She stepped back to usher them into the narrow hallway. 'I'm afraid it's a little untidy,' she added, apologetically. 'My son—'

  The small sitting room looked far tidier than Murrain's own house ever managed. The only visible signs of recent human occupation were a folded copy of The Sun on a formica coffee table and a pair of new-looking trainers left incongruously in the middle of the carpet. Mrs Berenek picked them up disdainfully and tucked them behind the sofa. 'Can I get you some tea?'

  'No, thanks. We won't keep you any longer than we need to.' Murrain lowered himself on to one end of the sofa, and watched as Sparrow, having considered the available seating options, chose a high-backed wooden chair by the window. He had the air of someone who'd been thrown unexpectedly into a totally alien environment.

  Mrs Berenek perched on the front edge of an armchair facing Murrain. 'How can I help you?'

  'We understand you were on duty over the weekend?'

  She nodded. 'I do the day shift at the weekend. Eight till five, usually. Mr Callaghan likes to have someone experienced there for the weddings and other events. It's usually our busiest time.' She spoke good English, with only the faintest trace of a foreign accent. Murrain wondered how long she'd been living in the UK.

  He'd normally have delegated this kind of interview to more junior members of the team. Sparrow and his colleagues had spent most of the afternoon systematically interviewing the hotel staff and remaining guests, and were now making telephone contact with the guests who'd checked out that morning before the body was discovered. In principle, the interview with Ivana Berenek was simply another in that sequence.

  But Murrain, being Murrain, was keen to meet face to face with the one witness who had, as far as they knew, actually met the killer. He wanted to look her directly in the eye, hear what she had to say, listen to the sound of her voice. So he'd left Milton busy overseeing the establishment of the Incident Room and the collation of the information they'd gathered to date, and headed down here with Will Sparrow for company.

  'So you were working on Saturday afternoon?'

  'Yes, it was busy. We had a big wedding. A big buffet, you know, and then the disco in the evening. People coming and going. The wedding guests who were staying wanted to get checked into their rooms. And then we had another party arrive. A hen party. They'd already been drinking, I think. It was chaos.' She looked momentarily exhausted even from describing it.

  The killer had picked his moment, Murrain thought. 'Do you remember checking other people in on the Saturday afternoon? I mean, apart from the wedding and the hen party.'

  She nodded and tapped the side of her forehead. 'I have a good memory. There were four other couples checked in, I think. I know that because all the wedding guests had a discounted rate, so I remember the ones who were not part of that.'

  'Do you remember checking in a Mr James?'

  She frowned. 'I don't remember names so well.'

  'We think he paid in cash upfront, rather than using a credit card. Does that ring any bells?'

  Her face brightened. 'Oh, yes. I remember that. He kept trying to use his card, but it was refused by the system. He said that he'd been having problems with it for a few days so he'd taken out some cash just in case.'

  'That must be unusual?'

  'We get older customers who want to pay cash, but it's not common. People sometimes have problems with their cards but we usually sort it out. They use an alternative card or they contact the bank, or whatever.'

  'So Mr James will have stuck in your mind?' Murrain was watching her carefully. He'd half-expected a recurrence of the sensation he'd experienced in the hotel but so far there was nothing. No connection.

  'He'd have stuck in my head anyway,' she said. 'I mean, not his name. But the way he looked.'

  'Go on.'

  She closed her eyes, as if trying to summon back the memory. By the window, Sparrow was frantically scribbling notes though Murrain had no idea what he might be writing. 'There was something odd about him. Something not quite right.'

  Finally, as she said that, Murrain sensed something. Some image that refused to come into focus. Some sound he couldn't quite recognise. He could almost taste the incongruity she was describing. 'Tell me what he looked like. As best you can.'

  She closed her eyes again. 'He was—medium height. Not as tall as you. Maybe as tall as your colleague.' She gestured towards Sparrow. 'His hair was dark. Black or very dark brown. Quite long.' She paused. 'That was one of the things that seemed not right. The hair. I wondered if it was perhaps a wig. Or perhaps just dyed. But, you know, not quite natural.'

