CHAPTER ONE
Even up here, the thump of the disco was inescapable. She paused on the stairs, feeling weary, wondering whether she'd get any sleep tonight. It was nearly ten, and they'd said the music would stop at midnight. But her room was directly over the function suite, and in the mild autumn night the guests had spilled into the small garden at the rear of the hotel, smoking, chatting, drinking. When she'd left the party, the rest had been showing no signs of calling it a night.
She wasn't even sure why she'd come. She'd known hardly anyone other than the bride and groom, and they'd been too busy to offer much beyond an over-enthusiastic hug and cry of apparent joy when she'd first arrived at the reception. They'd had a brief chat about the old days later, but then the couple had disappeared into the crowd of well-wishers and that had pretty much been that.
She'd hoped some of the old crowd would be there, but—apart from a Sergeant who'd briefly been her boss back in Cheetham and whom she'd disliked even at the time—there'd been no-one she recognised. During the dinner, she found herself seated between two aged great-aunts of the bride, who both seemed, understandably enough, to be more interested in chatting to their own relatives than to her. Later, she'd made the effort to track down the Sarge, just to say hello for form's sake, but he'd no real idea who she was, so she'd quickly left him at the table with his wife and teenage son. And that, until the last fifteen minutes or so, had been the sum total of her social interaction across the evening.
Maybe she'd hoped to meet someone. It shouldn't have been impossible, after all. She was only in her thirties, not unattractive. At home, the problem was that, other than traipsing to and fro to work, she hardly ever got out of her flat. There'd been the odd night out with the girls, but those were fewer and further between as her friends became entrenched in their own marriages, relationships and families. She'd considered internet dating but lacked the courage to give it a shot. So the days dragged on. She didn't feel lonely exactly, and in some respects she was quite content with her solitary existence, but she did sometimes feel that life should have something more to offer.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd harboured the vague fantasy that someone here tonight might take an interest in her, chat her up, maybe want to see her again. She hadn't seriously expected it would happen, but—well, you never knew, did you?
Except, of course, that you did, really. It had almost happened tonight, or at least for a short while she'd allowed herself to think it might. She'd been standing at the bar, risking one more glass of the bland red wine they'd been serving all evening when she'd heard the voice behind her. 'Let me get that.'
It wasn't much of an offer given that the bar was free for the evening, but she'd supposed it was intended as a gesture. She turned and found herself facing a good-looking man, a year or two older than herself. He seemed vaguely familiar but she couldn't think from where. 'Thanks.'
He ordered himself a lager, and, leading them away from the bar, turned his attention properly on her. The effect was electrifying. This was a man who knew how to impress a woman. It wasn't just that he was decent-looking—though he was and he knew it. It was more that he focused entirely on her. Even though they'd met only seconds before he made her feel as if, in that instant, she was the only thing that mattered to him. She didn't know if it was natural or some form of practised trick, but its impact was undeniable.
'Bride or groom?' he said. 'Or both?'
'What?' The bar was in an ante-room outside the function suite where the disco was in full swing but the noise was still substantial.
'Who do you know? Bride or groom?'
'Oh. The bride, really. I used to work with her years ago. We were best mates in those days, which I suppose is why she invited me. But we haven't seen each other properly for years. What about you?'
'Groom, really. We were workmates, too. Until a few years ago.'
She looked him up and down. Now she thought about it, he looked like a copper. Not too obviously and one of the newer breed, but the signs were there. CID, she guessed, rather than uniform. 'In the force?'
He smiled and tapped his nose theatrically. 'Sort of. But if I told you, I'd have to kill you.' His tone suggested that he was perhaps not entirely joking.
Maybe Special Branch, she thought. Not a line to pursue, anyway. 'Fair enough,' she said. 'I won't ask, then.'
'What about you?' he said, sipping his beer. 'Police, too?'
'Police staff,' she said. 'Intelligence officer. Out in Bolton now.'
His eyes widened slightly. 'Right. Heading back tonight?'
She wondered whether she could sense the way his mind was working. 'Staying over. Didn't want to be racing for the last train.'
'Staying with friends?' The question was asked casually but it partially confirmed her suspicions.
'No, staying here.' There was no point in lying, she told herself. She realised she didn't know quite what response she was hoping for.
He nodded slowly, as if considering his options. 'Well, that's nice,' he said, finally. 'Very nice.'
