The Hostage: BookShots (Hotel Series) Page 6

  Anna Conquest couldn’t help laughing.

  Roscoe smiled at Aunt Jessie. ‘That might well be the case, but Inspector Savage is heading up the police operation.’

  ‘I can tell you this, Inspector Savage,’ said Jessie, looking the police officer directly in the eye, ‘this old woman wouldn’t say there had been another killing if she hadn’t seen one. And what she saw was a killer holding a dead man’s head in his hand.’

  Savage turned to Roscoe, who nodded. ‘The body’s in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘It’s brutal.’

  ‘We have to get him, Roscoe,’ said Savage, looking more determined than he’d been since arriving at the hotel. ‘We have to get him. I don’t care how. We have to take him down.’

  Roscoe turned to Anna. ‘Can you access the hotel personnel records?’

  ‘I can do it from here,’ replied Anna, moving back to her desk. ‘What do you need to know?’

  ‘When we hired Richard Winn and anything else we have on him.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Richard Winn?’ asked Savage. ‘Where does he fit in?’

  ‘Our latest victim,’ said Roscoe. ‘The killer might have obliterated his body but his security badge was left intact – for what that’s worth.’

  Savage turned away from the group, as if he was planning what he should do next. The killings were getting more violent, if that were even possible. Roscoe watched him force himself to take breath after breath before turning back.

  ‘As soon as we get everyone out of here,’ he said, speaking directly to Roscoe, ‘it’s him and us. I will do whatever it takes. I mean that. I don’t want him to walk out of here alive.’

  Roscoe looked at Savage, remembering his gung-ho approach of the past.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, Peter. We all want to stop the killing. And when we get our man he’ll serve his time.’

  Savage smiled. ‘Always the same, Roscoe. By the book. Surely even you think we should take this one out of the game?’

  Before Roscoe had a chance to answer, Anna called across, ‘I’ve got his records here. Richard Winn was employed only at the beginning of last week. He’s worked at a couple of London restaurants in the past but nothing special. His reference came directly from Jackson Harlington.’

  ‘Harlington again,’ said Roscoe to Savage, knowing for certain each of the three killings was linked. ‘Jackson Harlington’s the key to this.’

  Savage nodded.

  ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ he replied. ‘Harlington was at the very centre of everything.’

  ‘When the lobby is clear,’ said Roscoe, ‘we need to prep a unit to head to the fortieth floor.’

  ‘Fortieth floor?’ asked Savage.

  Roscoe continued, ‘I think he’s made his way up to the roof. He rode the service elevator from the kitchen all the way to the top of the building. He’s planned all of this, Peter. The whole thing.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Because he’s been playing with us. He knew who his victims were and picked them off before we had any idea what hit us. And now he wants to take his final bow. But I don’t know why. We can’t ask Jackson Harlington about Duncan and Winn, so our only hope is to talk to his wife.’ He paused. ‘Peter, he’s waiting for us on the fortieth floor.’

  CHAPTER 19

  SITTING IN THE stylish office at the rear of the lobby, Jocasta Harlington felt numb. She held her daughter’s hand tightly in her own while Oscar Miller, his head bandaged, paced the room, desperately searching for some kind of understanding of what had taken place. In her mind, Jocasta Harlington went over and over what had happened that morning. What had possessed the man to force his way into their suite and why had he targeted Jackson in such a horrific way?

  Jocasta had stopped loving her husband many years before. She often told herself she had loved him once, but that was so long ago and for such a short time that it seemed like they were both different people. For years they had lived separate lives and she knew that was an accommodation which suited her just as much as it suited Jackson. She had beautiful homes in Europe and in the United States where she could spend her time with her daughter and with her closest friends. Jackson would spend most of his time at different hotels around the world and they would come together when business demanded. Today was meant to be one of those occasions: she would stand proudly by his side and together they would launch the newest addition to the Tribeca group of luxury hotels.

  How could somebody hold such hatred towards Jackson? Jocasta may not have loved her husband but she would never wish such a horrendous fate upon him.