  Murrain nodded, encouraging her to go on. If it had been a wig, then her description, however good it might be, wouldn't get them very far.

  'He had glasses. The kind that turn into sunglasses, you know.'

  'Photochromic,' Sparrow offered from across the room. 'I used to wear them. Before I got contacts.'

  'He'd come in from the sunshine,' she said. 'So they were still quite dark. I couldn't see his eyes properly.'

  'Was he clean-shaven?' By now, Murrain was half-expecting that 'Mr James' might also have been wearing a false beard.

  'Yes. He looked—quite young. Not much more than a boy.'

  Murrain judged that Mrs Berenek was in her early sixties. Her definition of youth was probably even more elastic than his own. 'How old would you say?'

  'I don't know. Mid-twenties, maybe.' She stopped again, and Murrain could see she was thinking. 'That was another odd thing,' she said. 'He dressed older than he looked, if you see what I mean. His clothes looked middle-aged.'

  'Young people can still dress smartly,' Murrain said. 'Like your son for example.' He'd intended it as a mildly ingratiating compliment, but Mrs Berenek's reaction was almost one of disgust. 'Hah. That one. Takes after his father.'

  Murrain thought it wiser not to enquire more deeply. 'But when you say his clothes looked middle-aged—?' he prompted.

  'I'm not sure how to describe it. He had a big raincoat, and a suit with, you know, stripes.' She waved a hand in the air to illustrate a vertical stripe. 'He was wearing a tie—blue and white stripes, I think. It looked like it might be something official, like a club or a college or something. I don't know. The whole effect just seemed old. Not the clothes you'd expect a young man to be wearing.'

  Murrain nodded. 'You've a very good memory, Mrs Berenek. I wish all our witnesses provided this level of detail. If you don't mind, I'd like to sit you down with one of our experts to put together a detailed description and perhaps a photofit picture.'

  The anxiety had returned to her expression. 'I would have to come to the police station?'

  'That would be best,' Murrain said. 'But we can drive you in and bring you home, or take you there from work tomorrow. I'm sure Mr Callaghan won't mind.'

  She was still looking worried. 'OK. I am keen to help you. You believe this Mr James is your murderer?'

  'He checked into the room where the killing occurred,' Murrain said, carefully. 'That's all we know at the moment.' He stopped to allow her a moment to recover herself. 'Do you remember anything about the person who was with this Mr James?'

  For a second, she looked puzzled. 'There was no one with him,' she said.

  Murrain glanced across at Sparrow who was still engrossed in his note-taking. 'You mean he checked in as a single guest?' The check-in card, he recalled, had referred to 'Mr and Mrs James'.

  'No, sorry. I am not being clear. He checked in with his wife. But she was not there. Not when he checked in.'

  'Did he say where she was?' The sensation he'd felt was still there, no stronger or weaker than before. He felt, as he did so often, as if there were some understanding or knowledge that was tantalisingly out of reach.

  'He said he'd left her in the town centre, shopping. He said she loved it and he hated it so he'd left her to get on with it while he checked in for a rest. He was supposed to be picking her back up at around five. I didn't think much of it at the time. I was more intrigued to see what sort of woman would have married such an odd man.'

  'You didn't see them come back later?'

  'I went off at five—well, probably half-past before I got away. There was a lot to hand over, you know? I didn't even see him go out again, if it was before I went off. But it was very busy. I was probably in the middle of dealing with someone else when he went past. It was young Michelle on the desk after me. She might have seen something.'

  'We'll check,' Murrain said. The Michelle in question would no doubt be on their list of interviewees, and might already have been seen. He'd have to make sure that this was checked out with her. But it seemed more likely the whole story was a fiction. That there had been no wife, shopping or otherwise. Which took them back to the question of who the victim was and how she'd ended up in the killer's room.

  They'd taken nothing for granted, of course, but until now their working assumption had been that the killer and the victim had arrived together. That they'd been, in whatever strange sense, a couple. But if that wasn't the case, it opened up new possibilities, some of them far from comfortable.

