TWO
DOORS
Tuesday 2 March 2010
“How was the funeral Smith?” Thompson asked.
Smith had barely got through the door.
“How the hell do you think it was Thompson?” Smith snarled.
He was exhausted; he had hardly slept in three days. His friend David White had been given six months to live in two years ago but managed to fight the lung cancer for longer than anyone expected.
“How much did he leave you?” Thompson was not letting up.
“He left everything to his wife you ignorant Yorkshire fossil,” Smith said, “How’s your wife by the way?”
Thompson had been leaving his wife on and off for the past three years. He glared at Smith.
“Chalmers wants us in the conference room in ten minutes,” he said and quickly walked through to his office.
“Any messages?” Smith asked the woman behind the reception desk. She was new.
“Nothing sir,” she said, “Although PC Baldwin left a note that someone was looking for you yesterday.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the canteen sir.”
Smith walked through the doors of the canteen or at least where the doors used to be. Someone had removed them. PC Baldwin was sitting on her own next to the window.
“Morning Baldwin,” Smith said,” what happened to the doors?”
“Morning sir,” Baldwin said, “bright idea of the Super’s. Old Smyth thinks it will benefit us if the place is more open. He’s planning on removing all the doors so we’re not shut away from each other. We were forced to endure a two hour meeting yesterday. He calls it the dawn of a new era in policing. He reckons it will cut down on communication problems.”
“You can’t be serious?” Smith said.
“Afraid so sir.”
“I believe someone was looking for me yesterday?”
“A man.”
“Did he leave a name?”
“Thompson pretty much told him to bugger off sir. He said this wasn’t the place for personal matters.”
“That old fart would,” Smith said, “I’ll have a quiet word with him. Thanks Baldwin.”
Smith walked down the corridor to the conference room where, thankfully the doors were still on their hinges. Detective Constable Erica Whitton was sitting next to Thompson. Smith took the seat on the other side of her.
“How are you doing sir?” she asked.
“Bloody knackered Whitton,” he replied, “I hate funerals.”
“What was the turnout like?”
“Terrible. Me, Lucy and a few nosy bastards only there for the free food and booze. Old Whitey wasn’t exactly popular.”
“Sorry to hear that sir,” Whitton said, “I actually got to like him in the end.”
“Thanks Whitton. Thompson,” Smith leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t tell me someone was looking for me yesterday,” he said, “who was it?”
“Didn’t give a name,” Thompson said, “and I didn’t ask for one.”
“Thanks Thompson. Can you at least tell me what he looked like?”
“I don’t know. About fifty, nice tan. Thick black hair.”
“Anything else?” Smith sighed.
“His eyes,” Thompson said, “they were a weird bright blue colour; they didn’t look real.”
“And he didn’t say what he wanted?”
“No and I’m not your bloody secretary. He said he’d come back tomorrow. Today I mean.”
Detective Inspector Bob Chalmers barged through the doors into the room. He was obviously in a foul mood. He sat down in his usual seat at the top of the table. He was chewing on a large carrot.
“First things first,” he growled, “That’s the last time I’m going to be able to barge through those doors if the Super has anything to do with it. That dumb public school amoeba is determined that this station is going to be doorless if there is such a bloody word. Does anyone have anything to report?”
The room was silent.
“Good,” Chalmers grinned, “that’s how I like it. At this moment, we have what us sad gits in the force call a bit of a crime lull.”
“A what sir?” Thompson said.
“Exactly what I said Thompson. Crime is so low at the moment that I’m thinking of getting a few of you to get out there and rob a few banks. At least then we’ll have something to occupy our time and the pay is much better.”
He picked a piece of carrot from between his teeth.
“Are you telling us that there’s nothing going on?” Smith said, “Nothing at all?”
“There’s the usual petty stuff,” Chalmers said, “minor house breakings, students beating the crap out of each other, a suicide at the Royal York Hotel but not much to really test these brains of ours.”
