Chapter 1
“Beatrice Stubbs speaking.”
“Hi, Beatrice, it’s Theo. I’m calling from a phone box because I need to look at my mobile at the same time. I think I found our guy.”
“Have you? How come?”
“For someone who’s just done a runner with a wodge of his company’s cash, he’s not trying very hard to hide. He just posted a picture of a canal on Instagram. I found the spot and it’s in the centre of Bruges, not more than an hour away from Brussels. He’s also using a running app and shares data on his best times, speeds and so on. He went for a run around Bruges early this morning, starting and ending at the same spot. It’s a hostel within walking distance of the main train station. Do you want the address or just the phone number?”
“Both, please. I’d better go in person and get photographic evidence of the man. Good work, Theo. I’ll go get some snaps, report to the client and return to London. That was one of the easiest jobs yet, thanks to my brilliant assistant.”
“All part of the service. See you when you get home.”
The train to Bruges was half-empty, a fact which pleased Beatrice. She spread out her paperwork at a table of four, not because she needed it, but just to deter anyone from joining her during the next hour. Her first task was to make a call.
“Banque Franck et Schneider, Christopher Sheldon speaking.”
“Mr Sheldon, Beatrice Stubbs here. It seems the missing item has turned up.”
“Just a minute.” He put her on hold. “You still there?”
“I am,” she confirmed, eyeing her tuna and egg sandwich.
“You found Das?”
“I believe so. My colleague managed to pinpoint his physical location via some kind of running app. I don’t have proof he’s still there, but I do know he was at a hostel in Bruges earlier today.”
She heard an intake of breath. “Bruges? Do you have an address?”
“Yes. I intend to travel there this afternoon.”
“No need. Where are you now?” he asked, his tone terse.
“At the train station. Why?”
Sheldon dropped his voice. “I’ll take it from here. Send me the details via message then delete it from your phone. I’ll pay you the rest of your fee this afternoon. Thanks, you did a good job.”
Beatrice frowned. “The job is not yet complete. I can’t be sure he’s at the same address. I will check in person and send you photographic proof.”
“As I said, no need for that. Just send me the details and take the next Eurostar to London. Gotta go, thanks again. Please remember what I said about discretion.”
The train was already pulling out of Brussels Centraal and Beatrice quite fancied a potter round the mediaeval town of Bruges, so ignored the man’s advice. She sent him the details of the hostel and proceeded with her plan. First point of action, eat her sandwich. With nothing to sustain her since the full English on the Eurostar earlier that morning, she was absolutely starving.
The walk to the one-star accommodation was inspiring, like being in a Hans Christian Andersen story. All the pretty little canals and gabled roofs were exactly as she’d pictured and she dallied on a bench for several minutes to watch the autumnal sunshine play on the water. Climbing plants dipped tendrils on the canal’s surface, rippling with the wash of passing boats and screening a pair of swans. The skyline presented a hotchpotch of chimney pots, spires and turrets while a bridge’s reflection in the now-still water gave the illusion of a perfect ellipse. She found it completely charming, but the October air was chilly and she pressed on with her mission, reaching Hostel Herribert forty minutes after leaving the train.
It was a bleak-looking building, in dire need of a paint job since the shutters leaked varnish or paint, so that each window looked as if its mascara had run. It gave the place a sad, unloved air and would put most people off. Unlike most of its neighbours, not a single light showed the place was inhabited. Beatrice walked past twice, assessing its size and potential number of rooms. There was no movement either in or out, and most windows had net curtains, meaning she could see precious little of the interior or its inhabitants. Nothing for it but to go inside.
Reception was a recycled bar plonked in front of an office. She cleared her throat several times to announce her presence, but to no effect. An unpleasant smell permeated the air, like compost or rot, and she made up her mind to act and get out. It seemed as if the place was abandoned until she caught sight of an elderly lady in the sitting room. She was positioned so she could see out of the window and into the corridor simultaneously. Beatrice nodded and attempted to make her enquiry in French. “Bonjour, Madame. Je cherche le propriétaire.”
The woman nodded in return and pointed with an unsteady hand down the corridor. From the rear of the ground floor, Beatrice detected a voice. She thanked the little lady and followed the sound. Through the frosted glass of the kitchen door, she saw a man pacing and talking on the phone. She couldn’t understand a word and assumed he was speaking Flemish. Intent on his conversation, he sounded furious but maybe that was the nature of the language. She retreated into the shadowy corridor. Behind the reception desk was a ledger, so old-fashioned it could have come from a Dickens novel. Making sure she stayed out of sight of the elderly woman and with one ear on the voice at the end of the corridor, Beatrice leaned over for a closer look. Six rooms: two downstairs, three up and one in the attic. Reading upside down, Beatrice was puzzled to see the attic room was significantly cheaper than the others, but what interested her most was the name of the occupant – S. Das. Found him! The voice from the kitchen grew angrier and the sound of a fist thumping some kind of surface reached her ears.
She climbed the stairs, noting the stink was less offensive the higher she got. On the first floor, she stopped to listen for any noise behind these less-than-stout doors. Total silence. The shouting man had gone quiet, so Beatrice tiptoed up to the attic, aware she was trespassing. As she ascended, she assessed her situation. She needed a photograph of Sonny Das to prove she had located him. At the same time, if some strange woman knocked on his door and snapped his image, he would immediately guess who she was working for and take flight.
Her best option would be to pretend she was a maid and offer to clean his room. If he was in situ, he’d most likely send her away. Then in lieu of a photograph, she would have to call her employer and give a physical description as the next best thing. If Das wasn’t in residence, she’d go outside and wait somewhere inconspicuous until he returned, catching a shot as he entered the building. Maids didn’t carry handbags or wear grey trouser suits, however. She would need some sort of disguise.
Before she had even stepped onto the second floor, she could see the door to the attic room was ajar, light spilling in a parallelogram onto the floor outside. She stopped, eyes and ears alert. Apart from traffic noise rumbling from the street below, all was silent. She took two paces closer, leaning to the right to see further into the attic. A corner of the bed, a window and some ratty carpet told her nothing. Then she saw the chair, fallen on its side. Beatrice’s training as a detective with the Met enabled her to jump ahead, preparing her for the most likely explanation. She steeled herself and pushed open the door with the toe of her boot.
Even though she expected it, the sight caused her to catch her breath. Sonny Das, wearing only a vest and underpants, dangled from the ceiling, a rope suspending him by the neck.
She’d seen worse. This must have been recent, as there were no signs of decay. It was even feasible the man was still alive. She ran into the room, righted the chair and stood on it to check his pulse. Nothing. Although his body was still warm. This man had died less than an hour ago.
Her running footsteps must have alerted the shouty bloke downstairs. His laboured breathing announced his approach. Beatrice went on the attack and met him on the landing, brandishing her ID.
“Beatrice Stubbs, Private Investigator. We have a suspected suicide in this room. Seal the staircase immediately and call the police.”
The man wore a shabby brown cardigan. His hair was white and tissue-thin. Watery blue eyes stared at her without comprehension.
“Do you speak English? Police! Polizei! Policía!” She mimed picking up a telephone. “Emergency!” She pushed open the door and pointed at the dead man.
Cardigan-Man’s eyes widened in horror and he backed away, clutching his hands to his own throat. Beatrice gave up on the useless old duffer and called the police on her mobile.
“Police, please, I’d like to report a death. Hostel Herribert, on Vestingstraat, top floor. It seems someone has committed suicide. Sorry? Oh, yes, of course. I’m a private investigator. My name is Beatrice Stubbs.”
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