  She looked up as Jon Roscoe stepped past the police officer stationed at the entrance to the room and entered the office, along with Anna Conquest.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve got him, Jon,’ she said, greeting Roscoe with a look of desperation.

  Roscoe took a seat on the couch next to Jocasta and shook his head.

  ‘There must be some news,’ said Oscar Miller, continuing to pace around the room. ‘Do you have any idea where he is now? Or who he is?’

  Roscoe shook his head again. ‘But I think we’re making progress,’ he said, turning to Jocasta. ‘I need your help in trying to understand who we’re dealing with.’

  In despair, Jocasta held her head in her hands and covered her face.

  ‘Jon, I told you everything when we were upstairs,’ she said, lifting her head to look at Roscoe. ‘I’ve no idea who he was. Honestly, I don’t. He said nothing to us the whole time he was in the room.’

  ‘I’m not talking about what happened here today. I need to identify any past links between Mr Harlington and the other men who’ve been killed.’

  ‘Others?’ asked Oscar Miller.

  ‘Two others, I’m afraid, Mr Miller. And in a manner just as brutal.’ Roscoe let his words hang in the air. ‘The first was a driver, quite possibly the driver who brought you here today.’

  ‘I didn’t take much notice of him,’ said Miller. ‘I arrived on an early flight and he met me at the airport. I was making calls on the drive in and on arrival I went straight up to my suite. I showered and changed and then made my way down to Jackson and Jocasta’s a couple of hours later.’

  ‘You didn’t take the opportunity to view the hotel?’

  ‘I was here last week. Everything was pretty much done. I spoke to Jackson on the way in and he and I planned to spend some time going over the hotel later this afternoon.’

  ‘And the driver?’

  ‘He arranged for my bags to be taken up to my suite and I didn’t see him again. I assume he went into the hotel somewhere.’

  Sitting at the oak desk, Anna Conquest listened to the conversation while watching the silent images on the television that hung on the office wall. She never could have imagined the events that had taken place during the day, putting her and Jon at the centre of a global news story. The twenty-four-hour news channels were all running rolling live coverage from outside the hotel. They had obtained some phone footage of Jackson Harlington being held on the balcony of the thirty-eighth floor which was being run over and over. Anna watched the footage and then looked across at Jacqueline Harlington, who was staring at the screen as she saw her father dragged to the front of the balcony. At that point the news network had the decency to cut the clip and Anna watched Jacqueline slowly drop her head. As she did, the news network flashed another ‘BREAKING NEWS’ banner across the foot of the screen. The image cut away from the exterior of the hotel to a small terraced house in a northern suburb of London. The banner continued, ‘New developments in Harlington murder.’

  Anna sat forward and clicked up the volume on the television. ‘Jon, I think you need to see this.’

  Everyone in the room turned their attention to the news reporter standing outside the north London house.

  ‘Right now the timetable of events is pretty unclear,’ she began. ‘What we do know is a young man and a young woman, both believed to be in th
eir late teens or early twenties, have been freed this morning from a hidden underground basement, where it is believed they have been held captive for the past ten or possibly fifteen years. It is our understanding they were kidnapped when no more than six or seven years old. At this point in time we don’t have any identification on them, as police are trying to contact their immediate families, but police sources have told us they are urgently seeking the owner of the house, a Mr Richard Winn. And I can tell you that our own sources have revealed that a possible third captive, who is believed to be two or three years older, was also held with them for the past decade or more. That third captive is believed to have escaped a number of weeks ago and may well have been instrumental in the freeing of the two remaining hostages this morning. And our sources have confirmed to us that that third captive is in his early twenties. He is believed to be Joseph Harlington.’

  CHAPTER 20

  JOCASTA HARLINGTON DROPPED her head forward, releasing an anguished cry. Her daughter quietly placed her arms around her mother as Oscar Miller stumbled backwards to lean against the office desk. Jon Roscoe looked across at Anna, both of them still trying to comprehend what they had heard. Jon knew he had to speak to Mrs Harlington to try to understand what he was dealing with.