She wasn't entirely sure what he was referring to. 'It's not a bad old place,' she said. 'And it was too much trouble to head off anywhere else.' She knew she was rambling, waiting for him to make whatever pitch he was planning.
Instead he looked up and past her. It was as if he'd flicked a switch and turned off the full-beam charm he'd been directing towards her. 'Well, it's been good to meet you,' he said, but she felt he was already talking to someone else.
She followed his gaze and saw an attractive dark-haired woman standing at the door to the function suite. The woman, who looked to be barely in her twenties, was gazing round the room, looking for someone. It wasn't hard to guess who that someone might be.
'And you,' she said, allowing a trace of acid into her tone. 'Don't let me delay you.'
He turned back towards her and for a moment she felt a residual trace of that extraordinary personal charm. 'Look, sorry. That's the trouble with things like this. Always too many people you have to talk to.'
That hadn't exactly been her experience, but she made no response.
He hesitated a second longer, and then fished in his jacket pocket for his wallet. As he turned away, he discreetly slipped a business card into her hand. 'Would be good to meet properly some time. I'm London-based at the moment, but I spend a lot of time up here. Give me a call on the mobile.' His tone suggested he had little doubt she'd take him up on the offer.
She watched him make his way through the crowded bar, not directly towards the young woman but as if he'd been approaching from another direction. A practised two-timer, then.
Her first reaction was to tear up the business card and drop it into the empty beer glass he'd left on the table beside her. But she paused a second too long and turned it over. Not Special Branch, but the National Crime Agency. The logo. A PO Box address. A mobile and a landline number. And his name. Jack Brennan. Along the bottom of the card it said: 'Not to be taken as proof of identity.' Well, no, she thought, that was the point of business cards. You gave them to other people.
She knew she'd never call him. Even so, she'd taken her purse from the pocket of the smart jacket she'd bought especially for tonight and slid the card inside.
She hadn't wanted to stay after that. Nothing else was going to happen, however long she stayed. She'd left the bar and made her way up the wide stairs to the first floor. Up here, she could no longer discern the song playing in the disco, but could still feel the repetitive pulse of the bass pounding through the building.
At the top of the stairs, as she turned down the corridor towards her room, she felt a sudden unease. She never liked staying in hotels by herself. As a solitary woman, she felt vulnerable, conscious that hotel staff and others might have access to duplicate keys or the keycard system. And there were moments like this, walking down a deserted corridor at night, not knowing who might be behind each of these doors she passed.
She turned the corner and for a moment her heart almost stopped. A figure was standing in the middle of the corridor, blocking her way.
It took her a panicked moment to register that the figure was another woman. A dark-haired woman, shorter and slighter than herself. And, she realised, somewhat the worse for wear.
The woman looked around, apparently baffled. 'Trying to find my room,' she slurred. ' 'S gone …' She looked back and laughed. 'They've moved it, the bastards. While I was having a drink …'
'What's the number?' There was no choice but to help. The woman looked as if she wouldn't be able to make it downstairs again.
'This—' The woman held up her key. The hotel was old-fashioned enough not yet to have adopted an electronic system.
'That's down the other corridor. At the far end. You've come the wrong way. Do you want me to walk you down there?'
The drunken woman looked affronted. 'Can find my way, now I know where the bastards have moved it to.' Then she paused. 'Well, maybe jus' to the end of the corridor …'
'No problem.' She stood back and allowed the woman to stumble past her, following cautiously as the woman stumbled across the landing, at one point veering dangerously close to the head of the stairs. She stood at the end of the corridor, watching as the woman weaved unsteadily away from her. As she reached the corner of the corridor, the woman turned to wave goodnight, but then lost balance and tumbled sideways, disappearing from sight.
'Shit.' She knew she couldn't just leave the woman without checking she was all right. It wouldn't take a minute, and the worse that could happen was that she'd be told to bugger off. Taking a breath, she began to walk along the corridor. 'Shit,' she muttered again. 'A perfect end to a perfect sodding night.'
***
That was the point at which he knew.
He hadn't even been sure why they were there. A city break, his wife had called it. Kenny Murrain lived and worked in a city, all day and every day. He had no idea why he might want to visit another one, even for a weekend. Not even an overseas city, where some things might be different, where they might have pastries for breakfast or dine late into the evening. Just another rainy part of the same rainy country, full of the same desperate-looking stag and hen parties. Young people pretending to enjoy themselves. Why would he want that?
