‘Don’t worry,’ he says, teeth clenched, ‘I fully intend to.’ He nudges the broken door with the tip of his boot. ‘That’s going to cost me money, that is. I can’t rent the room out now, can I? Have you any idea what it’ll cost to replace? Course you ain’t, don’t bleedin’ well care either, do you? Next time, try asking nicely before you send the thugs in.’ He glowers as the last of the SWAT team retreat. ‘Bunch of muppets,’ he grumbles underneath his breath as they make their way downstairs to search the rest of the property.
‘Where is she, Mr Samson?’
‘Where’s who? Seriously, you think I’m a mind-reader on top of everything else, do you?’ His small, dark eyes settle on mine. ‘Whatever – whoever – you’re looking for, they ain’t here, are they? You got eyes, look,’ – he points – ‘the room, it’s empty.’
I can’t argue with him. There’s no sign of Erin inside the grotty single guest room, or of her ever having been there. It’sneat and clean – a bit too clean perhaps, judging by the overall standard of the place, and the overpowering smell of bleach.
‘We have reason to believe that a suspect wanted in connection with a recent murder has been staying here, at this address, in Room 7. Her name is Erin Santos. She’s a former inmate at Larksmere, convicted of manslaughter back in 2019.’
He glances up at me then. I could be mistaken, but I think I see a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
‘Did you check her in, Mr Samson?
‘The blonde, you mean? She wrote her name down in the guest book, paid cash, and I gave her a key, if that’s what you mean by “checked her in”.’
‘Can we see this guest register, Mr Samson?’ Davis asks, with a saccharine smile.
‘No, you can’t. You can piss off!’ He stomps down the stairs, back to the bar. Davis and I follow behind him.
‘The woman staying in Room 7, Mr Samson,’ I continue, ‘I’m right in saying that it was a woman who was staying here?’
He releases a long breath.
‘Man, woman, whatever you want to call yourself these days,’ – he shrugs – ‘I don’t pay too much notice, if you know what I mean, keep myself to myself. I spend most of my time here, behind the bar.’ He stops, pauses, lets out a breath.
‘Look, this is King’s Cross, right? Thousands of visitors come here every day, 365 days a year. I probably wouldn’t recognise any of the guests who’ve ever stayed here if you lined them all up next to each other.’
‘They’d recogniseyouthough, wouldn’t they, Mr Samson?’ Davis raises an eyebrow. She’s on form today.
He smirks. ‘Yeah, well, some things are worth remembering, ain’t they, sweetheart?’ He rakes his eyes over her, roughly shoves the guest book across the bar towards me. ‘There was this little blonde bird. Can’t remember her name, nor much abouther. She was staying in Room 7, but she checked out last night, and when I say “checked out”, I mean she left the key behind and I ain’t seen her since. Pity really, I was looking forward to having that scampi and chips…’
He appears to have a moment of reverie.
‘Scampi and chips?’
He snaps himself out of it as Davis flips open the guest book, which is basically a tatty, thumb-worn, old lined exercise book that you can buy in any newsagent’s.
‘All mod cons here, eh, Mr Samson?’ I remark, nodding at it.
He curls his lip at me. It makes him look even more menacing than his resting face already is.
‘You know, you two ought to do stand-up together,’ he says, ‘something to fall back on if the day jobs don’t work out, or maybe I should say,whenthey don’t. And I trust technology even less than I trust you feds,’ he sniffs, ‘which is saying something.’
I start flicking through the pages.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we ain’t the Dorchester. Here, people come and people go. I don’t ask questions and I stay out of other people’s business, something your lot should try doing once in a while. Anyway, the blonde. I think she said her name was Milly – Milly or Molly maybe.’
Davis and I exchange glances.
‘Ah, yes. Here she is.’ The name and date are roughly scribbled down in almost illegible handwriting. ‘Molly…Malcolm.’
Incidentally, I’d taken a surprise phone call from Malcolm while I was on the way here to the Bull and Barrow. I was hoping he had something useful to tell me, but as it was, he simply wanted to ask me to pass on a message.Like I haven’t got enough to do.
‘Have you found her yet, Mr Riley? Have you found Erin?’ His voice sounded sad and urgent. I feel as if somehow, in amongst all of this mess, these two people – Malcolm and Erin – genuinely seem to have connected with each other. I feel a bit choked when I think about it, about what might’ve been if things were different. Maybe I’m going soft in my old age.
‘Not yet, Malcolm, but we’re working on it. Haveyouheard from Erin? Has she tried to contact you, or Molly perhaps?’
‘No.’ The disappointment hung heavy in his voice. ‘Nothing. And I don’t know about Molly, for some reason she isn’t speaking to me at the moment. I’ve no idea why, or what I’ve done wrong.’
