Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

‘He went out filming Sunday night? What time was that? I heard the crew went to the Red Lion on Sunday.’

She nodded. ‘Oh, yes, I heard that too. But this was after. He came back, collected his camera bag and folder. Oh, I’d say about a quarter to ten. I thought he’d maybe had an important call or something, because he was a little rushed.’

Bennet put the leaflet back on its pile. ‘Folder?’

‘Yes. Like a file folder, yellow. And his bag.’

‘A camera bag, you said. So no suitcase of clothes?’

‘Nothing like that. And that was it, he left. I had to give him the code for the door, which made me think he was coming back, but he didn’t. I get that sometimes when people have to rush off. They leave the key in the lock, and he did that. I know, strange that he didn’t bring any luggage, but I didn’t ask.’

Actually, the lack of belongings didn’t puzzle Bennet – he’d sometimes been away overnight to survey or arrest a suspect in another city and hadn’t taken much more than his phone and some cash. More intriguing was why the director had stayed at the hotel alone. A falling out with his crew? He needed space and peace to write a script, which might also explain the yellow file folder? Was he a diva-type, unwilling to bed down in a car or a cheesy bed and breakfast?

‘He stayed here alone, but didn’t anyone accompany him here? To drop him off, maybe?’

Gemma shook her head. ‘At least not that I saw. I was inside. But other people could have been outside, in a car. He only stayed fifteen minutes or so after he checked in, so he might have had people waiting outside. I just don’t know.’

‘Fifteen minutes? And how long was he gone for?’

‘Oh, until that night. He checked in in the afternoon and left and I didn’t see him again until nearly ten, after, like you say, they’d been to the Lion. But a lot of tourists do that, because they’re off sightseeing.’

Liam glanced at the guest register, where he saw only one person had checked in on Sunday. Room: seven. Duration: one night. Name: Donald Ducke. The contact number column was empty. But he hadn’t signed out.

‘You don’t mind people using silly fake names?’

Gemma leaned in to look closely at the register. It took a few seconds for her puzzled expression to become one of mirth. ‘Oh my, I didn’t even notice. It was the E that threw me, I reckon. He pronounced it like duke. Oh, what an idiot.’

Did she mean the director, or herself? ‘Any idea where they were heading next?’

‘No,’ Gemma said. ‘I never ask such a thing. I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I only know they upped and offed. You could try the Lion.’

‘What about CCTV? I don’t see any cameras.’

Gemma rubbed at her legs, as if they hurt. ‘No. Busted for a few months now. I keep meaning to get around to it.’

‘You really should. You deal with strangers who don’t live local and often use fake names.’

She shrugged. He thanked Gemma and turned to leave, but one final question begged to be asked. No name to trace or phone number to call, but perhaps there was a clue in the room Donald Ducke had taken. A forgotten driver’s licence would do nicely. Could he see the room?

She gave him a key and he took the stairs. The room was the simple affair he’d expected. Bed, shower, TV with probably only a handful of channels, wifi with porn doubtless blocked, and a table against a wall with a pair of chairs and the paraphernalia for making hot caffeine. It was a blizzard of white, from the walls to the TV to the kettle to the towels, like an apartment in a sci-fi movie. Apart from odd snippets like the TV remote and coffee sachets, the only colour came from the window in the opposite wall to the door. He could see a corner of the housing estate, beyond which it was all green fields and snaking, thread-thin roads and walking trails set against a backdrop of faraway towns and villages.

Liam stood in the centre of the room, hands in his pockets, and ran his eyes around. The hotelier, Gemma, had joked about his seeking fingerprints, but she hadn’t been wildly off. He was after some kind of clue as to where the film crew might have gone, but of course, the room had been cleaned since the director checked out. It felt a little odd to be searching a room without other detectives and crime-scene techs around.

Even if the room hadn’t been cleaned, what had he expected to find? A handy little Post-it note with an address? There was nothing here that would move him forward, so he needed a new track. Lorraine had mentioned Chesterfield, so perhaps that should be his next location. But that was a big city and he had no idea what the crew was doing there, and it seemed like too much trouble. Even being here felt like a waste of time. He should just keep sending her messages on social media until she replied.

Back downstairs, he returned the key and thanked Gemma for her time. ‘The room. Anything out of order when you went to clean it? Find anything?’

She shook her head. ‘The tea table had been moved into the middle of the room, but that was it. Anything else you need me for?’ she asked.

There wasn’t, but simple curiosity prompted: ‘Yeah. What happened to the Argyles?’

Her answer surprised him: ‘Oh, that would be telling. Maybe over a candlelit dinner. Seriously, though, we’re not supposed to say.’

‘Small village, shock horror, eh?’

She just shrugged. ‘Not supposed to say. At the last town meeting the Keys decided we shouldn’t talk about it. Not to anyone.’

Hallelujah. Keys, that was the name for the handful of important residents who controlled the village. In