That was what he'd told his wife, only at greater length. As always Eloise had laughed and made the arrangements anyway.
It had turned out all right, though Murrain wasn't about to say so. The city had been sufficiently different to pique his interest. A cathedral. Walls and ruins that pre-dated the modern urban sprawl. Some winding streets with a scattering of independent shops selling over-priced gifts only bought by people visiting on city breaks. A decent secondhand bookshop where Murrain had wasted an hour while Eloise enjoyed a coffee and cake without his company. She'd coped comfortably with his absence, but, then, she'd had plenty of practice.
He'd been right about the stags and hens but they'd been no problem, other than cluttering up the hotel bar with their early evening pre-loading. He and Eloise had eaten in a pleasant little bistro and an upmarket Chinese place on their two nights, and retired to bed replete with food and wine, ready to enjoy a sound sleep and, in due course, a full English from the breakfast buffet. There'd been pastries too, if Murrain had wanted them, but that had been only a debating point, as Eloise had known only too well after all these years.
Murrain was an early riser, his body clock disrupted beyond repair by years of unsocial shifts. He woke both mornings at the stroke of six, no alarm needed. The first morning he'd lain awake, enjoying the peace and silence and the knowledge that, for once, he had no commitments for the day ahead other than to spend time with Eloise, who snored softly beside him.
The second morning was the same, except this time he woke with a vague, but nonetheless definite, sense that he'd been disturbed by something other than his own internal timepiece.
He lay on his back, listening, wondering what might have disturbed his sleep on this grey Sunday morning. His pre-ordered copy of the Observer being tossed against the hotel-room door? The rippling peal of the cathedral bells?
Screaming.
Distant, faint. But unmistakable. The sound of a woman screaming.
He climbed silently out of bed in his pyjamas, trying to work out the source of the sound. He pressed his ear against the door, but the screams were no louder. He pulled back the curtains and peered out into the dull, misty morning. The room looked out over a rear garden, the metallic strip of the river beyond. There was no sign of anything or anyone moving out there.
He gazed back into the room. It was a modern hotel, a concrete edifice at the edge of the city centre. The room was a haze of pastel shades, instantly forgettable pictures, a duvet-cover in the chain's corporate colours. There was a flat-screen TV, several unused cupboards, a kettle, a bowl of teabags and coffee sachets, a satirically expensive minibar.
Finally, Murrain realised that the noise was emanating from the heating unit. He pressed his ear against the vent and the sound grew louder. The unit must be part of some hotel-wide central heating system. The sounds were being conveyed along the piping from some other part of the hotel.
He stepped over to shake Eloise's shoulder. 'El?'
She was a light sleeper herself. She turned over and blinked at him, dazzled by the morning light. 'Uh?' She hoisted herself up on her elbow and peered at her watch. 'You know it's six o'clock in the morning? I thought we had a deal. In perpetuity. I put it in the wedding vows. Love. Honour. Let me sodding sleep. Are you looking for a divorce?' This was, after all, only their fifteenth year of marriage.
'Can you hear that, El?' He waved his hand towards the heating unit.
'You woke me to say the heating's noisy? Thanks.' She began to roll back over in bed. 'I'll be consulting a solicitor as soon as I wake up. Which, for the avoidance of doubt, won't be for at least a couple of hours.'
'No, listen.'
She realised he was serious, and sat up in bed. 'What?'
'Listen.'
She listened, craning her head towards the unit. 'It's a baby crying.'
'No, it isn't. It's a woman screaming. I'm sure of it.'
'It's a baby, Ken. They cry. It's not something you'll have experienced.' That was a familiar jibe, only half-serious like everything she said. She'd long forgiven his extended absences during Joe's babyhood, but she wasn't ever going to let him forget it.
He pressed his head to the unit again. 'It's a woman. It's a woman screaming.' He looked back up at her, his eyes showing the odd, childlike bewilderment that was one of the things she loved about him. Here he was, this big bulky thug of a man, twenty-five years a copper, his face permanently less than half an hour away from six o'clock shadow, his whole clumsy frame looking as if it might crush you without even realising. At moments like this he looked like a lost toddler.
