Déjà Vu: A Technothriller Hocking, Ian (online e book reader .TXT) 📖

actually – looked at the evidence. They’re satisfied he’s guilty and have authorised all reasonable force in getting him before he skips the country.”

“What kind of trial will he have?”

“A closed hearing.”

Saskia was intrigued. “And if he is sent to prison, what if he tells fellow prisoners?”

“If he knows something really important...well, how can I put this delicately?” He leaned closer. “He’ll be silenced. One way or another.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

She considered the situation. In truth, she had no clue where to start. She had had no training that she could remember. Jobanique had given her the job because of her gut instinct. It told her that she should retrace his steps from their beginning, not their point of disappearance.

“Detective Inspector Hannah, could you please tell me our destination?”

“Belford, Northumbria. That’s where the glider came down.”

“How long a journey is that?”

Hannah spoke quickly to the driver. The driver sucked air through his teeth and shrugged, then shouted something back. Saskia watched Hannah expectantly. She had not understood a word.

“It’s about seventy miles. In kilometres,” he continued, prompted by her expression, “about a hundred and ten. Should take around an hour and a half. We’d be there by 4:15.”

“No. I would like to go to the West Lothian Centre.”

He frowned. “Where? The community centre?”

“No. The scene of the murder, please.”

“Oh, right. You mean the Park Hotel. I’ve just come from there.”

“How long is the journey?”

“Half an hour.” He tapped the driver. “Park Hotel. Just out of Whitburn, on the way to Harthill.” The driver nodded.

Saskia finished her cigarette and threw it out of the window. She could tell Hannah was amused by her blatant littering. She leaned closer. “What are your orders regarding me?”

Hannah’s eyes were hard rocks. They had met the stare of murderers, rapists, paedophiles and con-men, and seen through ghosts and bluff. Saskia was easy. “I’ve been asked to give you every cooperation.”

“Asked?”

He smiled. “Told.”

“And what do you think of me?”

He regarded her. “Detective Saskia Brandt. You are a foreign consultant with experience of fugitive murderers. You’ve been working for the Brussels office of Föderatives Investigationsbüro for five years, following a degree in modern languages and psychology at Bochum University. Section chief is codenamed Jobanique. Not married. No pets.”

Saskia leaned in. “And do you believe all that?”

“Shouldn’t I believe it?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“What are you saying?”

“What do you think I’m saying?”

Hannah took a long drag on his cigarette. He waited until the claustrophobia of the moment passed. “You think I disapprove because you’re private. That is, that you’re not directly employed by the state. You think I’m against having a private detective on the case. And, maybe, that I’ll feel territorial.”

She could feel his anticipation. He wanted her to say And do you?

Saskia relaxed and stretched her legs as far as they could go. She put her fingers through the gap in the window pane. The wind’s howl change pitch. She sighed.

Hannah muttered something.

“What?” she asked.

“Nicest interrogation I ever had.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She closed her eyes. “Please tell me what you know about our destination.”

The Park Hotel, Hannah began, was an old, renovated manor house that stood watch over the largest national park in West Lothian, Craillie Park. The Craillies, who had lived there since 1620, had played a major role in the local community. They were philanthropists and businessmen. In the early part of the twentieth century they had allowed local sportsmen and women to use their bowling green, golf course and tennis courts. By 1957, with mounting debts and dwindling income, the remaining Craillies left their one-hundred-and-sixty-nine-acre home for various careers in various countries. They were variously successful. The park became derelict, overgrown and forgotten by everyone but a few locals. Then, in 1978, the District Council decided to buy the property. They reinstated the facilities. It cost millions. The old mansion house became the Park Hotel.

The hotel was unveiled in 1981. At the same time, the nearby outdoor sports facilities, but not the hotel, were opened by an MP and placed at the disposal of the local community. The hotel remained an exclusive retreat for tourists – mostly rich Englishmen – who played a little sport, tried their luck against the salmon in the River Almond and enjoyed cigar-smoke conferences in closed backrooms. In 1995 an adjunct to the hotel was constructed to provide public indoor sporting activities. The council also built a patio area for barbeques.

“How long did that building take?”

“I’ve got no idea. Why?”

“I suspect it was a cover. They were also building an underground research centre.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“The centre is now...defunct.”

In 2003 the hotel was damaged by fire. Accidental, in the opinion of the local papers. It was renovated with an estimated eight million from the insurers and re-opened one year later by an MSP. From that time to the present day, it has served in the exact capacity envisaged by the District Council in 1978: the exclusive hotel, which rakes in the money, and the indoor-outdoor sports facilities, which the Whitburnians enjoy.

“Have you ever met someone who has stayed at the hotel?”

“No.”

They pulled up outside the hotel. Gravel crunched under the tyres. Saskia got out and breathed. The air was cold. It had an overtone of pine. She could also smell running water and damp vegetation. The surrounding trees were high firs and Saskia was gripped, albeit briefly, by the child-like urge to run into that woodland and just be in there, where it was silent and safe.

“Like an enchanted forest, isn’t it?” said Hannah.

“Genau,” she muttered. “Exactly.”

To her left, past the bushes and down the valley toward the River Almond, she could see the corner of a tennis court. It was quite separate from the hotel itself. In that direction, presumably, lay the other courts, the golf course, the bowling green, the barbeque area and more. But the hotel stood alone.

“Is the centre closed?”

“Aye, it’s a crime scene.”

“But there are no markings.”

“No need. They can stop people at the gate.”

The hotel had six floors. Its two wings