  ‘Mrs Harlington, I need to—’

  Jocasta lifted her head, looked first at her daughter and then at Roscoe.

  ‘No, Jon, it’s me who needs to talk.’ She took a breath, summoning every ounce of her inner strength. ‘It was sixteen years ago,’ she began, telling a story she had carried with her throughout those years and releasing a pain so deep it had never left her for a single day. ‘We were living in London at the time. Tribeca Luxury Hotels was already well established. We had bought all the artificial trimmings which came with that success. The cars, the clothes and an imposing house in Kensington, a short walk from the palace. I soon learnt it was all worth nothing.’ She paused, gasping for air.

  An intolerable pain shot through Jocasta and she started to sob uncontrollably. She felt her daughter wrap her arms tightly around her before carrying on, falteringly, tears streaking down her face.

  ‘We’d been out late. I’d been drinking but Jackson hadn’t, so he’d said he’d drive us. We were at a function for potential investors. Jackson wanted to open a London hotel. We were home so very late. I was exhausted. I went straight upstairs. I never went to bed without checking on Joseph and then Jacqueline. That night I didn’t.

  ‘I was asleep in seconds. I remember Jackson getting into bed but nothing more. Next morning I was awake early. I don’t know what time it was – probably around five. I was so thirsty. I made my way down to the kitchen and as I did I noticed the outside door was slightly open. I thought it must have been Jackson from the night before but it made me nervous. I went straight back upstairs.’ She howled in pain and clasped hold of her daughter’s hands. ‘Joseph was gone.’

  Roscoe nodded. He remembered the case. The Harlingtons were a wealthy family and the press had feasted on the story.

  ‘For months we waited for a ransom demand to tell us Joseph was alive. Something, some kind of contact telling us what they wanted and how we could get Joseph back. But nothing ever came. As time went by, Jackson and the police became convinced he was dead. But I never gave up hope.’

  She looked up, and smiled through the tears.

  ‘I knew my son was still alive.’

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘I NEED TO ask you if the two names Michael Duncan and Richard Winn mean anything to you,’ asked Roscoe.

  ‘They’re the two dead men, aren’t they?’ Jocasta Harlington said with absolute certainty. ‘Michael Duncan was our driver when Joseph was taken. Richard Winn was our chef.’ She gave a shallow, bitter laugh. ‘We really did have everything money could buy.’

  ‘Did the police question them when Joseph was taken?’

  ‘Everyone was questioned. Over and over. Jackson. Even me.’

  ‘And after the kidnap, what happened to them?’ continued Roscoe.

  ‘They stayed around for a while. But I didn’t want people coming in and out of the house so Jackson let Winn go pretty quickly. He still needed a driver so I think he kept Duncan on. He never came inside the house again though.’

  ‘I have to ask you this, Mrs Harlington,’ Roscoe said, looking at her directly, taking in her ravaged, tear-stained face, ‘but did you suspect them?’

  She sighed. ‘Never directly, but I thought it could have been somebody associated with the business. Or someone who knew us. Everyone knew we had a lot of money but no ransom demand was ever made.’

  Roscoe hesitated. ‘And Mrs Harlington, I don’t like to ask this—’

  ‘Did I ever suspect Jackson was involved?’ Jocasta interrupted, and Roscoe knew she was voicing a question she had never dared ask herself for the past sixteen years.

  ‘Did you?’

  Jocasta looked at her daughter and then across to Oscar Miller, who still leant against the office desk. Turning back to Roscoe, she said with great certainty, ‘No, never.’

  ‘Why not?’ he said quickly, aware that he was pushing her but needing answers. ‘He employed the driver? He employed the chef?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And then Joseph disappeared.’

  ‘Jackson was in bed with me at the time,’ Jocasta said sharply, raising her voice. ‘Neither of us heard a sound. He would never have done this. Never!’