'What can you do?' she said. 'Even if you're right. Which you're not. It's a big hotel. The sound could be coming from anywhere.'
'I could report it at reception,' he said.
'Report what? That somewhere, in some room, some woman might be screaming. For some reason. If it's not just a baby. Which it is.'
He was still crouched by the wall, straining his ears. But the sound had ceased. He hadn't even registered its stopping. Now there was nothing but silence.
And that was when he knew.
That he had been right. That it was real. That it had happened.
But not here.
CHAPTER TWO
'Excuse me—'
By now, she knew they'd forgotten about her. The interview had been scheduled for forty minutes ago, and they'd just left her here kicking her heels. There was no telephone and, without a security pass, no way back into the heart of the building. No-one had emerged to offer an apology, let alone a cup of coffee. Until now, other than the receptionist who'd shown her in, she'd seen no sign of human life.
'Excuse me—'
She'd caught sight of his head bobbing past the door of the meeting room where the receptionist had left her. She hurried out into the stairwell in time to see the secured door slam shut behind the man. With mounting irritation, she rapped sharply on the door's glass panel but the man continued walking away from her, oblivious to her presence.
Well, bugger them, then.
She hadn't even been sure she wanted to be here in the first place. She'd only come as a favour to her boss who was keen to keep on the right side of the local force. Let's show willing, he'd said. You never know when we might want them to scratch our backs in return.
The truth, of course, was that he wanted rid of her. Not because he didn't rate her abilities—though she'd no real idea whether he did or not—but simply because she was a supernumerary who was draining his staffing budget. He'd been landed with her after last year's game of organisational pass-the-parcel, and now he was looking for a gentle way to off-load her.
For her part, she was equally keen to move on, but only in the right direction. She'd been messed about enough over the last year. According to her file, she was an exemplary officer with a strong track-record and a commendation for her last major assignment. But that hadn't translated into the career progression she might once have expected. She wasn't surprised. Whistleblowers are always praised at the time and then treated as an embarrassment afterward. Your colleagues don't quite trust you and the top brass resent you exposing their failings.
Since her return from the field, she'd been moved from non-job to non-job, and had been left standing when the music finally stopped. So she wanted out, and soon. But probably not to a place where they couldn't be bothered even to acknowledge her presence.
Deciding to cut her losses, she picked up her coat and handbag and walked back out into the stairwell. She just wanted to leave now but even that option seemed denied her. She could make her way down these back-stairs in the hope of finding an exit but the stairway was marked 'Emergency Exit Only' so the chances were that she'd find another secured door down there. The thought of setting off an alarm as she exited was tempting, but perhaps only as a last resort.
She fumbled in her bag for the copy of the e-mail. The note included the name of the officer she was supposed to meet but no contact number. She waited a moment longer, staring through the door panel down the deserted corridor, and then pulled out her mobile and dialled Greater Manchester Police's public non-emergency number.
'Police. How can I help you?'
'Please could you connect me to DCI Murrain.' She gave the name of the building in which she was standing.
'Can I ask what it's in connection with?'
'It's a confidential matter. But it is rather urgent.'
'And can I say who's calling?'
She bit back her irritation. 'My name's Marie Donovan. He should recognise it.' But probably won't, she added silently.
'Please hold—'
There was a burst of anonymous music and then, much quicker than she'd expected, a voice said: 'Murrain's phone.'
'Is he available, please?'
'I'm afraid he's out at the moment. Can I take a message?'
Out. 'I was due to see him for an interview at eleven. Marie Donovan.'
'Ah. Right. Well, don't worry if you've been delayed. Kenny—DCI Murrain—is actually out of the office at the moment—'
'I haven't been delayed. I'm here. I've been here since ten forty-five.'
There was silence at the other end of the line. 'Oh. I see. And where's here exactly?'
'I'm not sure exactly,' she said. 'I'm in a meeting room off a back stairwell on the fourth floor. I was shown in here by the receptionist when I arrived. I've not seen anyone since and I can't get out of here because the doors back into the building are secured.'
She could hear a noise at the other end of the phone. The sound, she guessed, of someone scrabbling through papers on a desk. Distantly, she heard a voice say: 'Christ, bloody typical—' Then, speaking into the phone, the voice continued: 'Look, I'm really sorry. I'll come and find you. Don't move.'
