hammered louder.
“Come on, Sid, put your pants on….” She rattled the knob.
The door opened. “Sid?” Hazel said casually, “You in here?” Hazel stepped inside.
The hotel room was just a hotel room. Hazel had seen so many. Double bed in the corner, made. Cheap but clean and neat furniture. A small television set and a wall connector for the internet. Sid’s laptop was plugged in. Plugged in and switched off, she noted.
“Sid?” her voice was less casual now and she’d flipped her coat back to expose her equipment belt. It was then she realised she could still smell the tralk’s perfume. In fact it seemed as strong in her as it had been outside. “You had a woman in here, Sid?” Hazel wasn’t concerned about tralks. There was another smell, much fainter, but far more familiar to her. The strong smelling perfume pretty much covered it up. But it was there. Hazel would know it anywhere. She’d smelled it first when she was fourteen years old.
She slipped the Sestra out of its holster. At fourteen her grandfather had enrolled her at the Skeggs Field gun club. Hazel knew the smell of gunpowder or whatever modern chemicals passed for gunpowder these days. She had smelled it almost every day for twenty years.
“Sid?” She could see no one. No signs of struggle. But these rooms came with an ensuite bathroom. The door at the end. It was closed. Hazel moved slowly over, and to one side.
She listened. Nothing. Reaching out she grasped the bathroom door handle and turned. It gave easily. She pushed but held her position. The door swung inwards.
She could smell it stronger now. Perfume, gunpowder, and…..blood….body fluids.
“Oh, Sid.” She holstered the pistol. “Sid.”
He sat on the lino floor. In a pool of his own body fluids and waste. He’d been shot twice. A stain over his chest and his head tilted back where the second bullet had hit him between the eyes.
On the floor between them lay the murder weapon. A stubby, compact revolver. Smith Wesson, Hazel noted. Small, light, easy to conceal.
Easy to hide in a bag.
“Frell” She said viciously. Hazel turned and ran down the corridor. “Frelling tralk.”
She spun around the turn to the stairs and was haring down them at full speed hoping no unsuspecting member of staff was coming the other way. Of course the tralk had been to see Sid, who else? She kicked herself mentally for her sluggishness. Think, you stupid bitch, think.
Hazel bounded out onto the main reception area, getting several surprised looks from people who looked like tourists.
Yes, like the tralk looked like a tralk.
Stupid.
The receptionist, as surprised as anyone, looked up as Hazel, all 1.8 metres of her, loomed overhead. “Where did she go?”
“Who? What…where did who go?”
“The tralk…the woman who went to see Mr Fuller before me. Where is she?”
“Upstairs, I expect. What is going on? If you don’t tell me I’ll have to call the police. We are usually….”
“I am the police.” Hazel waved her identification in the woman’s face. “Just tell me where she went.”
By now this had attracted a small crowd. The receptionist said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The young woman is still upstairs. She’s not come down here. I’d notice. She was….” she lowered her voice, “…very noticeable…Sergeant..Vernon.” She was trying to read Hazel’s ID.
“She was coming down when I was on the second floor.” Hazel looked around, “You must have seen her.”
“I have not, and I would have seen her. You couldn’t miss her.”
This was true, the tralk had been very noticeable….far too noticeable.
“Sod.” Hazel said viciously and, ignoring the onlookers, and any comment they made, tore back up the stairs at a rate of knots.
The tralk had been waiting for the lift when Hazel last saw her, but waiting for the lift and taking it were very different things. How long did it take for the lift to arrive? What was Hazel doing while this was going on?
Hazel had her back to the tralk. Hazel was far more concerned with Sid Fuller.
At the top of the stairs, alone once more. Hazel stopped. She crossed to the lift. The tralk stood just here To the right was the corridor she had just come down. It was, technically, possible she may have gone into another room. Hazel looked left.
Alternatively…..
The fire exit. That was very well marked and an emergency door operated by a large locking bar, easy to find in a smoke filled environment. Hazel grasped the bar and lifted. She pushed.
As it should, the emergency door swung open.
Hazel stepped out onto the fire escape landing and looked down.
A pair of high heels, impractical to walk in, lay on the cold, damp metal.
Hazel sighed and took out her police radio to call in the incident.
* *
“It’s been renovated.” Martin Ross said. He tended to lose his Scottish accent when dealing with paying customers. Today he kept it, He patted the side of the static caravan. “All mod cons. Usually we get the tourist trade you see.” He made a vague gesture off in the direction of the other caravans. Given the weather in this town he was sometimes amazed at just how popular this caravan site was. But then no one, if they knew anything at all about Temple Caneston, came here for the weather.
Except that American couple four years ago who lived out in some mid western desert. They had loved all the rain. “You do know you don’t have to stay here. We’ve plenty of room at the house.”
The blonde shook her head, “You know the trouble there would be. I really don’t fancy going back there. I’m a little surprised I’m allowed to stay here.” She leaned against the caravan, “Really. I’m fine in this old thing.”
“Think of it as an oldie but a goodie. I know it’s not quite the size of some of the others.” A number of the caravans owned by the guests were hotel rooms on wheels. A few camper vans mixed humbly with their more expensive cousins. “But it’s not exactly tiny either. You know what they say, Size isn’t important.” He gauged his laughter carefully. The joke was old, slightly crude, and far from original.
“It’s always nice to have plenty of room.” She said, mildly amused by the joke She studied the caravan exterior. It was a plain white with red accents here and there. Ross had been busy with the power washer, cleaning and polishing. The caravan hadn’t been empty for very long, a few days at most, but he was keen to have it occupied once again and get a few euros coming in for it. “Do I get the garden too?” . Ross hadn’t seen her for years. Not since she had been married. Now here she was again, turning up out of the blue. In some ways a total stranger. But so familiar.
