There was nowhere in the corridor to wait. There were three doors on either side and a fire door at the far end. More than likely that would lead out to a fire escape. No good waiting out there, I wanted to see if anyone came up to join Tina.
I went back down to the first floor, prepared to act as if I were just leaving my room if anyone spotted me. Ten minutes crawled by. Then I heard footsteps, the clink of coins or keys. A man crossed the landing and carried on up. I followed him. He knocked sharply on a door and cast a glance my way as I appeared from the stairs. Room 203. The door opened and he went in. Full house.
I went down to the lobby. The receptionist was back, and she seemed surprised to see me.
‘Can I help you?’ she said.
I weighed her up. Young, lots of make-up, expensive clothes. It couldn’t be very exciting working here. Maybe I could brighten her day. ‘You might be able to,’ I said. ‘I’m a private detective.’ I pulled out one of my cards and showed her. She took it, read it, handed it back. Cool. Sceptical. Weighing me up too.
‘Room 203,’ I said, ‘can you tell me who’s registered there?’
‘I don’t think I could do that,’ she said, a neutral tone. ‘Confidentiality and all that.’
‘I thought that was doctors and priests,’ I said.
‘And lawyers,’ she was enjoying this, ‘and banks.’ I missed the hint.
‘You could just check the mail,’ I gestured towards the pigeonholes, ‘or tidy the information board. And I could just glance at the visitors’ book.’
She sighed. ‘Rotten wages,’ she said, ‘hotel and catering trade. Time they agreed a minimum wage.’
It took me a moment to cotton on. I nodded. Took a fiver from my purse, put it on the desk.
She smiled. ‘Then there’s inflation, the recession, negative equity. You know my house is worth less now than it was in 1989.’ I placed a second fiver on the desk. ‘Just look at those letters, what a mess.’
She turned away, pocketing the fivers, and began to shuffle the envelopes. I swivelled the ledger round my way. I found room 203, in the name of Mrs Peters. A flick back through the pages revealed another eight occasions. Mrs Peters checked in for days not nights. I made a note of the dates.
‘Does Mr Peters always join her?’ I asked.
The receptionist put the letters back and turned round.
Before she could answer the door opened and a woman swept in carrying an umbrella and pulling a scarf from her neck.
‘Sorry I’m late, Lynn.’ She lifted the counter top up and joined her colleague. ‘Flipping plumbers. Plonkers more like.’
‘I’m sorry we can’t help you,’ said Lynn very firmly. ‘We don’t use outside caterers.’ End of conversation.