  'Thank you, Mrs Berenek. That's been most helpful.' He made a move to rise. 'We'll be in touch about getting a more formal statement and description from you.' He registered the way her hands tightened on the arms of the sofa. 'It really is just a formality. But an observant witness like yourself could make all the difference in catching whoever did this.'

  'Yes, of course. I will do my best to help.'

  'We're very grateful.' Murrain stood in silence for a moment while Sparrow packed his notebook and pen into his briefcase. 'Your son seemed in a hurry. Was he off out?'

  Mrs Berenek shook her head. Her expression had hardened and it was impossible to decipher it. 'He tells me nothing. Work, I think.'

  'Ah. What line of work is he in?'

  She was already at the front door. 'Like I say, he tells me nothing.'

  Murrain followed her into the hallway. 'Children,' he said, aiming for a light-hearted tone. 'It's always the way, isn't it? Only come running when they want something.'

  She opened the door in what was unmistakably a gesture of dismissal. 'He will get nothing from me.'

  Murrain was on the point of offering some rejoinder, but then he caught her expression. 'Well, thank for your time, Mrs Berenek. We'll be in touch.'

  As they walked back to the car, Murrain risked a glance over his shoulder. Mrs Berenek was still standing at her front door, as if to ensure that they really had departed. 'What was that all about?'

  Sparrow shrugged. 'Other families are always a mystery.'

  Murrain watched while Sparrow fumbled for the car keys. 'Do me a favour, though, Will. When we get back, run Berenek and his car reg through the PNC. See if we've anything on him.'

  'You think he might have something to do with this?'

  'I can't see it, can you? But there might be something there that's of interest to us. Worth a look, anyway.'

  Murrain paused for a moment and looked back to where Mrs Berenek was still standing. The sensation was stronger now. Something in the air, taking shape.

  Definitely worth a look.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  'Think we're just about there.'

  'That's good, Paul. Then all we have left to do is catch the killer.'

  It took DS Wanstead a moment to realise that, as so often, Milton was joking. 'Bugger off, Joe. I've been working my socks off this afternoon.'

  'No, I can see that. Seriously, you've done a bloody good job.' He waved Marie Donovan forward to meet the florid-faced DS. 'Come and meet DS Paul Wanstead. Kenny thinks I'm the bureaucrat, but Paul's the only truly organised person we have round here. Paul, this is Marie Donovan, who we hope is coming to work with us.'

  Wanstead was probably only a little older than Donovan herself but had the air of an old-school copper. He was overweight and dressed in clothes that, in varying degrees, seemed either too large or too small for his bulky frame. He managed somehow to look both physically uncomfortable and yet entirely at ease. 'Please to meet you,' he said. His gaze moved up and down her body with an expression that stayed marginally on the right side of salacious. 'Hope you don't regret the decision. Where are you coming from?'

  'The NCA,' she said. 'On secondment. That's if everyone can swing it.'

  Wanstead raised an eyebrow. 'Thought the traffic was all the other way,' he said. 'You're supposed to be the elite.'

  'Not sure it works that way,' she said. 'Depends what sort of policing you want to do. Anyway, it's a long story.'

  'Well, look forward to working with you, if you haven't changed your mind now you've met Joe.'

  'We'll see.' She smiled. 'I've been impressed so far.'

  'Paul's going to be the Office Manager for the case,' Milton said. 'He's done all the real work in getting the MIR set up today.' He gestured towards the array of desks and equipment that filled the Incident Room. 'Like I say, a bloody good job.'

  The place certainly looked well-organised. There were rows of workstations and computer terminals, a line of filing cabinets, two electronic whiteboards and a couple of traditional notice-boards. Everything the modern murder enquiry could want. 'You got the staffing sorted, Paul?'

  'Still waiting to hear back on who Admin are going to provide, but other than that I think it's all in place.'