  ‘But now he’s dead. And so is Duncan. And so is Winn.’ Roscoe feared he might bully Jocasta into answering but he had to know. ‘And from the news report it would seem that Winn had held your son captive for the past sixteen years.’

  But Jocasta’s head was in her hands again, and Roscoe watched her crying uncontrollably as her daughter held her closely.

  The room was silent except for the sounds of Jocasta’s sobs and Anna typing on the computer keyboard. Roscoe looked across to her and she gestured for him to come and look at the monitor. She was scanning the original press reports surrounding the case when Joseph had first disappeared.

  Four days after their child had been abducted, a press conference was held where the Harlingtons appealed directly to the kidnapper to contact them and let them bring their son home. At the same time, the lead investigating officer made a plea to any member of the public with information surrounding the kidnapping to please come forward.

  Anna clicked on the embedded video clip of the press conference.

  ‘If anyone has any information on the kidnapping of Joseph Harlington,’ the officer said, ‘however small or insignificant they think the information might be, please call the number displayed on the screen now. We have officers waiting to take your calls as I speak. Or, if you prefer, you may ask to speak with me directly.

  My name is Detective Sergeant Peter Savage.’

  CHAPTER 22

  ROSCOE DIVED ACROSS the room and out into the lobby.

  ‘Savage!’ he yelled across the vast marbled space, frantically scanning the crowds in front of him. ‘Savage, where are you?’

  He ran across to the entrance of the hotel, where people were being lined up and counted out as part of the evacuation process. He grabbed hold of the first officer he came across.

  ‘Where’s Inspector Savage?’ he asked urgently, then repeated, ‘Where is Inspector Savage?’ with even greater urgency before the officer had a chance to answer.

  ‘He was here a couple of minutes ago,’ said the officer, ‘but he could see we had everything under control. He said we should continue the evacuation until the foyer was empty.’

  Before the officer had finished speaking, Roscoe was sprinting across the lobby. ‘Where’s the inspector?’ he shouted as he ran towards one of the armed officers who’d accompanied him to the twenty-fifth floor.

  The officer replied immediately, ‘I’ve been securing the restaurant area, sir. I haven’t seen him since we came down in the elevator.’

  Bloodied and exhausted but driven on by
adrenaline, Roscoe ran back to the reception desk and jumped up onto the counter.

  ‘Savage! Has anyone seen Inspector Savage?’

  The crowd assembled in the lobby looked at Roscoe with a mixture of fear and anticipation. In his blood-covered T-shirt, Roscoe realised he looked an alarming sight but he knew he had to find the inspector while he still could. Still standing on top of the reception desk, he turned towards the elevator bank.

  The express elevator had stopped at the fortieth floor.

  He charged back into the office and knelt down by the couch where Jocasta remained with her daughter.

  ‘Mrs Harlington, I need your help. To stop these killings we must speak to your son.’

  ‘My Joseph?’

  Roscoe nodded.

  ‘He was seven years old the last time I saw him. I can’t begin to imagine what he’s been through.’ Jocasta looked desperately at Roscoe, and he wished he could offer her some kind of hope. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Jon.’

  Roscoe put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m afraid I’m certain of it. Mrs Harlington, the killer is your son. And the only person who can get him to stop is you.’

  CHAPTER 23

  TAKING JOCASTA HARLINGTON by the hand, Jon Roscoe led her across the hotel lobby towards the elevator bank. As he did so, he looked across to the entrance of the hotel and saw the evacuees continuing to leave the building. This was almost over.

  As they stepped into the express elevator, Jocasta turned to Roscoe.

  ‘I never thought I would see my son again, Jon.’

  Roscoe looked across at the mother of a multiple killer. It was impossible for him to imagine how she felt. There were three brutally murdered bodies scattered around the hotel, as well as Stanley fighting for his life in hospital. Her son had been taken from her sixteen years ago and now was about to be returned to her as some kind of avenging executioner.

  ‘I’m terrified, Jon. But at the same time I can’t help but feel some kind of anticipation. I’m about to see my son.’