As if I could, she thought. Through the door panel, she saw movement at the far end of the corridor. Then there was a tall, slightly gangling figure hurrying towards her. Finally, the door opened. 'Marie?'
She resisted looking around, as if there might be a crowd of visitors behind her. 'Yes, that's me.'
He held out a hand, with the air of a puppy demonstrating a newly-learned trick. 'DI Milton. Joe. Look, Christ, I'm sorry about all this—'
'I'm just relieved I've managed to escape,' she said. 'Thought I'd be stuck here all night.'
'Yes, I know. Bloody stupid, these meeting rooms, aren't they? It's always a pain when we have external visitors. They can't even visit the loo unaccompanied.' He stopped, embarrassed.
'Luckily, I hadn't reached that stage,' she said.
'Let me take you back through,' Milton said, after an awkward pause. 'I can at least get you a coffee.'
She followed him down the corridor and across another stairwell, then into a large open-plan office. There were five desks, all apparently in use, but the room was deserted except for the two of them.
'You were lucky, actually,' Milton said. 'Five minutes later and all you'd have got in here would have been voicemail.'
Donovan looked around the untidy office. 'Busy morning?'
'We've just had a call-out,' Milton said. 'I was delayed in another meeting. That's why I was still here.' He was in the corner of the office, where there was a small sink, a kettle and a compact fridge. 'Coffee?'
'If you've time,' she said. 'I don't want to keep you.'
'They won't miss me for fifteen minutes. Every other bugger's out there. It's a big one, this.' He filled the kettle and put it on to boil. 'You're from the Agency, is that right?' For a moment, she wondered if he thought she was a temp but then he went on: 'Looking to get back to real police work, eh?'
'Well—'
'Only joking. We've had good relationships with you lot, on the whole. But why would you want a secondment to a dump like this?'
She was beginning to find his enthusiasm mildly contagious. He seemed likeable enough, with his slightly ungainly manner, brimming with energy. 'It's been suggested that it might be a good development opportunity,' she said.
'Ah. Got up someone's nose, have you?'
'Something like that.'
He looked at her more closely. His face was slightly too narrow, she thought, as if it had been gently compressed from both sides. 'Marie Donovan,' he said, after a moment. 'I hadn't made the link. Oh, yes, you must have got up quite a few people's noses.'
'I think it depends who you talk to.'
'I'm sure.' He was spooning coffee into two mugs and pouring on the hot water. 'Don't get me wrong,' he said. 'I'm with you all the way. And I'm sure everyone knows you did the right thing. But it doesn't always win you friends.'
'Glad to know my reputation goes before me,' she said.
'Look, sorry, I didn't mean—'
'That's OK. I know you didn't.' She nodded as he offered milk, and then took the mug from him gratefully. It felt as if she'd been stuck in the meeting room for much longer than an hour. 'I'm used to it, anyway. It's better when people say something. Most of my current colleagues just avoid the subject. And me, if they can.'
'So what do you think about being seconded over here?' He spoke as if it was a done deal. Maybe he knew something she didn't.
'I'm open to offers,' she said. 'If the price is right.'
He laughed and sat down opposite her. 'I wouldn't get your hopes up here, then.' He took a sip of his coffee, then said: 'Sorry about this morning. It's not my place to apologise on Kenny's behalf. But he'll be mortified he forgot your appointment. He's got a brain like a sieve for things like that, but his heart's in the right place.'
'Is it?' She didn't feel quite ready to forgive DCI Murrain just yet.
He considered that. 'Well, mostly. Though his amnesia can be usefully selective as well.'
'You think he forgot my interview on purpose?'
'No, I'm sure he didn't. Well, almost sure. But stuff like that doesn't figure high on his agenda. In fairness, whoever was on reception should have done more than just left him a voicemail. Kenny's not great at checking his messages at the best of times. And this morning must have been frantic.'
'What's the call-out?' she said. 'Must be a big deal if it's emptied the office.'
'The biggest,' Milton said. 'Body found in a hotel in Stockport. Young woman, apparently. Particularly nasty killing.'
'Definitely a killing?'
'Looks like it. It would take some dedication to do that much damage to yourself, whatever your state of mind.' He looked pointedly at his watch. 'Are you in a hurry to get back?'
