Late Checkout

  LATE

  CHECKOUT

  Alex Walters

  Also by Alex Walters:

  Trust No One

  Nowhere to Hide

  Murrain's Truth (short stories)

  Candles and Roses (September 2016)

  Dark Corners (forthcoming)

  Writing as Michael Walters:

  The Shadow Walker

  The Adversary

  The Outcast

  LATE CHECKOUT

  Copyright © Michael Walters 2016

  Michael Walters has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes.

  Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions or locales is completely coincidental.

  This one's for Helen

  Table of Contents

  WEEKEND

  CHAPTER ONE

  MONDAY

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  DARK CORNERS – Sample

  About Alex Walters

  WEEKEND

  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 w
oman, 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 unmistakeable. 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.