Hope Road (8 page)

“Ukrainians?” John asks.

“Yeah.”

The men disappear from shot, then reappear in the adjacent image, walking across the reception and out through the revolving doors. A minute passes. More.

“Wait,” says Craig, staring at the screen.

Freddy comes out of the same room. He looks petrified, his face misshapen with anguish so that you’d hardly recognise him. He hesitates, then makes his way slowly down the corridor, an overwhelming sadness in the movement of his body. He glances behind him then makes his way slowly out of the hotel.

“That’s it. End of the tape.”

The time on the video shows 11:48 p.m.

“And at this point Donna is still in the room?” John asks.

Craig nods, eyes glued to the empty screen.

“You wanna see what happens next?” he says.

“If I can.”

“We normally change the tape when I finish my shift,” says Craig. “This one,” he points to the other machine, the one currently recording, “was put in next.”

He stops the tape and rewinds it to the beginning.

Play
. The familiar screen division, same images.

“Hold on,” he says, confused, jabbing a finger onto the rewind button, as if the machine has disobeyed him. The time reads 12:06 a.m.

The machine goes through its clunking rewind drill a second time.

Craig is now looking at the monitor, transfixed.

“Something wrong?” John asks.

“No. Watch.”

The tape plays, but John sees nothing new. A full minute and no one appears on the screen.

“Guests all in bed?”

“Ha!”

“Not many in last night?”

“Just the two of ’em.”

“Ukrainians?”

Craig nods.

“You? Where were you?”

Craig eyes are glued to the screen now.

“I closed up the bar, then I was in here for a while before, before… Just watch.”

The footage plays, and still no sign of life anywhere in the hotel.

“Do you know her?” John asks quietly.

“Who, Donna? I guess. Not that well. Some.”

“Surname?”

“Macken. Donna Macken. I know her, I mean, I do know her, yes.”

Since the video started, his expression has turned to something between confusion and disbelief.

“What’s wrong?” says John.

“Mike. The night porter, Mike Pearce. He should be doing his rounds. Should be on the tape. Mike was here. I saw him.”

“What time does he start work?”

“Midnight. Takes over from me.”

The door behind them suddenly flies open. Fuller is standing there.

“What are you doing in here?” he says.

“Looking for Freddy,” says John, seeing a slight tremble in Fuller’s hands. “You called the police yet?”

“I told you what I know,” Fuller says, raising his voice. “And now I am asking you to leave.”

Their attention is taken by a sudden blur of movement on the screen. A car pulls up right outside the hotel, the camera in the reception just catching enough of it through the glass doors.

Oh, great. The Mondeo.

Three men get out, the Ukrainians and Freddy. They come into the hotel.

“Mike did his rounds,” Fuller says, “then a few minutes later all
this
started.”

Fuller now moves into the security room, which is not large, and doubles as a cleaners’ cupboard. John leans against the metal shelves bolted to the wall behind him.

“I’ve already told Mr Ray what happened, Craig,” Fuller adds, leaning over and attempting to press the
stop
button.

“No, it’s…” Craig says, his voice ragged as he brushes Fuller’s arm away. “Look, it’s… Look.”

They have no choice but to watch as Fuller is seen coming out of his office. He knocks on the door of Room Twelve, bangs his fist on it, shouting right into the door itself. Then the younger of the Ukrainians is seen coming quickly down the corridor. He pushes Fuller out of the way and kicks the door open. In they go.

John senses the tension in both men’s bodies as they watch the grainy black and white image of the door, open but affording no view of what’s going on inside.

Nothing happens, and still they watch in silence. Then she appears. Dark hair, short black dress and a bulky fur and leather jacket. Donna Macken, the girl in the car. She’s even more beautiful than John remembers from the police photo, despite some swelling on the side of her face. She’s supported on one side by the Ukrainian and on the other by Fuller. With difficulty they walk her out of the room, turn left, their backs to the camera, then left again, towards the fire doors. At that point they lean her up against the wall. The Ukrainian, who has a large hold-all slung over his shoulder, shouts at her, wagging his finger close to her nose. When she doesn’t respond he slaps her hard across the face. He loses his temper, punching her square in the face several times before grabbing her by the collar of her jacket and pushing her out of sight towards the exit doors.

