The atmosphere in the hotel was subdued; male staff at reception wore their customary morning suits, but in deference to the day all were adorned with black silk ties. A large photograph of Churchill, The Roaring Lion by Yousuf Karsh, stood in the lobby on an easel, draped in black crepe. Templeman and Cosby headed for the lifts; on the seventh floor the lift doors opened onto a plush space, along the walls of which luxury apartments radiated in opulence and secrecy behind oiled oak doors. As Templeman entered the corridor, he sensed that something was not right. A man was sitting outside Sparrow’s apartment, his head and shoulders obscured by a high aspidistra in an ornate brass pot. He motioned to Cosby, and stepped lightly forward, his right hand raised towards the pistol he now carried in a leather holster on his hip. As Templeman cleared the plant, the man looked up at him, revealing himself as Sergeant George Latimer.
“I didn’t think you’d be here so quickly George,” said Templeman as his right hand dropped once more to his side, apprehension momentarily abating. Latimer sat and blinked for a moment, as if unsure what to say or do. Then, leveraging his hands on his thighs, he stood up.
“We never left the hotel guvnor.”
“Never left? Where is Anderson?”
As he spoke, a service door opened further along the corridor, and Detective Constable Anderson, the youngest member of the squad, appeared. He walked toward them, exchanging nods with Cosby.
“Sparrow,” said Latimer slowly, “Sparrow, decided not to attend the funeral.”
“So, he has been in the apartment, all morning?” asked Templeman pointing at the apartment’s door.
“Yes, but…”
“Yes, but what?”
“He is not alone. Two females are with him.”
“They arrived around eight,” said Anderson, his face betraying a snarl of mild contempt.
Templeman blew out sharply through his lips, then stepped back from the apartment door and beckoned to the others to approach him.
“He was sent by his government to attend Churchill’s funeral, and instead he bangs two hotel tarts.”
“That’s about it, guvnor,” said Latimer. Templeman scrutinized the three officers dispassionately for a moment.
“OK George, and you Anderson, get home, we’ll take over.”
“Thanks guvnor. We’ll see you on Monday,” said Latimer.
The lift came swiftly and bore the two policemen away.
“Monday can’t come soon enough Micky, Monday can’t come soon enough,” said Templeman once they had gone.
A quarter of an hour later, the apartment door opened, hesitantly, and a warm draft of Faberge Tigress and hair spray announced that the female occupants were departing. Although they were still made up, with heavy mascara and long artificial eyelashes, Templeman guessed that beneath the layers of social camouflage were two still teenage girls.
“Fancy, a policeman,” said one.
“Clear out, sweetheart,” replied Templeman.
“What if I don’t?!” came the defiant reply.
“If you don’t, I’ll get a nice little police van, with a nasty big woman constable, who’ll search you in the cells at the police station.”
“Bloody cheek!”
“Out!”
Without further protest, the two young women, one brunette, one a fake blonde reeking of peroxide, walked away, clasping black leather handbags protectively to their bodies.
A trolley arrived, propelled by a waitress; she was dressed in black, with a white apron.
“What have you got there?” asked Cosby. The woman coughed, then looked up.
“You asked for sandwiches and coffee, and I have mint tea for the guest in the apartment.”
Templeman gestured for the woman to go through. She knocked at the door; there was no answer.
“Room service sir,” she called, raising her mouth to the door frame. Still there was no reply; she knocked again. A ridge of fine hair on Templeman’s neck, recently shorn, started to rise.
“Sir,” she said in a louder voice, “it’s room service, should I leave the tea things here?”
The oak door stood silent and untouched.
“Do you have a pass key?” asked Templeman urgently.
“Yes…but it’s only to be used in emergencies.”
“I’m a police officer, open the door.”
“But…”
“Open the door please.”
The woman fumbled under her apron, producing a small bunch of keys. When Templeman wrote the report for the day, he saw again his right hand dropping to the pistol on his hip, while his left shoulder shunted the door, as the waitress, fear now in her eyes, stepped back. It was one clean action; as he raised his eyes he took in the plush carpet, heavy curtains, sideboard, the framed paintings. Then by only taking one step forward, he saw the body. The minister lay almost in state, fully dressed, blank eyes searching for the ceiling. All that remained was for someone to arrange his funeral.
Copyright © David Alexander 2023