'Not particularly. Think they're glad to see the back of me for a few hours. Why?' She wondered, an uncomfortable second too late, whether he was about to invite her to lunch.
'It's just that I've really got to get over there. To the hotel. Wondered if you felt like coming. Give you a chance to see us in action.'
Not exactly lunch, then, she thought. 'Won't I be in the way?'
'We'll probably all be in the way at this stage,' he said. 'Tripping over each other till Kenny sorts us out. But it's not like you're just a member of the public, is it?'
'I still have my warrant card, actually.'
'There you go, then. I'm sure Kenny will be delighted to see you.'
I'm sure, she thought. The woman whose appointment he forgot. Just the way to get on the right side of your new boss.
It struck her, with a slight start of surprise, that she was already coming to accept the idea of transferring over here. She hadn't even met Murrain yet, and he'd hardly given her the best first impression. She'd met none of the team except Milton. Even so, she was somehow feeling more at home here than she had for a long while.
'OK,' she said. 'Let's go and meet DCI Murrain. If you're sure he'll be delighted to see me.'
'I can't think of anything he'd want more,' Milton said, swallowing the last of his coffee. 'Well, apart from a recently murdered corpse. And he's already got that.'
***
Even before he walked through the doors, Murrain knew this was the one. There was something about the atmosphere, the feel of the place. He stood for a moment in the car-park, ignoring the uniforms, the members of his own team, the scurrying SOCOs, and stared up at the louring building, the blank windows. Something about the place, or about what had happened here, but of course he had no idea what.
'Kenny.' Neil Ferbrache, one of the Senior SOCOs, was stowing some part of his box of tricks back into his white van. 'You're the lucky bugger who pulled this one, then? Congratulations.'
'Lovely morning for it.' It was a fine early autumn morning, with a cloudless sky but the year's first chill in the air.
'Never a good day for something like this,' Ferbrache said, darkly. 'Lads are just finishing off upstairs, then it's all yours.'
'No rush,' Murrain said, knowing it wasn't true. 'I'll just enjoy the fresh air.'
'Make the most of it. Not much fresh in there.' Ferbrache was notorious for his lugubrious manner. It went with the territory, Murrain reckoned, and in Ferbrache's case it was accompanied by a deadpan wit, demonstrated to best effect after a few pints. 'I'll talk you through it once I've finished packing up.'
Murrain stood back to allow Ferbrache to continue stacking equipment in the back of the van. Ferbrache was a stickler for good order—something else that went with the territory—and there was no point in interrupting until he was satisfied that everything was in its place.
It was a sound approach, Murrain thought, gazing round. The spacious car-park was thronged with badly-parked vehicles—a couple of squad cars presumably driven by the uniforms who'd been first on the scene, an ambulance with its blues silently pulsing, the SOCO van, and a scattering of other cars. Murrain himself had driven past the cluster of vehicles abandoned outside the main entrance and parked neatly alongside a row of cars that most likely belonged to hotel residents or staff. He was never irritated by others' disorganisation, but he preferred to maintain his own sense of order. Apart from anything else, it deflected attention from the more eccentric aspects of his character.
He returned his attention to the hotel itself. His initial frisson had long passed, and he felt more able to observe it objectively. He knew the hotel by reputation. It was a respectable enough place, if a little past its best. The sort of place that was frequented in the week by business travellers looking for somewhere inexpensive and reliable at this end of Stockport, and at the weekend by young couples or groups up here for the football or concerts in Manchester, with a scattering of wedding receptions over the summer. As far as Murrain was aware, unlike some of its counterparts on the Manchester side of town, this place normally held no particular interest for the police.
Ferbrache slammed shut the rear doors of the van. 'That's me sorted. I'll go and chivvy up the others.'
'What's the story, Neil? Only got the bare minimum from the control room. Stabbing?'
'Young woman. Late twenties or early thirties, I'd guess. Multiple stab wounds. A pretty frenzied attack. Attacked from the rear, as best I can judge before we've done any proper analysis. Taken by surprise, I'd say. Likely she was sitting down. Wearing only a dressing gown.'
'Someone staying with her, then?'
'Seems likely. Or one of them was visiting, if you get my drift.' He paused. 'No other clothes in the room, including anything else of hers. Looks like everything was cleared out.'
Murrain raised an eyebrow. 'Room booking will be interesting, then. Anything else?'
