, he becomes painted as the sinner.’
‘And with Helen Langdon, the wife of Gerald Adamant, the man she killed.’
‘Whoever killed him knew what they were doing,’ Isaac said.
***
Isaac’s conversation with Linda Holden had offered him a fresh approach to the first murder investigation. He was in his office at Challis Street. The team were there.
‘James Holden’s son has committed suicide. His father’s morality campaign office has closed.’ Isaac said.
‘It’s not surprising after he’s caught in a hotel with a former stripper,’ Wendy said.
‘That’s the issue, isn’t it? The man’s reputation destroyed in an instant.’
‘Did the killer get a tip-off, two birds with one stone?’
‘Daisy knew them both. Maybe she recognised them going into the hotel, told someone. And whoever killed the two lovers killed her to tie up loose ends.’
‘Was your concierge on duty the time they were killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘We need him in here now.’
Larry left Challis Street and drove the short distance to the hotel. Inside, at reception was another person. The hotel still had the look of neglect, and a woman could be seen sneaking in with her man for the hour. ‘Is the other concierge here?’
‘The hotel fired him,’ the new concierge said. Larry looked at the man: Slavic, poor English, unpleasant look.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘He found a job around the corner. And what’s it to you?’
‘Challis Street Police Station. Detective Inspector Larry Hill, or didn’t you see my ID card when I showed it to you?’
‘I saw it. Serge, he’s a friend of mine, that’s all.’
‘Why was he fired?’
‘He was letting people into the hotel without paying.’
‘You’re doing the same from what I can see.’
‘Serge, he asks too many questions.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘The sort I don’t ask.’
‘Are you going to continue talking nonsense, or am I going to haul you down the police station?’
‘People come in here, people go out. They pay their money, sign in the book. Apart from that, I don’t care what they do, with whom, and how. That way, I keep my job and make a little extra on the side. But my friend, he’s inquisitive, wants to see what they’re up to, who’s with who. The management finds out that he’s been spying on people. They’re not happy, he’s sacked.’
‘Are you still letting the prostitutes in?’
‘As long as they pay.’
‘The management, they get a percentage of what you take?’
‘That’s the agreement.’
‘Did you know Daisy?’
‘She used to come in here occasionally.’
‘She was killed because she knew the two in room 346.’
‘I wasn’t here that night.’
‘What about the room?’
‘It’s still closed. It’s being repainted.’
‘Take me up there,’ Larry said.
‘I can’t. I’ve got to man the desk. I can give you a key.’
Larry took the key and walked up the stairs to the third floor. Outside the murder room, he paused. Down the hallway, the sound of a woman with her customer: she making the mandatory noises; he attempting to pretend it was love. It was clear the man was drunk. Larry opened the door to the murder room. In the middle of the barren room was the bed where the two had been shot. A trauma scene clean-up team had been through the room. There was no sign of what had happened, only a faint whiff of cleaning fluids. The carpet that had been on the floor had been removed, as had the mattress and the sheets. In the wardrobe, there was nothing, not even a wire coat hanger. Larry looked in the bathroom, yet again spotlessly clean. He imagined there’d be couples in the future, lying on the bed, making love, not knowing that once two others had died violently on it. Larry closed the door on his way out.
Downstairs, he gave the key to the concierge and left. No words were exchanged. It was not far to walk to where Serge, the previous concierge, was.
‘I can’t tell you any more,’ he said. Larry could see the hotel was better than the previous one, and Serge had cleaned himself up.
‘No ladies of the night?’ Larry said.
‘They’re strict here.’
‘No more peeping, no more taking money to turn a blind eye.’
The concierge did not respond to the bait. ‘I’ve told you all I know. The last
