The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) (7 page)

‘Aunt Jessie, how did you get into the hotel?’

‘Through the kitchen door. I saw him in the doorway and followed him inside.’

‘Aunt Jessie,’ said Roscoe as he approached the kitchen door, his gun still drawn, ‘I want you to go straight through those doors at the front of the restaurant and down the hallway to the lobby. Find Anna. She’ll be somewhere there. She’ll look after you. The police are evacuating the hotel and you’ll be able to leave through the front with her.’

‘But what about you, Jon?’ asked Jessie, looking lovingly at him.

‘I know you don’t like it, Aunt Jessie, but it’s my job. Right now I have to try to catch a killer.’

IN FIFTEEN YEARS
of working for London’s Metropolitan Police, Jon Roscoe had seen some horrific sights. He’d been witness to explosions, arrived first on scene after the discovery of decaying bodies hauled from London’s River Thames, and had had his emotions drained as the first responder to cases of domestic abuse. But nothing prepared him for the discovery he found in the new kitchens of the London Tribeca Luxury Hotel.

He entered through the front of the kitchen and slowly worked his way past each kitchen bench. With his weapon drawn, he anticipated the killer appearing at any moment. Slowly making his way to the back wall, he discovered the desperate scene where the killer had carried out his work. Laid across the stainless steel kitchen work surface was the decapitated body of one of the hotel chefs, his white chef’s jacket turned red with his own blood.

The killer had scythed through his victim’s neck.

Blood still dripped from the corpse. As with Jackson Harlington and Michael Duncan, the killer had ripped through his victim’s chest and torn his heart from its cavity.

Two benches to the right, discarded on the floor, was the victim’s head. The dead man’s startled eyes stared up at Roscoe and for a moment he had to turn away from a discovery he found genuinely shocking.

Turning back, he stepped towards the mangled corpse. Breathing deeply, he leant over the body to see if there was any way of making an identification. Still pinned to the victim’s chest was his Tribeca Luxury Hotels name badge and pass. Richard Winn was a pastry chef in the kitchen but not someone Roscoe had ever met. He would ask Anna to pull his employment records.

The kitchen at the London Tribeca Luxury Hotel is designed to give direct access to all of the guest floors. Each of the suites has their own luxury kitchen and chef, but the main kitchen is designed to service all areas of the hotel, twenty-four hours a day. Roscoe looked at the service elevator, intended to deliver the finest cuisine to any guest at a moment’s notice. It was still making its deathly climb through the hotel. Where was the killer heading next in this seemingly endless brutal game of chase around the building? And what could be the motive for such vicious attacks?

Roscoe had seen men and woman kill and be killed. He had seen rage, fear, greed and passion, but the act of killing was almost always their last act. With this killer, such was the fury, the killing alone was not enough: the death had to be brutal, the corpse mutilated. These were some of the most horrific deaths Roscoe had seen in his career. He thought that if he could comprehend what was behind such violence, he might be able to understand what was driving the killer, and what he planned next. And these weren’t random killings: Roscoe could see everything had been meticulously planned. His passage around the hotel had been carefully plotted. He was certain the killer had already decided exactly what his next move would be.

Counting off each luxury floor of the hotel, Roscoe saw the service elevator had reached its final destination. The fortieth floor.

He crossed the kitchen and stood at the open door Aunt Jessie had come through. He thought how less than twenty-four hours before, he had explored the top floor of the hotel. Standing on the glass-floored terrace, looking over the sparkling water flowing from the infinity pool, he and Stanley had marvelled at the latest addition to the Tribeca Luxury Hotel collection. They had walked all the public spaces in preparation for today’s preview of the hotel. Had they missed something? Had they both been so taken with the brilliance of the hotel they’d become distracted from its security? Roscoe knew that somehow somebody had gained access to the secure areas of the hotel, which had allowed him to cause devastation beyond belief and had left Stanley’s life hanging in the balance. He told himself he’d even put Aunt Jessie in danger. How had he let that happen? He was here to protect people, especially those he loved.

In his mind, he retraced his steps through the hotel. He was certain he hadn’t missed anything. The hotel had been secure ahead of the opening. There was no way for someone to gain such unlimited access around the hotel – but this man had. How had he found his way to Jackson Harlington’s suite? How did he have such an in-depth knowledge of the hotel? And what was driving him?

