The Tunnel Rats (17 page)

L ouise Malone had been a chambermaid for almost eight years but she had never come across a guest as strange 118 STEPHEN LEATHER as the man in room 527. According to the register he was an American, James Bamber, but he'd never spoken to her so she hadn't heard his accent. On the few occasions she'd seen him, he'd merely smiled and nodded. Hadn't said a word. That in itself was unusual because he was a good-looking guy in his late twenties, exactly the sort of man who'd normally make a pass at her. With her shoulder-length blonde hair, green eyes and curvy figure obvious even under her housecoat, Louise received more than her fair share of passes and she wasn't used to polite indifference. It was a shame that he wasn't interested, because she was between boyfriends and he had a firm, hard body and hazel eyes that made her go a little weak at the knees.

It was the state of his room that Louise found so unusual. She had come across all sorts during her years cleaning rooms, from an Arab who insisted on defecating in the wardrobe, to a family of wealthy Hong Kong Chinese who took the lightbulbs with them when they checked out, but she'd never encountered a guest who cleaned his own room. Louise prided herself on her standards, but she had to admit that his bathroom positively sparkled. He'd even cleaned the shower curtain and managed to dislodge the limescale that had discoloured the toilet overflow. There was never any rubbish in the litter bins, not even a scrap of paper, and his bed was always made, no matter what time of day she checked the room. If she hadn't seen him entering and leaving the room, she'd have been convinced that no one was staying there. She'd been so intrigued by the mysterious Mr Bamber that she'd gone through the drawers and the wardrobe looking for any clues as to what he did for a living, but there were no personal effects to be found, just a few items of laundered clothing, still in protective wrappers. Still, there was nothing wrong with being neat and tidy. Maybe he was gay. That at least would explain why he hadn't made a pass at her.

T wo desks had been lined up in front of three large floor-mounted boards. On the centre board were the THE TUNNEL RATS 119 words 'British Transport Police' and underneath it was the force's logo. On the left-hand board was a photograph of Max Eckhardt, one of several that Nick Wright had borrowed from the widow, blown up to poster size. Underneath were photographs of camera equipment similar to that owned by Eckhardt. On the board on the right was a large photograph of the tunnel entrance and below it a map of the area. More than two dozen reporters and photographers were already in the room when Duggan and Dundas followed Superintendent Newton to their places.

A pretty brunette from the press office was handing out press releases and photographs of the victim. She flashed the superintendent a nervous smile and thrust the remaining press releases at a television reporter before chasing after the officers. She caught up with Newton as he sat down. 'Sorry, sir, could you just hang on a few minutes? Sky TV want to go live and they're having problems in the studio.'

Newton sighed' heavily. 'Do we have to?'

'It's good coverage, sir. And they'll reuse it in their hourly bulletins.'

Newton looked at his wristwatch and sighed again. 'Okay, but we haven't got all day.'

The press officer held up her hands for silence and explained to the assembled journalists that the press conference wouldn't be starting for several minutes. There were grumbles from the newspaper reporters. 'Bloody Sky,' shouted one. The press officer suggested that the photographers use the opportunity to take pictures. Newton blinked under a barrage of photographic flashes.

Nick Wright stood at the side of the room next to Tommy Reid, looking at the reporters. They were a mixed bag: earnest young men in sharp suits, middle-aged women with tired skin, grey-haired men in sheepskin jackets. Most had notebooks and pens though several were also holding small tape recorders. A tall blonde wearing a black mini skirt was reading the press release and underlining parts of it. She crossed her long legs. Wright looked across at Reid. His partner was openly staring at the girl's thighs.

'Try to keep your mind on the job, Tommy,' whispered Wright.

A bearded man with a plastic clipboard made a thumbs-up gesture at the press officer. She took her place next to the superintendent and nodded at him. Newton stood up, took his glasses out of his top pocket, and read through the press release. It consisted of barely a dozen paragraphs, identifying the victim as Max Eckhardt, a brief biography, and an appeal for anyone who had been in the vicinity of the tunnels at the approximate time of the murder to call the incident room. They were also appealing for any motorists who had driven along the road that ran parallel to the disused line to come forward, in the hope that they had seen any parked vehicles. Eckhardt's missing camera equipment was listed on a separate sheet. The superintendent asked if there were any questions and there was a flurry of raised hands. They all started to shout at once, so the press officer stood up and pointed at one of the older journalists. Wright recognised him as a crime reporter from one of the heavier Sunday papers.

