Barbara saved Lynley the embarrassment of having to disabuse the girl of her notion about their presence in the Canterbury Hotel. As she dug out her police identification, she said, “When we do it, we prefer the backseat of a car. Bit cramped to be sure, but definitely cheap.” She thrust her ID at the girl. “New Scotland Yard,” she said. “And dead dee-lighted to know you’re helping the neighbourhood cope with its ungovernable passions. This is Detective Superintendent Lynley, by the way.”
The girl’s eyes took in both warrant cards. She reached up and fingered the chandelier that dangled from her earlobe. “Sor-ry,” she said. “You know, I didn’t actually think the two of you-”
“Right,” Barbara cut in. “Let’s begin with the hours you work here. What are they?”
“Why?”
Lynley said, “Are you on duty at night?”
She shook her head. “I’m off at six. What’s going on? What’s happened?” It was clear that she’d been prepped on what to do should the rozzers ever come calling: She reached for the phone and said, “Let me get Mr. Tatlises for you.”
“He works reception at night?”
“He’s the manager. Hey! What’re you doing?” This last she said as Barbara reached over the reception counter and broke the connection on the phone.
“The night clerk will do just fine,” she told the girl. “Where is he?”
“He’s legal,” she said. “Everyone who works here is legal. There’s not a single person without papers, and Mr. Tatlises makes sure they all enroll in English classes as well.”
“A real upright member of society, he is,” Barbara said.
“Where can we find the night clerk?” Lynley asked. “What’s his name?”
“Asleep.”
“I’ve not heard that name before,” Barbara said. “What nationality is it?”
“What? He’s got a room here…That’s why. Look, he won’t want to be woken up.”
“We’ll do those honours for you, then,” Lynley said. “Where is it?”
“Top floor,” she said. “Forty-one. It’s a single. He doesn’t have to pay. Mr. Tatlises takes it out of his wages. Half price as well.” She said all this as if the information might be enough to keep them from speaking to the night clerk. As Lynley and Barbara headed for the lift, the girl reached for the phone. There was little doubt she was phoning either for reinforcements or to warn room 41 that the cops were on their way up.
The lift was a pre-World War I affair, a grilled cage that ascended at the dignified pace necessary for mystical assumptions into heaven. It was suitable for two individuals without luggage. But possession of luggage did not appear to be one of the qualifications for filling out a registration card in this hotel.
The door to 41 was open when they finally got there. The occupant was waiting for them, pyjamas on body and foreign passport in hand. He looked to be round twenty years old. He said, “Hello. How do you do. I am Ibrahim Selçuk. Mr. Tatlises is my uncle. I speak English little. My papers are in order.”
Like the words of the receptionist below, all of what he said was rote: lines you must recite if a cop asks you questions. The place was probably a hotbed of illegal immigrants, but that was something they were not concerned about at the moment as Lynley made clear to the man when he said, “We’re not involved in immigration. On the eighth, a young boy was brought to this hotel by an odd-looking man with yellow-white hair and dark glasses. An albino, we call him. No colour in his skin. The boy was young, blond-” Lynley showed Selçuk the picture of Davey Benton, which he took from his jacket pocket along with the mug shot taken of Minshall by the Holmes Street police. “He may have left in the company of another man who’d already booked a room here.”
Barbara added, “And this song and dance-young boys being brought to this place by the albino man and leaving later with some other bloke?-it’s supposedly happened over and over, Ibrahim, so don’t let’s try to pretend you haven’t seen the action.” She thrust the two e-fits at the night receptionist then, saying, “He might look like this. The man the young boy left with. Yes? No? Can you confirm?”
He said uneasily, “My English is little. I have passport here.” And he danced from one foot to another like someone needing to use the toilet. “People come. I give them card to sign and keys. They pay in cash, that is all.” He gripped the front of his pyjamas, in the area of his crotch. “Please,” he said, casting a look back over his shoulder.
Barbara muttered, “Bloody hell.” And to Lynley, “‘I’m about to wet myself’ is probably not part of his English lessons.”
Behind the man, his room was dark. In the light from the corridor, they could see that his bed was rumpled. He’d definitely been sleeping, but he’d also been prepared by someone at some point to keep his answers minimal at all times, admitting to nothing. Barbara was about to suggest to Lynley that forcing the bloke to hold his bladder for a good twenty minutes might go some distance towards loosening his tongue when a diminutive man in a dinner suit came trundling towards them from round the corner.
This had to be Mr. Tatlises, Barbara thought. His look of determined good cheer was spurious enough to act as his identification. He said in a heavy Turkish accent, “My nephew, his English wants repair. I am Mr. Tatlises and I’m happy to help you. Ibrahim, I will handle this.” He shooed the boy into his room again and he closed the door himself. “Now,” he said expansively, “you need something, yes? But not a room. No no. I’ve been told that already.” He laughed and looked from Barbara to Lynley with a we-boys-know-where-we-want-to-plant-it expression that made Barbara want to invite the little worm to take a bite of her fist. Like someone would want to have a shag with you? she wanted to ask him. Puhh-leez.
“We understand that this boy was brought here by a man called Barry Minshall.” Lynley showed Tatlises the relevant photos. “He left in the company of another man who, we believe, resembles this individual. Havers?” Barbara showed Tatlises the e-fits. “Your confirmation of this is what we require at this point.”
“And after that?” Tatlises inquired. He’d given a scant glance to the photos and the drawings.
“You’re not really in a position to wonder what happens after that,” Lynley told him.
“Then I do not see how-”
“Listen, Jack-o-mate,” Barbara broke in. “I expect your handmaiden of the boots downstairs put you in the picture that we’re not here from your local station: two rozzers looking round their new patch for a nice bit of dosh from the likes of you, if that’s how you keep this operation going. This’s just a bit bigger than that, so if you know something about what’s been going on in this rubbish tip, I suggest you unplug it and give us the facts, okay? We’ve got it from this individual”-she stabbed her finger onto Barry Minshall’s mug shot-“that one of his mates from a group called MABIL met a thirteen-year-old boy right in this hotel on the eighth. Minshall claims it’s a regular arrangement, since someone from here-and let me guess it’s you-belongs to MABIL as well. How’s this all sounding to you for a lark?”
“MABIL?” Tatlises said, with some fluttering of eyelashes to approximate confusion. “This is someone…?”
“I expect you know what MABIL is,” Lynley said. “I also expect that if we asked you to join an identity parade, Mr. Minshall would have no trouble picking you out as the fellow member of MABIL who works here. We can avoid all that, and you can confirm his story, identify the boy, and tell us whether the man he left with looks like either one of these two sketches, or we can prolong the entire affair and haul you over to Earl’s Court Road police station for a while.”