'Lots of blood. Lots and lots.'
'All the victim's?'
'I'd say so, but that's just an educated guess for now.'
'Prints? DNA?'
'Thousand and one prints,' Ferbrache said. 'Strikes me the cleaners aren't as thorough as they might be. We took any decent ones we could find. DNA? Christ knows. We'll see what we can get from the dressing gown and the body, along with the bedding, and we've taken samples wherever seemed sensible. We'll let you know.'
'Thanks, Neil. I'm sure you've done everything possible.' Murrain sighed. 'OK, let's go and see the damage.' He gestured to the members of the team clustered by the entrance. 'Let's get the show on the road, people. We'll see what's going on, then decide who does what.'
He followed Ferbrache into the hotel lobby. The building was probably Edwardian, maybe once an upmarket family villa. There would have been gardens at the back that had been sold off over the years, allowing other housing gradually to encroach.
He paused for a moment in the spacious lobby and looked around, trying to recapture the feeling he'd had when he'd first driven into the car park. But it was gone, and there was no point in chasing it. This was nothing more than an attractive, well-proportioned room, with a substantial dark-wood reception desk to his left, a comfortable-looking sofa and armchairs to the right, and a thickly carpeted flight of stairs ascending ahead of him. Cosy, he thought.
A worried-looking young man was sitting behind the reception desk, peering balefully at the comings and goings. The manager, presumably. Murrain nodded to him and smiled. 'We'll need to talk to you,' he called. The man nodded, not obviously reassured by this prospect.
The room was on the first floor, at the end of a corridor now sealed with Incident tape. Ferbrache led them to the door and, gently pushing it open, peered inside. 'How we doing, lads? Got the amateurs here now.' He was, as Murrain knew well, only half-joking. 'Easiest if you stay out here for the moment, unless you want to get suited up,' he said to Murrain. 'They've still got stuff to bag up.'
Murrain peered past him into the room, where the white suited SOCOs were still actively finishing off—taking photographs, collecting samples, sorting items into evidence bags. The room might politely be described as compact, he thought—little more than a rectangular box with odd proportions, suggesting that a large original room had at some point been sub-divided. There was a double bed, a small dressing table topped with a kettle and hospitality tray, a couple of bedside cabinets, and, on the wall opposite the door, a built-in wardrobe. A door on the left presumably led into an en-suite bath or shower room, and a too-large window on the right gave a view out over adjacent houses.
The body was visible from the door, lying on the floor in front of the dressing table, face down with the legs collapsed at an odd angle. The dressing table stool was on its side, a couple of feet to the left. Ferbrache's team would confirm, but it looked as if the woman, having been stabbed from the rear, had tried to turn on the stool and then fallen. There was indeed a lot of blood, a wide brown stain covering the top half of the dressing gown, an even broader pool that had seeped out into the patterned carpet. Designed not to show the dirt, Murrain thought. Good luck with that.
He could see the police doctor crouched over the body.
'Any guesses on the cause of death, Pete?'
Pete Warwick didn't look up. 'Funny boy. But, to answer your unasked question, yes, she was alive and conscious when she was stabbed.'
'Time of death?'
'Twenty four hours, at least. I'd guess sometime Sunday morning.'
'That long?'
Warwick finally raised his head. 'Stick your head further in here, Kenny, and you'll be less surprised. We opened the window as soon as we could, but there's no mistaking the fragrant scent of death.'
Murrain had recognised the truth of that as soon as Ferbrache had opened the door. There was a breeze wafting through the open window, but the smell it carried from the room was an unmistakeable mix of blood and putrefaction. Of course he hadn't really been surprised. But he felt no comfort in having his expectations confirmed. He turned to Ferbrache. 'Why wasn't the body found earlier?'
'Do Not Disturb notice on the door so cleaning staff left the room yesterday, apparently.'
'So she—and anyone she was with—weren't due to check out till today?'
Ferbrache shrugged. 'You'll have to ask our friend downstairs, but presumably.'
Murrain knew from experience that Ferbrache could rarely be tempted into speculation outside his remit. It was one of the qualities that made him an effective SOCO, if a limited conversationalist. 'Any other clues on identity so far? From the room, I mean.'
'Not a sausage. There are no personal items in there. No handbag. No purse. No phone. No clothing except the dressing gown, and that's one of Primark's finest.'