“A suicide?” Smith’s ears pricked up.
“That’s right Smith. A businessman hung himself in his room.”
“Hanged sir,” Thompson said.
“What?” Chalmers looked annoyed.
“The correct word is hanged,” Thompson said, “it’s a common mistake.”
“Hung, hanged. What the hell does it matter, the poor bastard topped himself.”
“Are you sure it was suicide sir?” Smith asked, “Remember a few years ago? Lauren Cowley. The babysitter. She was drugged first and it was made to look like suicide.”
“He was found hanging by a length of cable,” Chalmers said, “suicide if you ask me.”
“Do you mind if I check it out anyway?” Smith asked, “It’s not like we have much else to work on.”
“Be my guest Smith,” Chalmers said, “you’re wasting your time though. I can tell you that right now.”
“Come on Whitton,” Smith said, “let’s get out of here before the Super has us removing doors.”
The Royal York Hotel stood in huge grounds on Station Parade right in the heart of the city. Smith parked his car in the car park at the front of the hotel.
“I’ve always wanted to stay here,” Whitton said as they walked through the entrance into reception.
“Hotels are depressing places Whitton,” Smith said, “look at these people. They’re all miserable.”
They approached the reception desk.
“Good morning,” the man behind the desk said, “welcome to York.” He had an American accent.
“Detective Sergeant Smith,” Smith said, “this is Detective Constable Whitton. We need to ask you a few questions about the suicide here.”
“Horrible thing to happen,” the receptionist said, “Poor man. What could be so bad that you have to end it all like that?”
“Who found him?” Smith asked.
“Mike, the general manager. Some old fart was smoking in his room and set off the alarm. Standard procedure is to evacuate the whole hotel. Mike had to check the rooms to see that everybody was out.”
“Where’s Mike now?”
“He’s on a break. You’ll probably find him in the hotel gardens. It’s the only place we’re allowed to smoke.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall, blonde. A bit like you actually.” The receptionist smiled, “you Australians all look alike to me.”
“How do we get to the gardens?” Smith asked.
“Go past reception and carry on straight. It’s well signed.”
“Come on Whitton,” Smith said.
“I think he liked you,” Whitton said as they walked outside.
“Rubbish Whitton,” Smith said, “that could be our man Mike over there.”
A tall blonde man was sitting under what looked like a covered bandstand. He had his head in his hands and as they got nearer, Smith was sure he had been crying.
“Are you the manager here?” Smith asked him.
The man jumped and stood up abruptly.
“Who are you?” he asked. His face was dirty and his eyes were red.
“Police,” Smi
th replied, “I need to ask you a few questions about the man you found hanging in his room.”
“It was awful,” Mike said. His accent was a mixture of Australian and Yorkshire.
“He was just hanging there. His eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget about it.”
“You will,” Smith said, “what did you do after you found him?”
“It was chaos.” Mike started to cry again.
“Take it easy,” Smith said. He could not bear it when men cried. “From the beginning. You found a man hanging in his room. What did you do next?”
“The fire alarm was going off. Some idiot had been smoking in his room. Pretty soon the fire brigade arrived.”
“Did you call the police?” Whitton asked.
“No,” Mike replied at once, “I phoned down to reception and got them to send a couple of fire fighters up.”
“Why did you do that?” Smith said.
“I thought they would be able to cut the man down.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Smith was becoming frustrated. “Please don’t tell me they cut him down without letting us lot have a look first? Don’t answer that.”
Smith took out his phone.
“Baldwin,” he said, “find out which fire brigade attended to the alarm at the Royal York last night and who cut down the man who was hanging in his room. Phone me back immediately.”
He rang off. Whitton and Mike looked at him in disbelief.
“Mike,” Smith said, “I need you to show me the room where the man died.
“Please,” Mike sobbed, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go inside that room ever again.”
“Get a grip Mike,” Smith said, “you’re giving Australians a bad name.”