“We didn’t want her going out the front,” Fuller says, breaking the cold silence.

“Where was Freddy when all this happened?” he asks, the appalling scene they have just watched already playing on a loop in his head, and with it the thought that a few hours later she would be dead in the boot of his car.

“Freddy left. You missed it. Here.”

Fuller leans forward and rewinds the tape. Just as the door gets kicked open, Freddy leaves the hotel and drives the Mondeo slowly out of the picture.

“He must have parked down the side,” Fuller says.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Craig whispers.

Fuller tries to ignore him.

“But what was
Freddy
doing?” John asks.

“He must have picked Donna up outside,” Fuller says.

“No, I mean, why was Freddy hanging round with the two Ukrainian guys in the first place? At midnight?”

Craig exhales, his breath unsteady. The screen is replaying Donna being walked out of the hotel again, getting beaten, then disappearing with the Ukrainian, whilst Fuller stands at the end of the corridor alone, before returning to his office.

“Did you actually see Freddy pick her up outside?” John asks Fuller.

He shakes his head. “You saw as much as I did.”

“And you?” he asks Craig.

“He must have, I suppose. I went home. Didn’t see anything.”

A tall woman in a cleaner’s gown appears. She edges into the room and gets a bottle of bleach from one of the low shelves.

John immediately recognises her, and also the sweetness of her perfume. It triggers in him a deluge of teenage emotions, hitting him hard, like a kick to the guts.

“Hi, I’m John,” he says, as if to introduce himself.

“Sandy,” she says, looking at him with an air of sadness as he attempts to stifle his surprise.

What are you doing here?
he wants to ask her. She’s a lot older now, late fifties, but it’s Sandy all right. She hasn’t changed much.

With that she turns and leaves. For a second time her pungent floral aroma hits him, and sends him into a reverie of sticky teenage desire.

Fuller’s hands are now resting on the back of Craig’s chair.

“And that, unfortunately, is that,” he says, his tone clipped, efficient. “Obviously we didn’t want any fuss. We took her out the back way. But now, well, this is serious. You’re absolutely sure it’s her, the girl who was found dead?”

But John doesn’t answer. He’s staring at the monitor.

“Him,” he says, pointing at the screen. On the video there’s a man sitting in the lounge, the one with the heavy eyebrows. “What’s he doing there in the dark?”

“Bilyk,” Craig says with distaste. “The other Ukrainian.”

John leans over Craig’s shoulder, gently edging Fuller out of the way.

“May I?” he says, his finger already on the
fast forward
button.

The seconds and minutes run quickly by. Bilyk does not move from his seat. Half an hour, an hour he sits there, peering down at his laptop, making sure he’s in full view of a security camera.

“What happened to Mr Bilyk?” John says.

“Like I told you, about three in the morning I offered him a different room. His was too badly damaged.”

“You said
both
of them.”

Fuller sighs. “Well, I don’t know where the other one is.”

“And Bilyk went out this morning?”

“I believe so.”

“Okay,” John says. “Thanks very much for your help.”

As if by mutual agreement he and Fuller resume cordial relations, and the two of them make their way into the reception area.

“Coffee?” Fuller says, slipping behind the bar.

“No thanks, gotta go. Horrible business, this. And we still don’t know where Freddy is. But thanks for your time. Ah…” He pats his pockets. “Glasses. Must have left them in there…”

He nips back through the double doors and walks as fast as he dare down the corridor, straight into Room Twelve.

“Hi, Sandy!” he says with a grin as he slips into the room.

She looks up, a hotel telephone in one hand, sponge cloth in the other.

“Hello, love! I thought you were pretending you didn’t know me back there!”

“I thought you hadn’t recognised
me
!”

“You? Well, I wouldn’t have done from the picture in today’s
Post
. Could hardly make you out!”

“You saw the article?”

“I did that! Bet your dad’s proud. Anyway, how’s things, John?”

“Can’t complain, y’know.”

Sandy Greg ran a pub down in Armley when he was growing up there, the kind of pub where you could get some fancy perfume or a leather jacket at stupid prices, most of it procured by Tony Ray and his merry men. And it was also where he had known his first infatuation.