'All been cleared out, then.'
'That's the thing.' Ferbrache frowned. 'If you want my opinion—'
Murrain looked up. It was unusual for Ferbrache to offer any opinion that wasn't based on thorough analysis. 'Go on.'
'Well, it looks like a professional job to me. Not the killing. That looks anything but. From the number and position of the wounds, that looks like the work of someone who lost it. Frenzied. But the clear up afterwards. It looks like someone's gone to a lot of trouble to remove anything that might provide any clues to the killer's or the victim's identities.'
'You said there were prints, though?'
'Lots of them, yes. And maybe we'll strike lucky with those. But there're several places that have been carefully wiped down. The top of the dressing table. The bedside cabinets. The places where we might have been most likely to find the prints of whoever did this.'
'Doesn't seem to square, though, does it?' Murrain peered back into the room. 'An attack as uncontrolled as that. And then a methodical clear up?'
'No,' Ferbrache agreed. 'But that's how it strikes me. Your job to explain it.'
'Thanks for that, Neil.' Murrain smiled. The last thing he wanted was to discourage Ferbrache from offering the benefits of his undoubted wisdom. 'But, no, I'm really grateful. You've spent more time up to your oxters in murder scenes than any of us. If that's how it strikes you, I'll wager money you're right.'
Murrain was delighted to see that Ferbrache actually appeared to be blushing. Another first. 'Well, it was just a thought.'
'And a good one,' Murrain said, judging it was time to move things on. 'How long do you reckon your boys are going to be?'
'Fifteen, twenty minutes. Then we'll get the body shifted. And it's all yours.'
'Something to look forward to.'
Murrain made his way back downstairs and surveyed the small cluster of officers waiting in the lobby. 'Anyone know where Joe is?'
One of the DCs, a very solidly built young man called—inappropriately, Murrain had always felt—Will Sparrow, said: 'Phoned to say he's on his way. Was stuck in some Resources meeting so got held up.' He glanced across at his colleagues in a way that suggested some subtext to this information, but for the moment Murrain had no inclination to pursue it.
'OK. We've got a major enquiry on our hands here. Looks like a Category A. Once Joe gets here, I'll get him to start putting all the gubbins together.' Administration was one of Joe Milton's strengths, whereas it definitely wasn't one of Murrain's, which was why Milton had ended up attending that morning's Resources meeting in the first place. 'In the meantime, we need to start talking to the hotel staff and any other guests. I'm assuming no-one's been allowed to leave since the body was found?'
Sparrow shook his head. 'Uniforms have done as good a job as they could. But a lot of the guests had already checked out or left for the day. The body wasn't found till the cleaner went in mid-morning.'
'OK. I'll go and have a chat with our friend over there. See what information we can get. You lot can start taking statements from the guests who are still here. Especially anyone who stayed overnight Saturday. Anything they saw, heard. Especially any of them who were in the rooms close to the crime scene. What about the cleaner who found the body? Where's she?'
'He,' Sparrow corrected, then looked embarrassed. 'Apparently. Young Polish lad, according to the uniforms. He's downstairs.'
'You go and get a statement from him, Will,' Murrain said, 'as you're clearly less prone to gender preconceptions than I am. Obviously need to refresh my diversity training. Find out if he was on duty yesterday as well, or if not who was responsible for that room. Again, anything he saw or heard. You know the drill.'
He watched as the officers dispersed into the dining room and lounge where the guests and staff had been asked to wait. This was the supposed 'golden hour' when you were most likely to gather valuable evidence, while the details were still fresh in people's minds, when witnesses were still relatively accessible. But most serious crimes, and especially most killings, were easy enough to resolve. The perpetrator was generally obvious—the spouse, the parent, the young thug caught on CCTV with the bloody knife still in his hand. Most were in no state to deny what they'd done, even where the evidence wasn't already damning.
But this had a different feel. It was likely to be a Category A because the perpetrator was, at least for the moment, unknown and because, given the nature of the killing, there could be a continuing threat to public safety. It might be, of course, that they'd have some immediate breakthrough in identifying the victim or the other occupant of the hotel room. But Ferbrache's comments had given little reason for optimism.
Murrain's instincts were already telling him that there was going to be nothing simple about this one. And Murrain, as his colleagues knew all too well, was always one to trust his instincts.