The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) Read online

  For a split second Jessie thought the man might respond, but before she could say any more he had dropped the head onto the spotlessly clean floor, leapt onto one of the benches and then jumped across the room from one bench to the next. At the back of the kitchen he vaulted off the final bench, ran towards the service elevator, and before Jessie knew it he was gone.

  Jessie looked at the kitchen. She could see the abandoned head lying on the floor, blood splattered around it. Towards the back of the room she could see a blood-soaked bench. There was a body lying on top of it. In the silence of the kitchen she could hear a steady drip of blood onto the polished floor.

  She turned to the kitchen exit and suddenly found herself screaming for Jon.

  CHAPTER 15

  ROSCOE COULD STILL remember the very first time he tasted a home-baked cake, made with Jessie’s secret ingredients of love and kindness, in the tiny kitchen of her small apartment in the Brixton area of London. It was his third birthday and from that day forward he’d known nobody could bake cakes the way his aunt Jessie could.

  Jessie had lived in the apartment upstairs from the Roscoe family and it hadn’t taken her long to realise Jon’s dad was a bad lot. She’d been able to hear the shouting each evening when Colin Roscoe returned home and Jessie had increasingly feared for Jon and his mother. While never one to shy away from confrontation, she’d known the best thing she could do to help was not enrage Colin Roscoe any further. Jessie had started to call in each morning and afternoon to make sure Helen Roscoe was coping and she had everything she needed for her young son. She’d known not to insult Helen by offering her money, but she’d had a special skill at finding whatever it was Helen or Jon needed at any point in time, usually hidden away in her old wardrobe or tucked away at the back of her kitchen cupboard. She’d loved how Jon had begun to think of her wardrobe as a magical place, and had known Helen never ceased to be grateful for the toys or clothes or bikes which Jessie had found, having kept them since her own teenage son, Alvin, was a small boy.

  The one time Jessie had offered Helen money was the day Colin Roscoe had left for good. She’d known he was gone for ever, and although she’d been relieved for Helen, she had known that while he’d been a bad lot, Colin had at least provided a roof over his family’s heads. Now Helen was alone in the world – her, her son and her unborn child.

  Jessie hadn’t had a huge amount herself, but when Alvin’s father had died two years before he had left her and their son enough to live on. She’d gone to Helen with her first month’s rent and had received a promise it would be repaid as soon as Helen received her first paycheque from the two jobs she had taken on. Jessie had insisted there was no need, but the day after Helen had been paid, the loan amount had been quietly slipped under Jessie’s front door. Jessie had known to accept the money graciously, but in the weeks that followed, some extra discoveries would be made at the back of her magic wardrobe.

  Jessie and Helen had become the closest of friends, and to Jon, Aunt Jessie had become a second mother. On the nights his mum would be working, Jon would go upstairs for his supper and then Jessie would love putting him down to sleep in her own bed. When Helen would come home from work, she’d wrap Jon in a blanket and carefully carry him down the stairs, before handing him over to his mother’s waiting arms. Every night when Helen took hold of her son, Jessie’s heart would break as she saw how close to exhaustion her dear friend had become.

  Jessie often thought of the day Jon’s baby sister, Amanda, arrived in the world – arriving in great haste on a cold and wet December evening. Helen had stopped working the week before and with Jon safely asleep in bed, she’d sat watching television with Jessie. As Jessie had cleared away the dinner plates, and Alvin had finished his homework, Helen had rested her feet in front of the latest soap opera. Very quickly, all of the action had been in Jessie’s apartment and with the baby on her way, Jessie had called a cab to take her and Helen to the hospital while Alvin was given clear instructions on what he needed to do to care for Jon. But Alvin had known that part would be easy. Jon had idolised Alvin, loving him like a big brother, and would always behave whenever he asked him to.

