The man behind the counter chuckled. “He’s been taking care of you, you say?”
She produced a wad of crumpled bills and handed over the usual fee. There were two fivers left over and she managed to wedge them into the back pocket of her pants.
“I want him out by noon,” he whispered loudly.
“I’ll leave a note, luv, but it might be a touch later.”
The man behind the counter shrugged, handed over a key, and disappeared into the back room.
Beatrice went to the foot of the stairs and put an arm around her newfound friend. “All right, third floor.” The man muttered something unintelligible and they started up.
Five minutes and a couple of shin bruises later, she let them into Number 36. The room was dark and musty, and looked like it hadn’t been swept in years. Beatrice was at least happy to see the bed had been made. She gave her ward a playful nuzzle and guided him to the bed.
“It ain’t the Ritz, now, but it ought to serve our purposes, eh ducks?”
The man was clearly feeling it. She helped him take off the old greatcoat and threw it over a chair as he flopped onto the bed face first. “Now you just lie there a minute or so, luv, whilst I freshen.”
Beatrice made her way to the bathroom. There, she took her time, primping her bleached hair and rubbing over a few smudges in the spackle. After ten minutes, Beatrice opened the door a crack and peeked out. Happily, she saw the bloke right where she’d left him, on his belly, with one leg hanging off the bed. And snoring mightily. She tiptoed over to make sure. His face was scrunched sideways on the mattress and a string of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. Beatrice smiled, pleased that he’d gone down over easy. She reached smoothly into his rear pocket and slid out the wallet, the same one he’d been drawing twenties out of all night at the Burr and Thistle. She counted two hundred and ten quid.
“Let’s see,” she thought out loud, “that was going to be fifty. Or did I say seventy?” She gave herself the benefit of the doubt, and then some. In the end, she left forty-five quid, and resisted a temptation to snag the credit card. If she took everything, he might get mad and come looking for her. This way he’d just kick himself for spending what was probably a week’s wages, and that would be that.
Before she left, Beatrice couldn’t resist a look through the small tote bag he’d been lugging around. She opened it and found some duct tape, a magazine, a pair of eyeglasses, shaving gear, and a jumble of toiletries. Nothing of any interest. She took a last look at the poor sod passed out on the bed. He was rather dirty and had a rough beard. Still, from what she could see of his features, he probably wouldn’t have cleaned up half bad.
She bent down close enough to smell his whiskey breath and whispered, “Next time, eh luv?” Beatrice left, closing the door with a deft, practiced softness.
Slaton didn’t move for a full five minutes. He heard her footsteps descend the creaky stairs, and soon after, the sound of a door closing and her high heels clacking on the sidewalk outside. Then there was nothing, save for the usual sounds of late night — the occasional passing car, a dog barking in the distance.
When he got up he did so quickly, which was a mistake. Slaton wasn’t used to the liquor. He had staggered into the bar sober, and discreetly spilled most of the first drink on his clothes, rubbing it over his chin and face to create the right air about himself. Once Beatrice had latched onto him, however, there was no choice but to take a few the proper way. Now he would have to fight the haze, at least for a short time. Only when the room was safe could he allow a much earned rest.
He latched the deadbolt on the door, realizing the old rotted frame probably wouldn’t hold against a stout kick. His wallet was on a table next to the bed and he noted what she’d done. Beatrice was no beginner. Walking down the street earlier, he’d felt her patting down the pockets of his coat as she coaxed him along in a straight line. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist a check of the duffel as well, so while Beatrice had been engaged with the proprietor in the lobby, he’d removed a few things from the duffel — the handgun he’d stolen from the Royal Engineers (a Heckler & Koch 9mm), a bottle of hair dye purchased earlier at a pharmacy, and most of his remaining cash. These he had stuffed into a hip pocket of his overcoat. He kept her on the opposite side as they ascended the stairs, and after taking off the coat in the room, she’d made no effort to go through it again. He was glad, because otherwise he would have been forced to make use of the duct tape. And he’d have lost a lot of valuable time.
Slaton took the money and hair dye from his overcoat, and put them back in the duffel. He then removed his shoes, shirt, and pants. The clothes he laid neatly across the back of the chair by the bed, trousers on top. The duffel went to the seat of the chair. He took the shoes to the bathroom and washed off the remnants of mud from yesterday’s excursion, then set them on the floor to dry next to his shirt and pants. Next, he pulled a small night table toward the bed, positioning it to a point midway along the rail. The H&K went on the table to be precisely at arms length, barrel left and away, safety off. He put his hands on his hips and did a quick inventory. If he had to go, he could be dressed with the money in one hand and the weapon in the other in no more than twenty seconds.
Finally, Slaton laid down, which seemed like an effort in itself. His body still, he felt fatigue fall over him like a heavy blanket. He had done well. In the forty-eight hours since leaving London he’d gotten safe, and, along the way, acquired tools that would be vital to his plan. The rifles were still safely locked in the trunk of the Porsche. He’d collect them tomorrow. The only glitch in the last two days had been the little girl, Jane, who had seen him get out of Smitherton’s truck. She had forced him to move faster than he would have otherwise.
Presently, the only person who could place him in this room was Beatrice, and Slaton doubted she was having any second thoughts about the poor drunk she’d just rolled for a hundred and sixty-five quid. He had to assume that a photo would soon be released, or was perhaps already circulating. If Beatrice should see it, there was a chance she’d recognize him. But the police wouldn’t be focusing on neighborhoods like this, and Slaton doubted Beatrice read many newspapers. Right now she was probably headed home herself. Professionals of all sorts needed sleep to function.
As Slaton lay still, the soreness in his muscles became more pronounced, his body’s protest to last night’s pounding run. It would improve with rest. The last time he’d gotten any true sleep was on the beach. It seemed so long ago. An image of Christine came to mind, the two of them back on the beach, talking about something unimportant. She was laughing, a deep, easy laugh, from the soul of a contented person. He hoped he’d done nothing to change that.
Slaton pushed the thoughts away. Now was the time for sleep. There would be few opportunities in the days ahead. He tried to mentally go over the next day’s timetable, but the schedule began to blur. Slaton finally succumbed and drifted off, his right hand inches from the H & K.
Chapter Twenty
He’d taken the first available flight. Then the first cab. The taxi now stood still, anchored in traffic two miles from the hospital. So close, but he might as well have been where he started, halfway around the world. He pounded his fist on the door in frustration. Cars and trucks everywhere, a mass of mechanization choking on its own fumes, and brake lights as far as the eye could see.
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money and threw it into the front seat. The door of the rickety old cab was jammed shut and it took a solid kick to swing it open. It never entered his mind to set a pace. He just ran. Sprinting along the sidewalk, in and out between idling cars and buses. People stared at him. Hadn’t they ever seen a man running for his life before? The first half mile was easy, then his body began to protest. His breaths came with every stride, legs pounding ahead, churning across the concrete and asphalt. Faster. Faster. Halfway there, his body told him to slow. Lungs aching, he could feel the sweat beading on his face. None of it mattered. There was only one thing. Faster! Then he saw it in the distance and seeing it gave a rush of adrenaline. For the last hundred yards his feet barely seemed to touch the ground. He burst through the building’s entrance and slid to a stop on the slick floor, gasping for every breath. People in white stood staring at him.