28

Darby stepped outside the hotel’s front door and found Laurie Richards standing a few feet away from the entrance, in a patch of sunlight. The woman’s dark blue puffer jacket was zipped all the way to her throat. It was frayed along the cuffs and there was a dime-sized hole in the elbow that exposed the downy feathers to the wind.

Hoder was making polite chitchat about the approaching storm while the woman looked around the street, a caged anxiety visible in her face and posture. She refused to look at him, her attention fixed on something further down the street. A black Ford van with tinted windows, its sagging rear bumper held up by rope, was parked in front of the Wagon Wheel Saloon.

Had Hoder said something to scare her, or was the woman intimidated simply by the idea of talking to a federal agent? Was she afraid of men?

Hoder, a divining rod of buried human emotions, had tuned into the woman’s mood. So Darby wasn’t surprised when he turned to her and said, ‘Ms Richards said there’s a diner a few blocks from here. I need to eat something before my hypoglycaemia goes into overdrive. Would you like me to bring you back some coffee?’

‘Black, please,’ Darby replied.

‘Ms Richards?’

‘No, thank you.’

Darby handed him the car keys. Richards watched Hoder as he shuffled on his cane towards the corner. The woman looked exhausted, a wired energy flitting behind her eyes.

‘We met briefly last night. My name is Darby McCormick. I’m assisting Agent Hoder with the Red Hill Ripper investigation.’

‘Yes, I know. He told me.’ She shifted on her feet and then seemed to stand absolutely still, as though the solid pavement had turned to a thin sheet of ice. ‘Am I in some sort of trouble?’

‘Why would you think that?’

‘He wouldn’t let me go to your room to change the sheets. He told me to go wait at the front desk and not to go anywhere. Did I do something wrong? And why are we standing outside?’

‘I’ve become addicted to this fresh country air.’ Darby smiled pleasantly. ‘How many people work here?’

‘Just me.’

Darby blinked in surprise. ‘You run the entire hotel by yourself?’

‘It’s not as daunting as it sounds. We generally don’t have guests. Nobody comes to stay in Red Hill any more, not since the ski slopes in Ridgewater closed, oh, must be six years ago now. Recession hit Ridgewater real bad. People used to stay here ’cause it was cheaper.’

‘Where do you live now?’

‘Here, at the hotel. At least until it’s sold.’

Darby recalled the cot she’d seen in the back office.

‘Charlie prefers to have me here around the clock, anyway,’ Richards said.

‘Charlie?’

‘Charlie Baker. He owns the hotel, and he hired me to keep an eye on everything – make sure the pipes don’t freeze and burst, keep the place nice and clean for when potential buyers come around, stuff like that. They don’t always telephone ahead, you know.’

‘Buyers?’

Richards nodded, her attention riveted on the notebook Darby had removed from her back pocket. ‘Most of ’em just drop by unannounced. When they do, I’ve got to make sure everything’s spic ’n’ span.’

‘You said “they”. Do buyers always come in groups?’

‘Usually.’

‘When was the last time a buyer stopped by the hotel?’

‘December. I can’t recall the date off the top of my head, but it was early in the month. I’d have to consult the book.’ She smiled brightly. Proudly. ‘I keep very detailed notes for Mr Baker.’

‘Does he work at the hotel too? Come in and do paperwork, stuff like that?’

‘No, he lives in Arizona. With his son.’

‘The buyer in December,’ Darby began.

‘Buyers. Three men and an older woman, from Weinstein and Glick, some building company based somewhere on the East Coast. New York, I think.’

‘Has a single buyer come by recently to look at the hotel?’

‘No. Never.’

‘You sure? Maybe someone who was taking a look around the outside?’

‘I’m positive. They always come in groups.’

Scratch that theory, Darby thought. ‘Ms Richards, can you tell me who booked my hotel room?’

The woman seemed puzzled, nervous, as though she’d been asked a trick question designed to lead her into a trap. ‘Agent Hoder,’ she said tenuously.

‘He called and told you to book me a room?’

‘No, he told me the day he checked in.’

‘That would be this past Wednesday, the fifteenth.’

‘That’s right. He came into the hotel around noon or so with another agent, a tall man with blond hair and differently coloured eyes.’

‘Cooper.’

‘He didn’t introduce himself, and Agent Hoder didn’t tell me his name. But he had a badge and everything. Agent Hoder checked in and told me he needed another room and gave me your name.’

‘When did the FBI book the other rooms?’

‘Right after the first of the year, I think. I’ll have to check the ledger.’

‘You don’t use a computer?’

‘Not any more. Mr Baker used one at one point, but when it broke he didn’t want to replace it – there wasn’t a need since the hotel wasn’t busy. I’ve been working here almost a year, and all I’ve ever used is the ledger. We still have the credit card machine, though. You need that since everyone pays with plastic.’

‘Where do you keep the ledger?’

‘Next to the phone.’

‘Is it always next to the phone?’

‘There or behind the desk.’ The woman’s brow furrowed. ‘Why?’

‘Could you bring it to me, please?’

29

Laurie Richards clearly wanted to ask why she had to bring the ledger outside instead of taking Darby back into the hotel to read it.

She didn’t, though. She opened the big, heavy glass door, and Darby watched as the woman moved to the corner of the front desk and picked up something next to the phone. Richards returned carrying a book bound in green imitation leather. A red ribbon acted as a bookmark.

‘The entry’s right here,’ Richards said, and pointed to the kind of impeccable cursive handwriting instilled by Catholic school nuns. ‘Mr Stephen Drake from the FBI’s travel office in Washington called me on Friday, the third. That’s his phone number right there, next to his name. He said four agents would be staying with us for a week starting on Wednesday, the fifteenth.’

Darby nodded, reading along. Richards had taken meticulous notes.

‘Mr Drake specifically asked for two rooms, by the way,’ Richards said. ‘I told him we had plenty of availability but he told me the FBI have their agents bunk up.’

Darby nodded, familiar with the FBI’s budget-saving protocol. ‘This notation right here,’ she said, and pointed to a line that read ‘+1R. 8.’

‘That’s shorthand for plus one extra room. I put you in Room 8,’ Richards said. ‘I wrote that down after Agent Hoder told me you’d be staying here. I called Mr Drake to tell him, you know, just in case.’

‘And you made this notation on Wednesday morning, when Agent Hoder checked in.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure? You didn’t add it in later?’

‘No. I make the notes right then and there. I don’t wait because you can’t always trust your brain to remember – at least mine, anyway.’

Darby had flown in yesterday. Thursday. She had arrived at the Downes home at roughly 11 a.m. and checked into her room last night at little after 9 p.m. Sometime during those ten hours the Red Hill Ripper had found out her room number and bugged her phone.

Darby closed the ledger and handed it back to her.

‘Did you see anyone inside the hotel yesterday who didn’t belong here? Someone who wasn’t a guest?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

Richards nodded vigorously.

‘Were you working the front desk the entire time? Did you go anywhere?’

‘Well, I can’t be in two places at once,’ Richards said. ‘I’ve got to do cleaning and maintenance and other stuff. When Agent Hoder told me he needed an extra room, I had to go and get it ready.’