The wind tormented the branches of the trees, bending their boughs and ripping leaves from their stems. The weather forecasters had predicted a storm and this time they had been accurate. Jakub Woźniak clung to the handlebars of his bicycle as he navigated the lane he travelled every day at 4 a.m. A gust knocked into his side, threatening to sweep him into the hedgerow, but Jakub, refusing to be beaten by the weather, sank further onto his saddle and pedalled on, hunched over the bike like a vulture waiting to swoop on a dead animal.
His mind swam with troubled thoughts; his wife, Emily, had learned she was to lose her job as a receptionist, and soon there would only be his salary coming in until she could find more employment. It was so difficult to find work. In the old country he had worked as a clerk for the police in Wyszków, some fifty-five kilometres north-east of Warsaw, on the highway to Bialystok. It was not the most exciting job: he was responsible for checking various databases; recording and modifying offences in relation to road traffic incidents; logging collisions and accidents and corresponding with the insurance companies. However, he earned a decent salary that, over there, would have fed a family, paid for a house and allowed for holidays each year.
Love had caused him to leave his homeland and follow his heart to the Staffordshire countryside where he had queued with other world-weary hopefuls at the social welfare office every week for months, looking and hoping for employment, only to be turned away. Week after week, he scrolled through websites and sent off his CV to be considered for a position, yet he never even made it to an interview. Gradually, his enthusiasm had been sucked away. It hadn’t helped that he’d found the English language almost impossible to learn. Even after eighteen months in the country, he could still only master basic sentences. Luckily, Emily had found him this position or he might have given up altogether and returned to Poland.
He reached the end of the lane and, avoiding the whipping branches that hung near the brick-arched entrance to Bromley Hall, he entered the grounds. He recalled the first time he had set foot here. He had been overwhelmed by the quintessential English countryside surrounding the Hall. The Hall, and its grounds, represented everything he loved about the UK – the smell of freshly cut grass and the gentle hum of bees buzzing between brightly coloured blooms.
The Hall had been a family home in the late nineteenth century, and was Elizabethan in style with curved gables, chimney stacks that resembled classical columns and large mullioned windows of the period. It boasted an ostentatious entrance hall and a magnificent oak-panelled Long Gallery, over a hundred feet in length. Now, it was a world-renowned hotel and spa, frequented by celebrities and those who earned far more than he ever could.
Jakub would not be using the entrance hall this morning, nor would he ever be invited to the balls that took place each Christmas in the magnificent ballroom. He navigated his bike through some of the fifty acres of grounds and along the sweeping drive. The wind had ripped the last remaining leaves from the trees and hurled them onto the ground where they had clustered and now spun in small, rustling whirlwinds that chased about the car park. Jakub buried his neck further into his scarf, cursing the weather. Of all the times for his car to break down and need a new head gasket. These were now the darker months, when winter was beginning to set in and the clocks had been turned back, so mornings were dark, and afternoons were dark and everything was gloomy.
He was surprised to spot chef Bruno Miguel’s striking yellow Citroën DS. Bruno, who, in Jakub’s opinion, was one of the better-tempered commis chefs, had purchased it in September on a finance plan, and was terrified the brand new vehicle would suffer damage in the staff car park, so he stationed it as far away from the other cars as possible. Ordinarily, Bruno didn’t turn up until six o’ clock, leaving most of the preparation to the younger chefs. Jakub dismounted, bending to remove the cycle clips that protected the bottoms of his jeans from the filthy pedals and oily bike chain. He wheeled the bike to the rear of the Hall and into the alleyway that led to the kitchens. Now that he was protected from the wind, he removed his gloves and the beanie hat that had been pulled well over his ears. He hated late autumn in this country; it was cruel, especially when your only transport was a two-wheeled, second-hand bike.
Above him, in the Hall itself, the pampered guests would be fast asleep under Egyptian cotton sheets, heads resting on goose-feather pillows. They wouldn’t have to worry about getting up at three thirty every morning to come to work in the foul weather to clean up the mess that had been left by the guests, collecting wet towels discarded by the pool, washing out showers smeared with soap and expensive body lotions, or cleaning toilets till they gleamed – all for a pittance; then, aching from scrubbing floors, tiled bath surrounds and glass-fronted cubicles, having to pedal three miles back home again in atrocious weather conditions. No. They wouldn’t have to do any of that. They’d get up when they felt like it, take a shower or bath, don the luxurious white cotton robes and fluffy slippers in their bedrooms, then wander down to breakfast. They would spend the rest of the day loafing beside the pool, reading books, snoozing or basking in the famous spa area, being pampered by an entire team of therapists and fitness gurus.