  'That's good.' He turned to Donovan. 'You wouldn't believe how difficult it is even getting the basics in place sometimes. Everybody says it's a priority, but in this place everything's a priority. Mind you, it's easier now we're here. We'd never had got a room like this in the old station.' The force had moved a couple of years earlier to share accommodation with the local authority. Everyone had complained about the move and many continued to complain about the proximity to non-police staff, but most acknowledged that the new building provided a substantially better working environment. Even if, as Donovan had discovered, its meeting rooms did not always offer easy access to the casual visitor.

  She'd come back up here with Milton because she was still keen to find out more about how this team worked. In particular, she wanted to find out more about Murrain. She'd asked a few questions on the journey back but Milton had deftly batted them away with non-committal responses. In any case, he'd been on the hands-free for much of the drive, getting an update from Murrain on the visit to Mrs Berenek and from Paul Wanstead about the general progress of the investigation.

  'Anything new, then, Paul?' he asked, now, though it was only fifteen minutes or so since they'd spoken over the phone.

  'What do you think? Same old same old. Nothing significant coming out of the interviews so far. Still waiting on the reports from the SOCOs and the doc.'

  'Still no clues to the victim's identity?' Donovan asked Wanstead.

  'Nothing. We've been checking back through all the Manchester mispers for the last year or so. There are one or two possible matches that we're following up, but nothing that leaps out at you. There've been no relevant reported missing persons in the last few days as far as we can see, not even nationally, though obviously we're still getting up to date info from other forces on that.'

  'What about the hotel guests? Or even the staff?' Milton asked. 'Any chance that anyone's gone missing there? Given what this Berenek woman told Kenny.'

  'Yeah, that's a scary thought, right enough. If the killer and the victim weren't an unhappy couple and the killer checked in by himself, it does raise the question of how he got her into the room, doesn't it? Difficult to see how he could have dragged her through the whole hotel against her will.'

  'Which suggests,' Milton said, 'that either she went there willingly, or he didn't have to drag her very far.'

  'We're going through the hotel guests and the staff to double-check that. But it's hard to see how someone could have disappeared without being missed.'

  'I don't know. I mean, weddings are always a mix and match of groups that don't really know each other. The bride's relatives. The groom's relatives. Bride and groom's own friends who don't know any of the relatives. People from their workplaces who don't really know anyone. You know what I mean. If someone was on their own, they might vanish and people would just think they'd slipped off or crashed out early. It's possible.'

  Wanstead gave a visible shudder. 'I've never liked hotels. Something unnatural about all those strangers sleeping so close together.'

  Milton regarded him curiously. 'You know, Paul, I get new insights into your character every day. We'll need to think about the CCTV footage as well. See if there's any footage of our Mr James checking in or sign of the two of them coming into the hotel or in reception. We've assumed they spent the night in that room together, but I suppose it's conceivable she might have come early Sunday morning.'

  'Much less likely,' Wanstead said. 'Hotel normally locks up overnight. Midnight in the week but not till one am at the weekend. Wedding festivities officially finished at midnight and there was some to-ing and fro-ing after that, but apparently the doors were locked at one as usual. Then reopened at six. We've interviewed the night porter. He's sure no-one came into the hotel between one and six. He was on the desk then till he went off duty at eight. Says it was even quieter than most Sunday mornings. He saw no-one at all apart from staff coming on duty, until the first guests started drifting down to breakfast around seven-thirty.'

  'Makes sense,' Milton said. 'Still, we should check the CCTV for the whole period.'

  'Already got someone working on that. It's not great quality. Cheap digital cameras. But they've got several, covering the main doors, rear fire exits, car parks, as well as reception. Usual stuff. But they're fairly visible. If someone wanted to avoid them, it wouldn't be difficult.'

  'That was my impression, too. And given how thorough this guy was at clearing up after himself, I'm not investing too much hope in his carelessness.' He shook his head. 'Still, it's the only way to go. Hope for a chink of light somewhere.'

  'Yup,' Wanstead said. 'Either that, or wait till Kenny goes off with the fairies.'

 

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