'Is it possible for us to speak to the man's widow?' he asked. 'It might add weight to the appeal if we could have a quote from her?'

'I'm afraid not,' said Newton. 'She's made it clear that she doesn't want to speak to the press. It's a very difficult time for her.'

'Can we at least have an address for her?'

'No, I'm afraid we can't release that information,' said the superintendent.

Two of the tabloid reporters exchanged hushed whispers. Wright knew that the Eckhardts were ex-directory, but most newspapers had contacts within British Telecom who'd be prepared to disclose the information for the price of a couple of bottles of Scotch. He made a mental note to warn her.

The blonde in the black mini skirt raised a languid hand. 'Are you any closer to discovering a motive?' she asked. She had a strong Geordie accent which was at odds with her elegant appearance.

'We are pursuing several lines of enquiry,' said Newton.

The blonde uncrossed her legs and tapped her lips with a gold ballpoint pen. 'Have there been any similar murders in the past?' she asked.

'Similar in what way?'

She recrossed her legs. Wright looked across at Newton but the superintendent was staring fixedly at her face. Wright admired the man's self-control.

'The way the body was mutilated. I understand the man's penis was cut off.' Several of the male reporters laughed but the blonde wasn't distracted. She appeared to have the same degree of self-control as the superintendent. 'And then stuffed in his mouth.'

The guffaws intensified and the superintendent waited for the noise to die down before speaking. 'We haven't released details of the man's injuries,' he said.

'Yes, I know that. But we do have our own sources. Perhaps I should rephrase the question. In your experience, have there been any murders in the past where the victim's genitalia have been removed and placed in the victim's mouth?'

Wright and Reid exchanged looks. The blonde had good contacts, either within the police or the pathologist's department. Reid grinned wolfishly and Wright immediately knew what had passed through his mind. Her long legs and short skirts probably opened a lot of doors.

'No, we don't know of any murders which have involved injuries such as you described,' said Newton.

'But you can confirm that Max Eckhardt was mutilated in the way I've described?'

'I'll repeat what I said earlier. We haven't released details of the man's injuries.'

'Because?'

'Because we might need the information to identify the person responsible.'

One of the television reporters, a thirty-something man in a dark blue double-breasted suit, raised his arm and the press officer pointed at him. 'Have you had many hoax confessions?' he asked.

'Fifteen,' answered Newton. Duggan leaned across and whispered into his ear. 'Correction,' said Newton. 'As of today there have been seventeen.'

'Do you have an opinion on people like that who waste your time and resources?'

'Not one that you can print,' said Newton.

A man in a sheepskin jacket stood up. Wright recognised him as the reporter from the Daily Mirror who'd been at the last press conference and who had goaded him about the Met being called in. The press officer pointed at him. 'Ted Vincent,' she said to the superintendent out of the corner of her mouth. 'Daily Mirror.'

'Other than the seventeen hoaxes, how many suspects do you have at present?' said Vincent.

It was a rhetorical question, Wright knew, serving no purpose other than to embarrass the superintendent. 'We are pursuing several lines of enquiry,' Newton said eventually.

'Yes, you said that,' said Vincent. 'But do you have any actual suspects?'

'No,' said Newton coldly. 'That's why we are making this appeal for witnesses. We want anyone who was in the area to come forward--'

'You're asking the public to solve the case for you,' cut in the reporter, punctuating his words with short jabs of his pen. 'This is the second appeal for witnesses in as many weeks. Isn't it time that this case was turned over to more experienced investigators? Such as the Met?'

'Mr Vincent, the Met are already assisting the BTP with this investigation. Officers from both forces are working together. We have more than two dozen officers on the case and are prepared to increase our manpower resources if necessary.'

Vincent shrugged and muttered something as he sat down. The questions continued for more than half an hour and Newton fielded them deftly. None of the reporters was as hostile as Ted Vincent had been, and the Mirror reporter made no move to ask any further questions.