To kill Jackson Harlington in such a sacrificial manner could only have been caused by absolute hatred of the man. But what of Michael Duncan, and now Richard Winn? Were the three deaths linked? Roscoe was convinced they had to be. But he needed to be absolutely certain; he needed to speak to Anna Conquest.

Stepping back into the kitchen and closing the open door, Roscoe felt the killer was ready to play out his final performance. He had made his way to the summit of the hotel, and Roscoe was convinced that was where he would finally meet him.

IN THE LOBBY
of the hotel, Inspector Savage was beginning the evacuation. He knew the dangers of evacuating over a hundred people through the front of the hotel, and how they would represent an open target for anyone in the hotel intent on carrying out further random killings. But Savage knew these killings weren’t random.

Jackson Harlington had been a target.

Michael Dunn had been a target.

Savage had police marksmen positioned outside the front of the hotel, with instructions to open fire if the killer showed himself. Snipers were ready to take him down if he appeared on any one of the hotel’s forty floors. A plan had been established, with all of the evacuees issued with clear instructions. The front entrance of the hotel would be opened. Exit would be in single file with a right turn created twenty yards into the garden, leading to a neighbouring property. Within the neighbouring property a safe area had been established where witnesses would be questioned and statements taken.

Police protocol would be followed. Savage knew it was the right thing to do. Except he also knew police protocol wouldn’t catch this killer. The only way this could end was with a bullet through the killer’s heart.

Roscoe ran back into the lobby, where he saw Anna Conquest crouching beside a chair as she comforted Aunt Jessie. Jessie had clearly been shocked by what she’d witnessed but Roscoe didn’t know anybody with a stronger resolve than his aunt Jessie. He went straight to them, but as he did, Peter Savage came across the lobby to join them.

‘What’s going on, Roscoe? This old woman says there has been another killing?’

Roscoe ignored Savage and turned to his aunt. ‘You remember me telling you about Inspector Savage, Aunt Jessie? Well, allow me to introduce you.’

Jessie sniffed in disgust. ‘I guessed as much, Jon. You always said what a little shit he was.’

Anna Conquest couldn’t help laughing.

Roscoe smiled at Aunt Jessie. ‘That might well be the case, but Inspector Savage is heading up the police operation.’

‘I can tell you this, Inspector Savage,’ said Jessie, looking the police officer directly in the eye, ‘this old woman wouldn’t say there had been another killing if she hadn’t seen one. And what she saw was a killer holding a dead man’s head in his hand.’

Savage turned to Roscoe, who nodded. ‘The body’s in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘It’s brutal.’

‘We have to get him, Roscoe,’ said Savage, looking more determined than he’d been since arriving at the hotel. ‘We have to get him. I don’t care how. We have to take him down.’

Roscoe turned to Anna. ‘Can you access the hotel personnel records?’

‘I can do it from here,’ replied Anna, moving back to her desk. ‘What do you need to know?’

‘When we hired Richard Winn and anything else we have on him.’

‘No problem.’

‘Richard Winn?’ asked Savage. ‘Where does he fit in?’

‘Our latest victim,’ said Roscoe. ‘The killer might have obliterated his body but his security badge was left intact – for what that’s worth.’

Savage turned away from the group, as if he was planning what he should do next. The killings were getting more violent, if that were even possible. Roscoe watched him force himself to take breath after breath before turning back.

‘As soon as we get everyone out of here,’ he said, speaking directly to Roscoe, ‘it’s him and us. I will do whatever it takes. I mean that. I don’t want him to walk out of here alive.’

Roscoe looked at Savage, remembering his gung-ho approach of the past.

‘I hear what you’re saying, Peter. We all want to stop the killing. And when we get our man he’ll serve his time.’

Savage smiled. ‘Always the same, Roscoe. By the book. Surely even you think we should take this one out of the game?’

Before Roscoe had a chance to answer, Anna called across, ‘I’ve got his records here. Richard Winn was employed only at the beginning of last week. He’s worked at a couple of London restaurants in the past but nothing special. His reference came directly from Jackson Harlington.’

‘Harlington again,’ said Roscoe to Savage, knowing for certain each of the three killings was linked. ‘Jackson Harlington’s the key to this.’

Savage nodded.

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ he replied. ‘Harlington was at the very centre of everything.’

