York fished a pen from his jacket pocket and lifted the male victim’s circumcised penis with the tip. ‘These splatters don’t belong to our John Doe.’
‘So whose then? The killer’s maybe?’
York shook his head. ‘A man who goes to this much trouble isn’t going to leave buckets of spunk lying around for us to find. These sheets haven’t been changed for a long time. Prostitutes turning tricks in here two or three times a night, you get the picture.’
She winced. ‘Charming.’
From the doorway a tentative voice entered the room. It was the young officer who’d puked in the corridor. ‘Detectives?’
Both York and Newport stood. ‘What is it, son?’ asked York.
‘Man here to see you. Claims he runs the place.’
‘Liam Grayson,’ she said to York. ‘Would you like to go and make the man’s acquaintance, or should I?’
For the hundredth time York adjusted his trilby. ‘I think we should both go. It might be less of a blow when we tell him he’s going to have to buy a new bed.’
*
The hotel office looked like something from a post-apocalyptic war film. Tiled walls and linoleum flooring, the small workspace had once been used as a kitchen maybe, but now it offered nothing but a cheap pockmarked desk, a single filing cabinet overloaded with junk, and pictures of semi-clad men bent into alphabetical positions. The hotel manager was of another persuasion it seemed.
Sitting at the desk Liam Grayson stared back at the detectives, self-satisfied leer smudged across his face. Newport didn’t like the man on sight; like she’d expected anything else. A couple of stone overweight and thinning badly on top, Grayson boasted possibly the best and definitely the worst sunbed tan she’d ever seen.
‘Mr Grayson, sorry to have dragged you from your bed so early in the –’
‘I wasn’t in bed,’ Grayson cut in. His voice was surprisingly deep.
York stayed quiet.
‘Oh,’ Newport added, ‘so where were you?’
‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Detective,’ Grayson replied, examining his ring clad fingers. ‘Exactly how many times are you going to pull this shit?’
‘Pull what, Liam?’ asked York.
The hotel manager shifted his attention. ‘Ah, the mechanic speaks.’
York’s expression didn’t alter. ‘My colleague’s name is DS Newport. I’d appreciate it if you’d answer her questions.’
‘Or?’
‘Or,’ Newport cut in, ‘I put your arse in handcuffs for impeding our investigation and drag you out into the street. Being made to look like a bitch by a woman half your size and weight’s going to sting, believe me. Especially around here.’
From the corner of her eye, she caught her partner stashing away a grin. Gone were the days when he had to fight her corner with scum like Grayson.
The manager’s smirk disappeared. The last thing he needed was to lose face in an area like this. He’d never recover, and he knew it.
‘So,’ she repeated, ‘want to try again?’
‘Look, I know what’s going on here. You’re trying to accuse me of running a brothel again. Or a drug den, whichever it is this time. I run a legitimate business. If there’s tricky stuff going on in the rooms from time to time, I don’t know about it. That’s what hotels are about, privacy. You think I give a shit if somebody offs themself in some fucked up powder frenzy? The guests don't tell and I don't listen. It's that fucking simple.’
‘Touching,’ muttered York.
‘I’m not the type, Detective.’
Newport waited a second. ‘We’re not here to accuse you of anything, mate. We’re here to inform you that there’s been a double murder in one of your rooms.’
Grayson’s orange face turned quickly grey. ‘What? Nah…this is a windup, right?’
‘No windup, sir. Room sixteen has been cordoned off for investigation.’
‘What, so they’re still here...the bodies?’ Grayson spat. ‘Where’s Danny?’
York glanced at his notepad. ‘Your night manager, Daniel Ronson? He’s at the hospital. Went into shock when he walked in on the bodies. Probably going to need some counselling.’
Grayson sat back in his seat, eyes glazed. ‘Who did this?’ he said finally. ‘You catch anyone?’
York shook his head. ‘We need to know if there's been any fresh custom around here lately? Anyone you don’t know, anybody new to the area who’s taken a room from you?’
‘New faces're coming through here all the time. Could have been any of them. What about the Paki in the shop next door, you talked to him yet? Creepy bastard doesn't miss a trick.’
‘He's being interviewed. You keep a ledger?’
‘Of course we keep a ledger, but if you were using a room here to snort coke off a pro’s tits, would you write your real name down to confirm it?’
York shrugged.
‘How about the CCTV?’ asked Newport.
‘Most of the cameras are in action,’ Grayson revealed. ‘We run a monthly hard drive before it automatically overwrites.’
The detectives gave each other a glance. Operational cameras in a place like this? Whatever next? ‘We’re going to need to see that system,’ she requested, pretending to write something down.
Liam Grayson wasn’t their man. He was way off profile. Still, now they had a potential exhibit A. They thanked him and left the office.
Out in the street, two dark Range Rover 4*4s had arrived and were parked at an angle against the curb by a couple of overflowing wheelie-bins, a sole uniform nearby. The vehicles belonged to Will Graham, the head of field forensics, and his team.
It was no secret around the station that Graham had a thing for Newport, despite her very obvious wedding band. She used to be tolerant of his advances; now she avoided him wherever possible. It had all become a little too weird.
‘Want to get some breakfast?’ York asked.
Newport checked her watch. It was a little after five-thirty. Daylight was already beginning to beat the darkness into submission, the
