In Place of Death by Craig Robertson Page B

there weren’t clothes plain enough that they wouldn’t stand out a mile here.
    It didn’t look too terrible from the outside. It had been repainted in the last few years, a whitewash that hadn’t yet surrendered to the elements, all the letters in the blue
signage were currently in place and it had handsome, if worn, art deco features. One step inside though and you saw it was carrying a title it couldn’t justify. This was no hotel.
    Instead it held one hundred and seventy guests. Residents might be a better term. Home from home for the homeless. All men. Every one of them a prisoner of drink or drugs or both, signing over
their housing benefit to pay for a room in the Rosewood.
    The reception area was behind a protective grille, a design feature generally underemployed by the Hilton or the Ritz. The grubby linoleum flooring felt sticky underfoot and there was a sickly
smell that seemed to grow with every second. A handful of hard plastic chairs were strewn around reception and looked as welcoming as the man behind the desk.
    Shaven-headed with a tattoo running down his neck, the guy was in a blue tracksuit top and grey bottoms. He sported a few days’ dark growth on his chin and a small scar on one cheekbone.
Glancing up, he saw Narey and Toshney approach and a silent swear word slipped his lips. This seemingly wasn’t going to brighten his day any further.
    â€˜Help you?’ The question was as grudging as he could manage.
    â€˜We’re looking for Mickey Doig. Is he around?’
    The man considered this and seemed to conclude that Mickey was indeed on the premises. He turned and walked a few paces to his left and pushed a door open. As it swung on its hinges, he shouted
inside. ‘Mickey! Cops are here to speak to you.’
    A muffled ‘Fucksake’ came back in reply. Moments later, an unhappy-looking forty-something appeared, drying his hands on a towel and eyes darting round the room. When they settled on
Narey, his face crumpled and another bit of life went out of him with a sigh. He clearly couldn’t catch a break.
    He was skinny with close-cropped dark hair and silver-rimmed glasses, maybe just five foot eight, and had a nervous look about him. His green sweatshirt hung loose and the sleeves were rolled up
to the elbow.
    â€˜DS Narey. What do you want?’
    â€˜It’s DI Narey now and it’s nice to see you too, Mickey. We wanted to ask you some questions.’
    â€˜Ask
me
?’ Doig’s tone was defiant. ‘Don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know nothing about nothing. And everything’s above board in here.
Completely kosher.’
    With that, Doig flashed a look at his colleague behind the desk, the man hanging keenly on every word of the scene in front of him. Narey got the impression that Doig was posturing for Tattoo
Man’s sake. Time to split them up.
    â€˜No one’s saying everything’s not legit in here. But I’d like to have a look around. Make sure for myself. That okay with you?’
    â€˜You got a warrant?’ It was the guard dog behind the desk. Narey smiled at him.
    â€˜No we don’t, Mr . . .?’
    A sullen pause. ‘Thomas Cochrane.’
    â€˜We don’t have a warrant, Mr Cochrane. Only looking to give the premises a quick once-over. That a problem?’
    It seemed that it was. ‘I thought you wanted a word with Mickey.’
    â€˜We do. A word about the hotel. We can do our talking while we’re walking. Okay?’
    Cochrane shrugged sourly. ‘I’ll need to phone the owners. Let them know.’
    â€˜Of course, sir. You do that. In the meantime, Mickey can give us the guided tour.’
    Narey turned her back on the desk, gesturing for Toshney to follow before Cochrane could argue any further. She then flipped out her thumb and suggested that Doig get moving. Mickey sighed
theatrically and looked over at the desk, his hands held out wide.