Her smile disappears. “You’re here about the girl, aren’t you?”

“Did you know her?”

“Aye, she’d been up here a lot. Gave this place a pretty good going-over last night an’all. Look!” She holds up the telephone, which is cracked right along one side.

“Seen a big bloke called Freddy, have you? It’s him I’m looking for.”

“Blond lad? He’s been sniffing round her like a randy dog. Gone missing, has he?”

“Something like that.”

“Then you’ll not be the only one looking for him.”

“How’s that? Anything to do with these gentlemen from the Ukraine?” he says, looking around the room, two neatly made single beds and the smell of pine cleaner heavy on the air. “Still here, are they?”

“One of ’em’s cleared off, by the look of things.”

Opposite the beds is a narrow wall desk, covered with ring binders, piles of pamphlets and business cards, plus a large hard-backed order book. He takes a selection of leaflets.

“Funny set up, don’t you think? Using a hotel room as an office?” He opens a leaflet. “
Galey Tractors
. Been cleaning a lot of the mud off the carpet, have you?”

“Eh?”

“Farmers, y’know?”

She says nothing. Then, tentatively: “If I were you, love, I wouldn’t go poking around.”

“Just trying to find Freddy, that’s all.”

“Like I said.”

“I’ll be extra careful!”

“Take the advice, John. None of my business, but…”

He nods, flicking through several more leaflets for tractor attachments, then putting them in his pocket.

“Mike Pearce. What do we know about him?”

“Mike? Don’t you know Mike?”

“Why should I?”

She seems embarrassed, as if she’s offended him.

“Sorry, love. He’s the kind of bloke your dad would’ve known.”

“Any idea where I can find him?”

“Takes a drink at Lanny Bride’s place in town. You know it? Behind the Grand.”

“Lanny Bride’s place? Not my world, Sandy.”

She smiles patiently, just like she used to do when he was fifteen trying to get served in her pub.

“Keep it that way,” she says.

Someone’s coming down the corridor.

“Look, I better go. You still in Armley?”

“Got a flat on Town Street.”

“Here,” he says, handing her a business card. “Give us a bell. I’ll see you later.”

Fuller is outside.

“Don’t worry,” John says, yanking the door wide open, “I’m on my way.”

Fuller, tight-lipped, watches him spin to his left and take the fire exit.

He answers on the second ring.

“DC Steele.”

“It’s John Ray. The girl’s called Donna Macken.”

“We know.”

“And you’ll want to be looking at the
Eurolodge Hotel
up on the York Road.”

A brief pause.

“Why’s that?”

“Because that’s where she was at midnight.”

He hangs up.

H
e drives a hundred yards up a side road, turns around, and watches.

They arrive in minutes. Two uniforms in a patrol car. Quick walk round the hotel and in they go.

He checks the time. Why is he waiting? Doesn’t know exactly. But whatever happened last night started in that hotel, and Freddy was there.

Whatever happened…
What the fuck ever happens? Money, sex, drugs. The holy trinity. But where does Freddy fit in? If he’s run away, where’s he gone? Because he’s got no one to run to. No wonder he’s scared.

He rang you all night, John. He had you. But you weren’t answering.

He shifts in his seat. The holy trinity… Perhaps that’s why people liked his dad, because with Tony Ray it was always business. Good old-fashioned cash. No drugs. No women. And no body count. Joe changed all that.

The
Yorkshire Post
is on the passenger seat. He scans the article again.
A larger-than-life character
. The nostalgia for old-school crims gets on his nerves.
Larger-than-life… loved his mum… salt of the earth…
Bullshit. A crook’s a crook.

More cars arrive. Baron and DC Steele step out of one and make straight for the revolving door, brisk, full of purpose. Half a dozen more men appear from the other cars, several with large hold-alls. They line up to go through the heavy rotating doors and are gone.

Fifteen minutes pass. Yet still he waits, looking down at the hotel, as if it might yield up its secrets if he stays there long enough. No one else goes in. No one comes out. Guests? There’s only the Ukrainian bloke. His compatriot vanished at the same time as Freddy last night, after giving Donna a good slapping.