Hot Seat by Simon Wood Page A

it.
    So where was Jason’s phone? Neither DI Huston nor Gates had it. The killer might have taken it after he’d cut Jason’s throat, but I had my doubts. There hadn’t been much time for searching Jason between the time his throat was cut and I found him. Another factor at play was the ransacking of Jason’s flat. If the killer had the phone, there would have been no reason to turn the place over. Of course, this was all dependent on the phone being valuable. Was that why his flat was ransacked? If Jason knew he was going to be attacked, he could have ditched it before the killer got to him. I thought about Jason pointing just before he died. I thought he’d been pointing in the direction of his killer. What if he was pointing at something else?
    I left the car at Archway, then took the train into London and the tube over to Earls Court. While driving helped me think, driving into London didn’t. It was a bottlenecked fortress.
    The exhibition centre was between events, so the place was closed. Without the hubbub, the monolithic building resembled a forgotten ruin. I slipped unnoticed into the parking area. Despite not having the rows of vehicles from that night to guide me, I located the spot where Jason had died. I could have found the place with my eyes closed. Some moments in time are indelible.
    I stared down at the ground where I’d done what I could to save a dying man. Blood no longer provided an epitaph. It had either been removed by the Earls Court staff or washed away by the rain. I dropped to one knee and touched the asphalt. It was cold and unfeeling, like the murder itself.
    I stretched out on the ground, positioned myself like Jason and pointed in the same direction that he had. I looked beyond the end of my arm for my aim to strike something. I hit nothing but the street beyond. That wouldn’t have been true the night of the murder. My aim would have struck vehicle after vehicle. I closed my eyes to bring that picture to my mind’s eye. Cars, vans and transporters appeared, but the vision failed to take on a definite outline. I remembered some of the landscape that night, but I couldn’t be certain about what had been parked where. If Jason had ditched his phone under someone’s car or truck, I wouldn’t know which one. Parking was first come first serve, so I couldn’t rely on assigned parking.
    â€˜Bollocks,’ I said and opened my eyes.
    I realized I’d been wrong about my assumption. I was pointing at something – just not something above ground.
    I jumped to my feet and jogged over to the drain cover. It was one of many unassuming grates littered across the car park. I peered into its depths. The drain ended in a sediment trap filled with silt, leaves, rubbish and something resembling a phone.
    â€˜Sorry it took me so long, Jason.’
    I dropped to my knees and yanked on the grate, but the cast-iron cover failed to budge. It was welded in place with dirt and months of neglect. I heaved and felt muscles ping in my back. Each tear burned, but I kept pulling and received my reward. The grate slipped an inch, then another and another, finally popping up on its hinge.
    I dropped on to my chest and reached down and pulled the phone from the soupy concoction of wet litter and dirt.
    â€˜What the bloody hell are you doing?’ a voice said from behind me.
    I turned to find a security guard standing over me. I held up the dirt-covered phone.
    â€˜I dropped my bloody phone, didn’t I?’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘Couldn’t drop it on the ground. No, I had to drop it down the drain.’
    For an on-the-spot cover story, I thought it was inspired. So inspiring, it immediately disarmed the guard’s suspicions. The crossed arms and stiff stance relaxed.
    â€˜You should have gotten one of the crew to pop the grate. Look at you. You’re covered in crap.’
    I didn’t care. I had Jason’s phone.