He felt the rage that sometimes consumed him mount as he unlocked the kitchen door and entered the darkened hallway. He shrugged off his outer garments and hung them by the door, on one of the many pegs used by the employees. He walked past the kitchen where two of the chefs were preparing breakfast. An aroma of bacon wafted out, and he swallowed the saliva that collected in his mouth; he had only grabbed a cup of coffee before setting off. If he were lucky, he’d be able to blag some toast or even a slice of bacon from Bruno, although these days it was more difficult to get free food or titbits. Management had really clamped down on such things, and all food now had to be accounted for – no more cheap or free meals for the staff. That was only one of the austerity measures they had implemented. The staff cuts were the most recent. He growled quietly. Management, in its wisdom, had fired his wife who earned a good salary working full-time on the front desk, meeting and greeting clients, yet he, who earned the minimum wage, had been kept on. If he could find another job he’d ditch this bunch immediately.
Bruno was one of the friendlier chefs. The rest were a bunch of sour-faced wannabes, who all hoped to go on to bigger and better establishments. Jakub couldn’t stand any of them. He was here to do a job and that’s all he did. He came in, he worked all day and he went home again, home to a miserable wife who now had no job and who, only the day before, had discovered she was expecting their second child.
Jakub collected the cleaning equipment from the cupboard. He would start in the men’s changing room before starting on the spa. He might only be a cleaner, but he was thorough. A job was a job, and he would do it to the best of his ability, even if that job were beneath him. It paid some of the bills and, heaven knew, they needed his wage now more than ever.
He wheeled out the cleaning trolley and paraphernalia that accompanied it. The floor cleaner was a large industrial machine that had seen better days, but it still worked. It made a racket so it was best to use it while the guests weren’t present. Nothing spoils a relaxing stay at a luxury spa more than someone attempting to clean around you with a machine that sounds like a band comprising several kettledrums and a whole army of bagpipe players.
The spa itself was housed in a purpose-built extension, adjacent to the Hall, that featured a twenty-six metre saltwater pool with two large whirlpools. It boasted several bio thermal rooms designed to invigorate and relax, an arctic cold ice room with an ice fountain, steam rooms and a sauna. Each of the zones was designed to stimulate different senses. Finally, there was the aspen wood sauna, subtly hidden away within the suite. Jakub had never tried out any of it, even though he was often alone at work. The CCTV cameras that whirred quietly were watching his every move, and he would most certainly be spotted if he suddenly decided to jump into the pool for a swim or enjoy a spell in one of the solariums.
Jakub was not impressed by the opulence here. Poland had many equally impressive resorts and spas that had been enjoyed by Europeans for centuries. A flame of fondness for his country flickered in his chest.
The men’s changing room smelt of stale sweat and testosterone. It always seemed to reek that way, no matter how often it was cleaned. The air con hadn’t been working in there for some time, even though Jakub had reported it, and the stench lingered in spite of air fresheners positioned around the room. Jakub emptied the bins and cleared away the dirty towels that had been dumped on a bench, before cleaning the toilets and showers. It was the same routine every day.
He ought to persuade Emily to return to Poland, although it was unlikely she would want to leave her family who lived nearby in Stafford, only twenty miles away, especially with another baby on the way. There were days when he was homesick, but he reasoned that to return so soon after leaving would be to admit defeat. His family had not wanted him to leave Poland. Still, he was young at thirty and had time. He would go back when he was ready, although he was less sure about how long he could bear to stay at Bromley Hall. His temper might just get the better of him if he wasn’t careful.
He shut the cubicle doors to the showers and moved into the spa area, donning the obligatory protective footwear. The sound of the water being pumped around the pool echoed eerily as he padded past it, pushing the heavy cleaning machine in front of him, in the direction of the saunas and steam rooms. He put on the necessary headphones that shut out the constant noise generated by the machine and thought about his son, now almost two years old, who wanted to go on a steam train like Thomas the Tank Engine for his birthday at the weekend. Jakub wasn’t sure they’d be able to get to the Severn Valley for such an outing if his car wasn’t mended. Head gaskets were very expensive parts to replace.