  Jessie had helped Helen into the cab, but as they’d made their way through the London streets they’d got caught up in the traffic created by eager Christmas shoppers. Jessie had praised the Lord as the cab driver had performed miracles to get them to the hospital in double-quick time but the real miracle had been in the back of the cab, where she’d delivered Helen’s baby daughter. When the cab had arrived at the hospital the cord had been cut and Helen’s new baby had been carried into the building. Helen and Jessie had followed along with two nurses and it hadn’t been long before Helen was sitting up in bed nursing baby Amanda Jessica. Jessie had smiled the broadest smile and felt for the first time that her family was complete.

  Jessie had known life for Helen was never going to be easy with two young children and two jobs but she had been happy doing everything she could to help. Often in the evening she would see Helen arrive home exhausted as she made her way downstairs to carefully hand over both of the children. Over time, she’d seen the sparkle disappear from Helen; her smiles were gone and the laughter in her eyes, which had appeared after Colin had left, had gradually faded away.

  On a warm summer evening, Jessie had sat with Helen in their small, shared garden and had told her friend she looked shattered. Tears had welled in Jessie’s eyes as Helen broke down and admitted she was finding life harder and harder. Jessie had suggested they take the children away for the weekend, and two weeks later they’d been walking in sun-drenched open fields. Jessie had known it had been the right thing to do as Jon had run across the fields with Alvin while Amanda had toddled along, holding hands with Helen and Jessie. After two wonderful days, they’d caught the bus back to London and home.

  As the bus had pulled into Victoria station, Jessie had seen that Helen had fallen asleep and she’d reached across to wake her. But she hadn’t been able to stir her dearest friend and suddenly Jessie had been standing with the three children, watching Helen being loaded into the back of an ambulance. Twenty-four hours later, Helen’s diagnosis had been made. The cancer had spread to her bones and suddenly she’d had to decide about the future of her children. Tears had filled her eyes as Helen had asked Jessie to take care of Jon and Amanda after she was gone. Jessie hadn’t hesitated for a moment and when the time had come, Jon and Amanda had made their way up the stairs and Jessie’s home had become theirs.

  Jessie still remembered the first night when Jon had moved into her home, how he and Alvin had carried his toys up the stairs, and how as he’d walked into the apartment, he had smelt the most delicious cakes she had spent the afternoon baking. On his saddest day, as he’d sat at her kitchen table and eaten his way through three chocolate muffins, she had been able to see that he was beginning to feel warm inside. Amanda had been sitting next to him, and Jessie had been able to see how protective Jon felt of his little sister.

  Two years later, Jessie had adopted Jon and Amanda and Aunt Jessie became the only real mother Amanda could remember. Jon had still thought of his own mother, but Jessie had known that he loved her as much as any child could love a mother.

  Throughout Jon’s childhood, Jessie would spend every Saturday baking fresh cakes and brownies for her family and creating her own most wonderful recipes. When the coffee shop folk had moved into Brixton, suddenly cakes and baking had become cool. Jessie had listened to Jon’s encouragement and now she had her own successful business. And with Jon working at the new London Tribeca Hotel, it seemed only right that Auntie’s Bakery would be the supplier of the best home-cooked muffins and doughnuts anywhere in London.

  CHAPTER 16

  JESSIE RAN THROUGH the kitchen and into the majestic dining room, where in three days’ time some of the wealthiest and most influential clientele were due to be served the best food a hotel restaurant had ever presented. But as she moved through the restaurant, she realise
d it was stupid of her to be screaming for Jon. The hotel was vast and he could be anywhere on one of its forty floors. If only he were there right now, she thought in desperation.

  And then he was.

  Seeing him entering the dining room, she kept running, as fast as she possibly could, until she reached him.

  ‘Jon,’ she cried, running into his arms. And then he was holding her as tight as she had used to hold him.

  ‘Aunt Jessie?’ he said, hugging her and almost forgetting what had gone before. ‘Where did you come from?’

  She looked up at him, the thoughtful boy she’d raised and now the strong, brave man she adored. Looking at his handsome face, she knew she had to tell him what she had seen, however horrendous it was.

  ‘I was in the kitchen, Jon,’ she cried, starting to shake. ‘It … It was horrible. Horrible!’