When the press conference was over the press officer ushered the superintendent to the back of the room where the television crews wanted to record individual interviews.

Wright and Reid slipped into the corridor. Reid made a drinking motion with his hand and wiggled his eyebrows. 'Yeah, okay,' said Wright wearily.

J They walked past the pub nearest their office, figuring that the press pack would be sure to pile in to compare notes before heading THE TUNNEL RATS 123 back to their papers. The one they chose was already filling up with office workers, and two waitresses in black and white uniforms rushed around with trays of food, everything with chips.

'Solids?' asked Reid disdainfully as they stood at the bar.

Wright shook his head. 'Just a Coke.'

'Bloody hell, Nick. You're over eighteen, you know. Have something stronger.' He waved a ten-pound note and a red-haired waitress in a white blouse gestured with her chin to let him know that he'd attracted her attention. 'Vodka and tonic, love. Make it a double.' He looked meaningfully at Wright.

'Okay, okay. Lager shandy.'

'Pint of lager shandy,' Reid relayed to the waitress, who was already putting his vodka and tonic on the bar in front of him. Reid sipped his drink and smacked his lips. 'How do you think it went?' he asked.

Wright grimaced. 'Better than the one we did, that's for sure.'

'Smooth, isn't he?' 4 'He's a politician. And he's been on courses for television, press conferences, the works.'

The waitress brought Wright's shandy over and Reid paid her. The two men turned their backs to the bar and leaned on it. The door opened and in walked Ted Vincent, his hands thrust into the pockets of his sheepskin jacket. The journalist grinned when he saw the two detectives.

Then after my own heart,' said Vincent.

'Ideally with a stake through it,' said Wright.

Vincent laughed good naturedly. 'Can I buy you two gentlemen a drink?' he asked, edging between them and pulling out his wallet.

'That'd be fraternising with the enemy,' said Reid. He pretended to consider the offer for several seconds. 'Mine's a vodka and tonic. A double.'

'Funny guy,' said Vincent. 'Good to see you can keep your sense of humour in the face of adversity.'

And what adversity would that be?' asked Wright.

'Come on, you know as well as I do that you're getting nowhere on this case.'

'It's early days,' said Wright.

Vincent ordered Reid's vodka and a beer for himself. He raised an eyebrow at Wright but Wright shook his head. 'It's been almost two weeks. What leads have you got?'

'You were at the press conference,' said Wright.

'You've got fuck all,' said Vjncent. 'You've got fuck all and you know it.' Reid and Wright looked at each other, then together they turned their backs on the reporter. He wasn't fazed in the least by their show of indifference. He patted them both on the shoulders. 'Look, we're on the same side here, lads. We shouldn't be arguing.'

'How do you figure that?' asked Reid. His vodka and tonic arrived and he downed it in one swift gulp.

Vincent waved at the waitress, pointing at the empty glass and at his own. She brought fresh drinks. 'You want to solve the case. And I want to write about it. It's no bloody story if it stays unsolved. You can see that, right? You guys should learn how to handle the press.' He tapped a cigarette out of a pack of Rothmans and slipped it between his lips.

'A ten-foot barge pole springs to mind,' said Wright. His glass was only half-empty but he pushed it away. 'I've got to go.'

Wright's Fiesta was parked ten minutes' walk from the pub. He sat in the car for several minutes, wondering what he should do. Other than Reid's flat, he had nowhere to go, and he was in no mood to sit down in front of Reid's portable television with a takeaway meal in his lap and a can of supermarket lager on the arm of his chair. He decided to go to see May Eckhardt.

The early afternoon traffic was heavy but flowing smoothly and he reached Maida Vale in twenty minutes. A Suzuki Jeep was pulling out of a pay and display parking place close to the Eckhardts' mansion block and Wright eased his Fiesta into the gap.

As he walked towards the block he realised that he was too late. Half a dozen photographers were clustered on the pavement, five men and a girl, all with cameras and lenses hanging around their necks. They all wore thick jackets and one of the men was pouring steaming coffee from a Thermos flask into plastic cups. Wright put his hands into the pockets THE TUNNEL RATS 125 of his coat and slouched past. They didn't even look at him.