‘When the lobby is clear,’ said Roscoe, ‘we need to prep a unit to head to the fortieth floor.’

‘Fortieth floor?’ asked Savage.

Roscoe continued, ‘I think he’s made his way up to the roof. He rode the service elevator from the kitchen all the way to the top of the building. He’s planned all of this, Peter. The whole thing.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because he’s been playing with us. He knew who his victims were and picked them off before we had any idea what hit us. And now he wants to take his final bow. But I don’t know why. We can’t ask Jackson Harlington about Duncan and Winn, so our only hope is to talk to his wife.’ He paused. ‘Peter, he’s waiting for us on the fortieth floor.’

SITTING IN THE
stylish office at the rear of the lobby, Jocasta Harlington felt numb. She held her daughter’s hand tightly in her own while Oscar Miller, his head bandaged, paced the room, desperately searching for some kind of understanding of what had taken place. In her mind, Jocasta Harlington went over and over what had happened that morning. What had possessed the man to force his way into their suite and why had he targeted Jackson in such a horrific way?

Jocasta had stopped loving her husband many years before. She often told herself she had loved him once, but that was so long ago and for such a short time that it seemed like they were both different people. For years they had lived separate lives and she knew that was an accommodation which suited her just as much as it suited Jackson. She had beautiful homes in Europe and in the United States where she could spend her time with her daughter and with her closest friends. Jackson would spend most of his time at different hotels around the world and they would come together when business demanded. Today was meant to be one of those occasions: she would stand proudly by his side and together they would launch the newest addition to the Tribeca group of luxury hotels.

How could somebody hold such hatred towards Jackson? Jocasta may not have loved her husband but she would never wish such a horrendous fate upon him.

She looked up as Jon Roscoe stepped past the police officer stationed at the entrance to the room and entered the office, along with Anna Conquest.

‘Please tell me you’ve got him, Jon,’ she said, greeting Roscoe with a look of desperation.

Roscoe took a seat on the couch next to Jocasta and shook his head.

‘There must be some news,’ said Oscar Miller, continuing to pace around the room. ‘Do you have any idea where he is now? Or who he is?’

Roscoe shook his head again. ‘But I think we’re making progress,’ he said, turning to Jocasta. ‘I need your help in trying to understand who we’re dealing with.’

In despair, Jocasta held her head in her hands and covered her face.

‘Jon, I told you everything when we were upstairs,’ she said, lifting her head to look at Roscoe. ‘I’ve no idea who he was. Honestly, I don’t. He said nothing to us the whole time he was in the room.’

‘I’m not talking about what happened here today. I need to identify any past links between Mr Harlington and the other men who’ve been killed.’

‘Others?’ asked Oscar Miller.

‘Two others, I’m afraid, Mr Miller. And in a manner just as brutal.’ Roscoe let his words hang in the air. ‘The first was a driver, quite possibly the driver who brought you here today.’

‘I didn’t take much notice of him,’ said Miller. ‘I arrived on an early flight and he met me at the airport. I was making calls on the drive in and on arrival I went straight up to my suite. I showered and changed and then made my way down to Jackson and Jocasta’s a couple of hours later.’

‘You didn’t take the opportunity to view the hotel?’

‘I was here last week. Everything was pretty much done. I spoke to Jackson on the way in and he and I planned to spend some time going over the hotel later this afternoon.’

‘And the driver?’

‘He arranged for my bags to be taken up to my suite and I didn’t see him again. I assume he went into the hotel somewhere.’

Sitting at the oak desk, Anna Conquest listened to the conversation while watching the silent images on the television that hung on the office wall. She never could have imagined the events that had taken place during the day, putting her and Jon at the centre of a global news story. The twenty-four-hour news channels were all running rolling live coverage from outside the hotel. They had obtained some phone footage of Jackson Harlington being held on the balcony of the thirty-eighth floor which was being run over and over. Anna watched the footage and then looked across at Jacqueline Harlington, who was staring at the screen as she saw her father dragged to the front of the balcony. At that point the news network had the decency to cut the clip and Anna watched Jacqueline slowly drop her head. As she did, the news network flashed another ‘BREAKING NEWS’ banner across the foot of the screen. The image cut away from the exterior of the hotel to a small terraced house in a northern suburb of London. The banner continued, ‘New developments in Harlington murder.’