As he moved the cleaning machine around in a circular motion, his eyes alighted upon a pile of clothes, folded and left outside the aspen sauna on one of the ‘relax’ beds. He scowled. Some guest had not read the rules. It was forbidden to enter the spa area before 8 a.m. He was tempted to pick up the clothes and hide them in the changing room so whoever was in the sauna would be obliged to race around naked, hunting for them. He sidled up to the clothes. There was a suit and shirt, and an expensive watch had been left on top of the pile.
Jakub sneered. A watch like that cost a lot of money, and yet the owner didn’t seem to care that it might be stolen. They were either naively trusting or didn’t give a damn about the cost. He struggled with his conscience before deciding the owner would not miss the watch. They would merely claim its value from an insurance company and purchase another. Jakub checked the camera above him. It was pointing in the opposite direction, focusing on the ice room at that moment. It would gradually move to cover the whole of the area. The guest could well afford to lose it and Jakub needed the money. He checked for anyone watching him and was about to slide the watch into his pocket when he stopped. He had never been a thief. He couldn’t stoop so low as to steal from someone, no matter how tough times were.
He moved away and edged past the sauna with the machine. No doubt the occupant would complain about him making a row. It was five thirty. He would stand up to management if they took him to task about it. As he moved past the glass-fronted door of the sauna he stopped, all thoughts of management forgotten. A dark-skinned man was curled on the floor in a foetal position. Jakub gingerly opened the door, recoiling from the tremendous wave of heat. His mind could not comprehend what he was seeing. The body was not, as he had first thought, a dark-skinned man. It was charred. Large chunks of skin lay on the floor. Jakub stared at the body, which resembled a large piece of przysmak piwny – beef jerky. Suddenly, he remembered the watch on the pile of clothes. He had seen it only recently, on the wrist of the man who had fired his newly pregnant wife for no other reason than cost-cutting. Jakub had taken issue with him and asked for Emily to be reinstated. The man had fobbed him off and checked the time on his watch, as if he had somewhere more important to be. Jakub had thumped the desk and blown his top before being sent away with the threat that if he did not cool down, he would be joining Emily on the dole queue. This wasn’t a guest in the hotel. This was the hotel manager. The broiled body on the floor was that of Miles Ashbrook.
Detective Inspector Robyn Carter chewed on the stub of a pencil and frowned at her computer screen.
‘Boss, we’ve got an informant who claims he’s spotted our man,’ shouted Sergeant Mitz Patel from his desk, replacing the phone receiver and grinning. ‘He’s emailing a photo across of him. Saw the appeal and recognised our perp immediately. Goes by the name of Nick Jackson.’
She nibbled some more. ‘Okay, let’s see what the caller’s got.’
They’d been fielding calls since late the night before from people claiming to have seen the man they were searching for. Most had proven to be crank calls or dead ends and, after very little sleep, Robyn was feeling irked by the lack of information and beginning to doubt the television appeal was going to turn up any leads.
‘Photo’s arrived,’ called Mitz.
Robyn bounded across, leant over and stared at the grainy photograph that had been snapped by a mobile phone. It was of a man wearing a Nike baseball cap pulled over his face, a dark blue hooded top and jeans. He lugged a grey and green rucksack, the same rucksack he had carried when he robbed the village store in Doveridge and in Newcastle-under-Lyme, before disappearing off the grid. He was about to get into a red Ford Mondeo. The number plate was visible. After a frustrating night, she could, at last, feel the adrenalin begin to pump through her body. This looked exactly like the man they’d been hunting for. They might actually have located their suspect.
She tapped the screen with the pencil. ‘Looks like our appeal has turned up trumps. That’s definitely the rucksack – Karrimor Urban 30 from Sports Direct.’
‘Seems really dumb to have a luminous green rucksack.’
PC Anna Shamash, the technology expert in the team, lifted her head. ‘Tracked the mobile number from the anonymous caller. Call came from Elm Street, Newcastle-under-Lyme.’ Anna permitted a small smile of satisfaction to flash across her usually serious face.