  ‘It’s okay, Aunt Jessie. I’m here now. You’re safe. What did you see?’

  ‘A head, Jon. A human head. Cut off from its body. There’s a head in the kitchen.’

  ‘No, Aunt Jessie,’ said Roscoe, holding her closely to his chest. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you had to see that.’

  Jessie looked up at the man she loved as a son and only then realised he had a gun in his hand.

  She stepped back.

  ‘Jon? What’s happening?’

  ‘The hotel is under attack. I think it’s probably by just one man, but from what you’re telling me that’s the third person he’s killed today.’ Roscoe paused. ‘I’ve got to ask you this – but where was the head?’ he said, not wanting to upset his aunt any further but knowing he needed to find the killer.

  ‘Jon, he was holding it!’ yelled Aunt Jessie, burying her head further into Jon’s chest. ‘And then he dropped it onto the floor.’

  Holding tightly on to his aunt, Roscoe realised she had come face to face with the killer. He couldn’t imagine the unspeakable horror she had seen in the kitchen. After a moment, he stepped slightly away to look into Aunt Jessie’s tear-filled eyes.

  ‘Did you see his face?’ he asked, still holding her hands but stepping backwards in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘No, he was wearing a mask.’

  ‘And he’s still in there now?’ said Roscoe, letting go of her and starting to walk through the vaulted dining room to the kitchen.

  ‘He scrambled over the kitchen tables and I think he went into the elevator. But where are you going?’

  ‘Aunt Jessie, how did you get into the hotel?’

  ‘Through the kitchen door. I saw him in the doorway and followed him inside.’

  ‘Aunt Jessie,’ said Roscoe as he approached the kitchen door, his gun still drawn, ‘I want you to go straight through those doors at the front of the restaurant and down the hallway to the lobby. Find Anna. She’ll be somewhere there. She’ll look after you. The police are evacuating the hotel and you’ll be able to leave through the front with her.’

  ‘But what about you, Jon?’ asked Jessie, looking lovingly at him.

  ‘I know you don’t like it, Aunt Jessie, but it’s my job. Right now I have to try to catch a killer.’

  CHAPTER 17

  IN FIFTEEN YEARS of working for London’s Metropolitan Police, Jon Roscoe had seen some horrific sights. He’d been witness to explosions, arrived first on scene after the discovery of decaying bodies hauled from London’s River Thames, and had had his emotions drained as the first responder to cases of domestic abuse. But nothing prepared him for the discovery he found in the new kitchens of the London Tribeca Luxury Hotel.

  He entered through the front of the kitchen and slowly worked his way past each kitchen bench. With his weapon drawn, he anticipated the killer appearing at any moment. Slowly making his way to the back wall, he discovered the desperate scene where the killer had carried out his work. Laid across the stainless steel kitchen work surface was the decapitated body of one of the hotel chefs, his white chef’s jacket turned red with his own blood.

  The killer had scythed through his victim’s neck.

  Blood still dripped from the corpse. As with Jackson Harlington and Michael Duncan, the killer had ripped through his victim’s chest and torn his heart from its cavity.

  Two benches to the right, discarded on the floor, was the victim’s head. The dead man’s startled eyes stared up at Roscoe and for a moment he had to turn away from a discovery he found genuinely shocking.

  Turning back, he stepped towards the mangled corpse. Breathing deeply, he leant over the body to see if there was any way of making an identification. Still pinned to the victim’s chest was his Tribeca Luxury Hotels name badge and pass. Richard Winn was a pastry chef in the kitchen but not someone Roscoe had ever met. He would ask Anna to pull his employment records.

  The kitchen at the London Tribeca Luxury Hotel is designed to give direct access to all of the guest floors. Each of the suites has their own luxury kitchen and chef, but the main kitchen is designed to service all areas of the hotel, twenty-four hours a day. Roscoe looked at the service elevator, intended to deliver the finest cuisine to any guest at a moment’s notice. It was still making its deathly climb through the hotel. Where was the killer heading next in this seemingly endless brutal game of chase around the building? And what could be the motive for such vicious attacks?

