Ron was rocking backwards and
forwards on the chair behind the empty desk, sipping at his coffee
in an attempt to keep warm on that cold April morning. Idly glancing
through the classified section in the first edition of the evening
paper, one of the ‘situations vacant’ ads leapt off the page at him.
“Full Board in exchange for seasonal help in busy Blackport hotel.
Suit fit young person. Write with full details about yourself to Box
No. 3326,” it said.
That was too similar an advert to be a coincidence. Too similar to
the one he’d tried to follow up on a missing person’s case last
year, he thought. Abandoning the coffee, he went to the filing
cabinet. Fingering through the folders in the drawer marked
‘Pending’, a less harsh way of putting ‘Those you didn’t manage to
solve, idiot!’, he at last came upon the one marked ‘Millins-Woodstock’.
Flicking through the pages quickly to re-familiarise himself with
the case, he lifted the phone to his ear as his finger sped through
the numbers.
“The Millins-Woodstock residence. How may I help you?” the reserved
voice, obviously the butler, came back.
“It’s Ron Wilson, Wilson Private Investigations,” he explained.
“Would it be possible to speak with Mrs Millins-Woodstock? Er, it’s
about a matter we’ve spoken on before.”
“Oh, yes. I remember you sir. If you’ll hold the line I will see if
she will speak with you.”
There was a loud click. Ron waited patiently. This woman was
loaded, he remembered. If her son, Joey, was still missing there
might be a chance to make some desperately needed money here. Last
year, by the end of the season when the boy was proclaimed missing,
the advert had long since gone cold. There had been no way to pursue
that line of investigation; all the usual routes of enquiry had
produced nothing. It was a sad case, he recalled, where the boy’s
mother had re-married. The son and stepfather not hitting it off,
probably neither to blame, a clash of personalities. Joey now ‘did
his own thing’, apparently even preferring to sleep rough at times
rather than accept help from his family. His only contact had been a
brief once monthly phone call to his mother, the last one being the
preceding May when he’d told her that he had followed up an
advertisement and been accepted for a job helping out in a hotel,
two hundred miles away in Blackport.
“Have you found him?” the excited voice suddenly pleaded in his
ear, startling him out of his thoughts.
“Er… no, I haven’t,” he confessed, “but there is a new lead if you
would like me to continue…”
“Yes, yes!” the voice screamed at him. “Find him. You must find
him. No matter what it costs, money’s no object. Just find him! I’ll
send you a cheque immediately. Start straightaway!”
David was eighteen, unemployed since leaving school, the son of a
disillusioned Private Investigator, how could he say no when his
father asked for his help? Anyway, it sounded like fun. Applying for
the holiday position in his own immature handwriting, offering a
similar background to the missing Joey’s, he waited, they waited,
hopefully. Ron knew that if he wrote to the box number simply
enquiring about the missing boy there would be little chance of a
reply. The fact that a box number was used for such a simple
transaction as seasonal casual employment was in itself worthy of
suspicion. No, he knew that best line of investigation would be
through David obtaining this position. He would follow his son
discretely, then once he had learnt where this hotel was, book in as
a guest. He felt sure, had that instinctive hunch which came with
his type of work, that this hotel in Blackport would reveal
something rewarding.
David’s application must have hit the right chord; the letter
confirming he was accepted came back within four days. With minimal
luggage, it was only two days later the boy alighted from the train
in Blackport to be met on the platform by an elderly looking
gentleman holding a card with his name on it. Ron had raced through
two carriages, choosing to leave the train further up so there could
be no suspicions they were connected. Following at a distance, he
watched as the old man ushered his son into a beaten-up old Morris
station wagon. At least that shouldn’t be too hard to follow, Ron
surmised, hailing the nearest cab, jumping in it and feeling
foolishly stereotypical when he shouted to the driver, “Follow that
car!”
It was only a short drive before the station wagon stopped outside
the typical terraced B&B come friendly Guest House in Lady Street,
the one proudly proclaiming to be Hotel Excellent. A suitable
distance away, Ron paid off the taxi driver, waiting while his son
followed the old man inside. Once out of sight, he sauntered over,
stopping to read the advertisement on the board outside. ‘Excellent
Accommodation, Excellent Wholesome Meals. Full Board from £15 per
person per night,’ it stated, with pictures of some rooms, the bar
and the dining area to back it up. It all looks respectable, the
investigator thought, about to go up the three steps to the front
door. Then he noticed the other sign, the one hanging in the window,
‘ Sorry, No Vacancies’.
“Shit!” he exclaimed loudly. That was something he hadn’t bargained
for. Idiot! How could he be that stupid?
Crossing the road, he rang the doorbell at the Hotel Velmont. Yes,
they had room, they told him, plenty of room at this time of the
year. He could pick any room he wanted. It was only the strange
place over the road that was full nearly all the year round,
everybody else along there was struggling for guests most of the
time. How they did it, they just couldn’t imagine. Apparently, they
didn’t even advertise, well certainly not in the usual places, they
told the ‘becoming more worried by the second’ investigator.
It was on the second morning that Ron decided he would have to
knock the door opposite; he’d have to challenge the hoteliers head
on. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of David in all that time, not
even a text message on his mobile phone. That was strange. Few
people had gone in or out of the building, he’d observed from many
hours sitting in a chair by the window of his room keeping watch.
Unusually few for a place that was supposedly full. He was now
getting quite concerned, no not concerned he conceded, he was
gut-wrenchingly worried.
It was several minutes of ringing the doorbell many times before
there was any response at the Hotel Excellent. Then, through the
frosted glass door panel, he could hear someone shuffling along the
passage.
“Yes?” the hunched up grey-haired little old lady who opened the
door asked.
“I was wondering if you had any room,” Ron lied.
“No we don’t!” The old lady was about to close the door on him.
“It’s just that I know my son took the job here a couple of days
ago,” he explained, putting his foot in the door. “I thought that,
as I was in the area, it would be nice to stay where he worked.
Maybe spend an hour or two with him, after he’d finished his work,
of course.”
The woman looked him up and down. Ron thought there was a shocked
look behind those leathery wrinkles, but he couldn’t be sure.
S’pose you’d better come in,” she said at length. “Follow me, he’s
in the preparation room.”
She led him through the dining area where he recognised the old man
clearing the breakfast plates from the tables of the satisfied
guests. Following her through to the kitchen, Ron could hear the
comments from the guests being shouted after them.
“Lovely, those sausages this morning, Thelma,” one called out.
“Yes, I really enjoyed them,” shouted another.
The old lady smiled back at them saying, “Then you’ll love dinner
tonight. We’re having a proper family meal for a change.”
Entering the preparation room, Ron immediately recognised the face
that was staring at him. It was above the remainder of his son’s
dismembered body hanging lifeless from the overhead metal rail by a
meat hook, conveniently next to the sausage machine. He gasped.
“You’ll join us for dinner, won't you?” he heard behind him, before
the swishing sound. Puzzled, he tried to make sense of the bright
red fountain that was erupting, gushing two feet into the air from
the form blindly staggering around, arms flaying wildly, less than
three feet in front of him. I recognise that suit, he thought,
before the blackness.
© Michael Knell 2002.