Robyn stood against the wall, arms folded, watching the proceedings unfold. Mitz was tracing the vehicle owner in his usual calm manner. Anna’s fingers flew over her keyboard. She was gifted when it came to anything to do with computers. She now had a dot, depicting the suspect’s car, showing on her screen. She watched it as it headed towards Stafford. ‘Vehicle’s headed down the M6.’
‘I have the vehicle’s registered keeper.’ Mitz raised his head like a meerkat’s. ‘It belongs to Sean Holland of 32 Albion Street, Newcastle-under-Lyme.’
She felt a flicker of apprehension. Something wasn’t quite right. ‘How come this Sean Holland is involved? Why does he own the car and not Nick Jackson?’
‘Related somehow, or maybe he’s a very good friend? Vehicles are sometimes registered to a person who is not the actual owner.’
She shook her head. ‘No. I’m not happy about that. Find out what you can about Sean Holland too.’
‘Roger. I’ve got several Nick Jacksons on the database. Running through them now.’
Robyn picked up the communications radio and spoke to PC David Marker out on the streets of Stafford. ‘Unit one. Suspect in vehicle headed down the M6 in the direction of Stafford. Red Ford Mondeo.’ She gave them the registration.
There was a response from the radio, ‘Roger that. We’ll intercept at junction fourteen at the A34 exit.’
‘Anna, keep an eye on that vehicle. What’s the estimated time to junction fourteen?’
‘Twenty minutes, guv.’
‘Unit one, ETA twenty minutes.’
‘Roger. On our way.’
‘Unit two, Matt, where are you?’
‘Just outside Sainsbury’s, boss,’ replied Sergeant Matt Higham. He was new to Robyn’s team and had transferred from Oxford so his wife could be closer to her family. They were expecting their first child and had just taken out a mortgage on a large house. At thirty-one, with a bald head and a round, unlined face like a large baby’s, Matt was a joker.
‘Head towards junction fourteen and rendezvous with unit one.’
Anna spoke up. ‘Sean Holland has no previous, guv. Sixty-six, widowed, no children. Used to run a small window-cleaning business.’
Robyn shook her head. Sean Holland didn’t fit in. ‘How come a retired man in his sixties is friends with a thirty-something-year-old criminal?’ She tilted her head to one side and tapped the pencil against her teeth – a staccato rhythm. ‘We’ve been too eager to get Nick. We can only really identify the luminous backpack in the photograph. I don’t like this any more,’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘Mitz, anything on Nick Jackson yet?’
‘Still searching through the database. Hang on, I think I’ve got him.’
The radio burst into a crackle. ‘In position,’ said David Marker.
Mitz was staring at his screen, concern etched across his fine features. ‘Guv, you need to see this. Now.’
She hurried to the screen and, reading what he was referring to, stood there, her lips one thin tight line. ‘Shit,’ she whispered. She turned to regain control.
‘David, Matt – stand down. Stand down immediately.’
‘Copy that,’ Sergeant Matt Higham said, unfazed by the change of plan.
David Marker’s voice was incredulous. ‘What’s going on? How do you know Jackson isn’t our perp?’
The pencil spun around and around between her fingers. ‘He’s not our man. Nick Jackson couldn’t have robbed the stores. He doesn’t drive. He can’t. Nick Jackson is blind.’
There was a crackle and another crackle then, ‘Returning to base.’
Robyn refrained from thumping the wall. It was the backpack. Mitz had been right. It was a stupidly conspicuous colour. It drew attention to him. What robber, who attacks people with knives, would choose a fluorescent backpack, yet go to great lengths to hide his face from cameras? A robber who knew a fluorescent backpack would be memorable. She headed towards the coffee machine in the corner. The adrenalin that had coursed through her veins was subsiding and she needed a caffeine fix. She shoved a paper cup in place and stabbed at the espresso button. The machine burst into life, bubbling and spitting, before black liquid squirted into her cup.
The door opened and, without ceremony, DI Tom Shearer swaggered in.
‘I’ve run out of sugar again. Thought I’d come and see if my neighbour could spare me a spoonful.’ Robyn scowled at him. She was no fan of Detective Inspector Tom Shearer. He had transferred from Derbyshire, following the departure of one of her colleagues. She had had several run-ins with the man, who treated everything and everyone with a cavalier attitude. She ignored his smug expression and the overwhelming smell of aftershave that accompanied him.
‘What do you really want, Shearer?’