  Roscoe had seen men and woman kill and be killed. He had seen rage, fear, greed and passion, but the act of killing was almost always their last act. With this killer, such was the fury, the killing alone was not enough: the death had to be brutal, the corpse mutilated. These were some of the most horrific deaths Roscoe had seen in his career. He thought that if he could comprehend what was behind such violence, he might be able to understand what was driving the killer, and what he planned next. And these weren’t random killings: Roscoe could see everything had been meticulously planned. His passage around the hotel had been carefully plotted. He was certain the killer had already decided exactly what his next move would be.

  Counting off each luxury floor of the hotel, Roscoe saw the service elevator had reached its final destination. The fortieth floor.

  He crossed the kitchen and stood at the open door Aunt Jessie had come through. He thought how less than twenty-four hours before, he had explored the top floor of the hotel. Standing on the glass-floored terrace, looking over the sparkling water flowing from the infinity pool, he and Stanley had marvelled at the latest addition to the Tribeca Luxury Hotel collection. They had walked all the public spaces in preparation for today’s preview of the hotel. Had they missed something? Had they both been so taken with the brilliance of the hotel they’d become distracted from its security? Roscoe knew that somehow somebody had gained access to the secure areas of the hotel, which had allowed him to cause devastation beyond belief and had left Stanley’s life hanging in the balance. He told himself he’d even put Aunt Jessie in danger. How had he let that happen? He was here to protect people, especially those he loved.

  In his mind, he retraced his steps through the hotel. He was certain he hadn’t missed anything. The hotel had been secure ahead of the opening. There was no way for someone to gain such unlimited access around the hotel – but this man had. How had he found his way to Jackson Harlington’s suite? How did he have such an in-depth knowledge of the hotel? And what was driving him?

  To kill Jackson Harlington in such a sacrificial manner could only have been caused by absolute hatred of the man. But what of Michael Duncan, and now Richard Winn? Were the three deaths linked? Roscoe was convinced they had to be. But he needed to be absolutely certain; he needed to speak to Anna Conquest.

  Stepping back into the kitchen and closing the open door, Roscoe felt the killer was ready to play out his final performance. He had made his way to the summit of the hotel, and Roscoe was convinced that was where he would finally meet him.

  CHAPTER 18

  IN THE LOBBY of the hotel, Inspector Savage was beginning the evacuation. He knew the dangers of evacuating over a hundred people through the
front of the hotel, and how they would represent an open target for anyone in the hotel intent on carrying out further random killings. But Savage knew these killings weren’t random.

  Jackson Harlington had been a target.

  Michael Dunn had been a target.

  Savage had police marksmen positioned outside the front of the hotel, with instructions to open fire if the killer showed himself. Snipers were ready to take him down if he appeared on any one of the hotel’s forty floors. A plan had been established, with all of the evacuees issued with clear instructions. The front entrance of the hotel would be opened. Exit would be in single file with a right turn created twenty yards into the garden, leading to a neighbouring property. Within the neighbouring property a safe area had been established where witnesses would be questioned and statements taken.

  Police protocol would be followed. Savage knew it was the right thing to do. Except he also knew police protocol wouldn’t catch this killer. The only way this could end was with a bullet through the killer’s heart.

  Roscoe ran back into the lobby, where he saw Anna Conquest crouching beside a chair as she comforted Aunt Jessie. Jessie had clearly been shocked by what she’d witnessed but Roscoe didn’t know anybody with a stronger resolve than his aunt Jessie. He went straight to them, but as he did, Peter Savage came across the lobby to join them.

  ‘What’s going on, Roscoe? This old woman says there has been another killing?’

  Roscoe ignored Savage and turned to his aunt. ‘You remember me telling you about Inspector Savage, Aunt Jessie? Well, allow me to introduce you.’

  Jessie sniffed in disgust. ‘I guessed as much, Jon. You always said what a little shit he was.’