‘Dunlop & Finch, private bank,’ Birdie reads. ‘How convenient – round the corner from the hotel.’
Two men hurry towards them in suits, one with a worried expression. ‘Lunch with Snellgrave today,’ Manon hears him say to his friend as they go past.
The top-hatted doorman outside the Carlton Mayfair greets them with a broad smile and a door held open.
‘I’m going to talk to the concierge,’ says Manon.
‘Shall I get us a table over there?’ Birdie asks, looking towards the lounge. ‘A pot of tea won’t do any harm, as we’re here …’
‘I’d check you can afford it first,’ Manon says.
She parts ways with Birdie and approaches the sepia-mirrored concierge desk, behind which five suited men stand in a row, waiting to serve.
‘How may I help you, madam?’ says the first with a slight bow.
She shows her badge. There is a frisson along the line, like a row of pigeons lifting at the blow of a horn. They flap back down.
‘I’d like to ask for some guest information relating to the night of July the nineteenth last year,’ she says.
‘Perhaps you would like to follow me,’ says her concierge.
She is taken to a black door with yet another brass plaque, this one saying ‘Manager’.
‘You have got to try the toilets,’ Birdie is saying ten minutes later, at a round table set with art deco cups and saucers, delicate in mint green with silver leaf; a sugar bowl with tongs.
‘Have I?’
‘It’s like the most comfy living room ever: big armchairs, mirrors, lovely table lamps and fancy hand-wash – smell.’ Birdie holds out the back of her hand for Manon to sniff.
‘Mmm, nice.’
‘Madam?’ says a waiter bearing a pillow. Manon looks up at him, confused.
‘He’s going to plump you,’ says Birdie. ‘Lean forward.’
The waiter places a cushion behind Manon’s back and she leans into it. For the first time in weeks, the small of her back isn’t pulsating with pain. She is insanely comfortable.
‘Wait till you taste the water,’ says Birdie. ‘So delicious – iced with lemon.’
Voices from surrounding tables lap at the shore of theirs, an array of accents: French, African, Russian, Estuary English. An effeminate voice says, ‘I think we can make it very chic and coordinated.’ She looks at its originator. He has tattoo sleeves and earring studs like chocolate buttons. Fashion, Manon thinks.
‘I might sell Payless and stay here for a week,’ says Birdie.
‘And then what?’ asks Manon.
‘That would clean me out.’
‘We would require such a request in writing,’ the manager said, ‘with your evidence for suspicion of criminal activity having taken place at the Carlton Mayfair. You understand, I’m sure, we cannot allow the police to go fishing, speculatively so to speak. Our clients are high-net-worth individuals who greatly value their privacy. They entrust us with their personal details …’
Manon just wanted to get away from the manager and his stupid dance. He was clearly adept at sidestepping, having sharpened up his non-compliance techniques. She rose and was backing out of the room, when she heard Birdie yell across the lobby, ‘Mini Battenbergs! They’ve got mini Battenbergs!’
‘I believe your friend is calling for you,’ the manager said with an oily smile.
Birdie is taking one now, saying, ‘And those round shortbreads, they’ve got salt in. Amazing.’
‘We’re not getting anywhere here, except racking up a massive bill,’ Manon says.
‘It’s not that big actually. Seven fifty for a coffee, with free biscuits. I call that a bargain. Sandwiches are thirty quid, mind. I’ve been chatting to Artem, the chap who plumped you? He said his friend Joaquín – not Joaquín Phoenix unfortunately – he works in the service bay. He’ll have a chat with us when he comes on shift in twenty minutes. He’s night staff, so he might remember something.’
‘You know that Mr Kipling makes mini Battenbergs,’ says Manon.
‘Not like this he doesn’t.’
‘How I remember one night from six month ago?’ asks Joaquín, smoking on the back lane outside the loading bay. Behind a congestion of white vans (one delivering catering supplies, another a plumber’s called West One Bathrooms) are three metal garage doors which open to reveal the bowels of the hotel. Silver tubing, intestinal-looking, runs along the ceiling; crates line the wall. Manon casts about for cameras, out of habit, then remembers they are way outside the turnaround for CCTV.
She says, ‘The people we’re interested in booked the penthouse suite for a delegation of Chinese businessmen. This was July the nineteenth.’
‘Chinese here all the time,’ says Joaquín, sucking on his tiny nub of roll-up. ‘I don’t know who book penthouse, this not my area.’
Manon presses on, without much hope: ‘That night, a girl called Jade Canning died in the penthouse and her body was removed from the hotel, probably through here.’
‘We keep log,’ Joaquín says. ‘Vans she go in, out of back. Come.’
He opens the door to a tiny room and switches on the strip light. Just outside the door, Manon whispers to Birdie, ‘Why is he helping us?’
Birdie whispers back, ‘Said you’d help with his cousin’s immigration papers.’
‘You did what?’
Birdie shrugs.
Joaquín is flicking back through a lined A4 book with hardback blue cover. ‘July nineteenth … Oh – here. Early morning of twentieth. Van she is leaving 2 a.m. Registration KC55 YFY.’
‘Can I photograph the page please?’ Manon says, taking out her phone. She doesn’t want the management getting rid of this.
‘I remember this,’ Joaquín says, looking down at the page with Manon. She scrutinises his face, but it is slack, without guile – as if he really has just remembered.
How can he possibly remember one vehicle at 2 a.m. six months ago, when he must see dozens go through here?
‘I remember – I never see this driver and his friend before. We know everybody who come here – some suppliers, some trades. We chat, say hello. Know first names. Some are family. They stop, have smoke, drink, game of cards sometimes. The fruit guy, he my cousin. But these guy … Latvian I think. Or Russian. They put rug in back of van – Persian one, from hotel. Maybe it had stain or something. I say, “What in there, dead body?” This is my joke. I think, why you take rug out at 2 a.m. like emergency? I think, maybe manager want it back quick. Customer very fussy in this place. Maybe client want rug be cleaned in night. This kind of shit we deal with all the time.’
Davy
‘Bez komentaˉriem,’ says the big fella, the muscle man, for the umpteenth time. He looks bored, big arms folded across his chest – so biceped they will only just cross. His gaze to the floor like he’s just waiting. Bez komentaˉriem. No comment in Latvian.
His name is Juris. He was caught by the marvellous boys in blue, who crawled all over Seven Sisters like ants on jam.
‘How do you know Giles Carruthers?’
‘Bez komentaˉriem.’
‘Have you ever met this man?’ Davy slides forward a photograph of Jon-Oliver Ross.
‘Bez komentaˉriem.’
‘What is your relationship to the private bank Dunlop & Finch?’