‘Decent coffee. You have a coffee machine. I haven’t yet convinced Mulholland I’m worthy of such pampering. Besides, the machine downstairs is bust again and I need a drink. My head is pounding.’
‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks. I’ve had a shitty morning.’
‘Join the club.’ She took her paper cup of black coffee from the machine and handed Shearer an empty cup to use.
‘I bet, in a game of top trumps, my morning has been shittier than yours.’ He held her gaze and gave a lopsided grin. His eyes were pink through lack of sleep.
‘Go on. I’ll start.’
‘I thought you might. You like to take the lead, don’t you?’
She ignored his comment. ‘I spent all last night fielding calls about possible sightings of a man we believe has robbed village stores and caused GBH to several innocent victims, including a young woman and an elderly man, both of whom are currently seriously injured in hospital. We chased up all the leads and drew blanks. The team came back in at six a.m. and we finally got a break this morning, from an unknown informant who sent us a picture of the suspect getting into a car. We traced the car, deployed the units to apprehend him, only to discover we’d been following a blind man – a blind man being driven by a friend.’ She downed her coffee in one, squeezed the cup tightly and hurled it into the waste paper bin.
Shearer’s lips twitched slightly. ‘Now that’s shitty,’ he replied. ‘Although I can see the humour in it.’
‘So, bet you can’t trump that.’
Shearer pulled out his cup and blew on the hot froth. ‘Is this cappuccino or Fairy Liquid in hot water?’ he asked, causing her to smile.
‘I should have warned you. It makes a lousy cappuccino.’
‘Cheers for that. Oh well, that just about puts the proverbial icing on the cake of a horrendous morning.’
‘Go on.’
‘I woke up with a really sore throat.’ He coughed. ‘I’m sure I’m coming down with something.’ He took another sip and grimaced. ‘That aside, I was called to Bromley Hall at six a.m. while you were all comfy here. It was blowing a right gale and the Hall is down winding lanes. A weathered bough snapped off a tree, crashed onto the Porsche and dented the bonnet, which set me up nicely for what was to come. Got to the Hall and was led to the spa area which is off to one side. It’s very nice there, all blue and white walls – makes you think of Norway and fjords. And there’s the top-of-the-range sauna. It’s what they call a wet sauna and is heated by an electric stove.
‘The deceased, Miles Ashbrook, the hotel manager, must have really liked it hot. I think it’s fair to say he was done to a crisp when I got to him. He was definitely somewhat overcooked. I spent all morning sweating away thanks to the humidity, picking through bits of cooked skin, and trying to establish the time and cause of death. It appeared he had a heart attack and keeled over, which was no surprise – he’d poured so much water over the rocks on the stove the place had heated up to over 110 degrees Celsius, well above what’s recommended. Miles Ashbrook was cooking in there for over five hours. Gruesome just about covers it. It’s put me off bacon for life,’ he added, sipping at his drink. His nose wrinkled. ‘This really does taste of soap.’
Robyn shrugged. ‘You win. I think being humiliated in front of my team and having no idea of the whereabouts of my suspect is nowhere near as bad as trawling through bits of barbecued human skin. Anything suspicious about his death?’
‘I don’t believe so. I couldn’t be certain at first, although there didn’t seem to be anyone else involved. The door to the sauna wasn’t locked or blocked, so Miles wasn’t imprisoned in the sauna, and given the spa is locked after seven at night and no one is allowed in the area, there seemed little cause for suspicion. Guests’ key cards don’t work after that time and only staff key cards are operational all the time. Also, there’s a camera that rotates and films the place. I rooted through the CCTV footage and spotted him stripping off to his boxers, taking a shower in the ice area and entering the sauna at eleven o’clock. He was completely alone, and no one else appears on the footage all night. The camera moves from area to area. We fast-forwarded it, although no one came into shot until the cleaner who found him. At some point while he was in the sauna, Miles Ashbrook appears to have suffered a severe heart attack. I’m waiting for an autopsy report to determine how much alcohol was in his system in case that had a bearing on it and he had meandered in there half-cut. I checked with the bar staff and he certainly hadn’t been drinking in the champagne bar, so if he had chugged any alcohol, it was in his office. So, other than being on drugs, or having a desire to top himself by cooking himself to death, I think it was an unfortunate accident.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Forty-one. Two years younger than me. Probably spent too much time. . .
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