Looking Good Dead by Peter James Read Free Book Online Page A

been broadcast at 05.55 hours this morning, Greenwich Mean Time. He had learned them by heart, four times a day, seven days a week, since he was ten. It was, he had discovered, the best way to get from A to B – just recite the shipping forecast all the way, it stopped the heat from everyone’s stares from burning his skin.
    And he had found it a good way to stop other kids laughing at him at school. Also whenever anyone had wanted to know the shipping forecast – and it was surprising how often the other pupils at Mile Oak school had wanted to know – he was always able to tell them.
    Information .
    Information was currency. Who needed money if you had information? The thing was most people were completely crap at information. Crap at pretty well everything really. That’s why they weren’t chosen .
    His parents had taught him that. He didn’t have much to thank them for, but at least he had that. All the years they had drummed it into him. Special. Chosen by God. Chosen to be saved .
    Well, they hadn’t got it quite right. It wasn’t actually God, but he had long given up trying to tell them that. Wasn’t worth the hassle.
    He passed an amusement arcade, then turned left at the Clock Tower into West Street, passing Waterstone’s bookshop, a Chinese restaurant and a FlightCentre, heading down towards the sea. A few minutes later he pushed his way through the revolving doors in the fineRegency facade of the Grand Hotel, entered the foyer and walked across to the front desk.
    A young woman in a dark suit, with a gold badge pinned to the lapel engraved with the name arlene , watched him warily for a moment, then gave him a dutiful smile. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.
    Staring down at the wooden counter, avoiding eye contact, he focused on a plastic dispenser full of American Express application forms.
    ‘Can I help you?’ she asked again.
    ‘Umm, well, OK.’ He looked even harder at the forms, feeling even more indignant now he was here. ‘Can you tell me which room Mr Smith is in?’
    After checking a computer screen she replied, ‘Mr Jonas Smith?’
    ‘Um, right.’
    ‘Is he expecting you?’
    Yes, he sodding well is. ‘Um, right.’
    ‘May I have your name, sir. I will phone his room.’
    ‘Um, John Frost.’
    ‘One minute please, Mr Frost.’ She lifted a receiver and dialled a number. Moments later she said into the phone, ‘I have Mr John Frost in reception. May I send him up?’ After a brief pause she said, ‘Thank you,’ and replaced the receiver. Then she looked at the Weatherman again. ‘Number seven one four – on the seventh floor.’
    Staring down again at the American Express forms, he bit his lower lip, nodded, and then said, ‘Um, OK, right.’
    He took the elevator to the seventh floor, walked along the corridor and rapped on the door.
    It was opened by the Albanian, whose real name was Mik Luvic but who the Weatherman had to call Mick Brown – all in his view part of a ridiculous charade in which all of them, including himself, had to go under assumed names.
    The Albanian was a muscular man in his thirties with a lean, hard face set in a cocksure expression, and gelled spikes of short, fair hair. He was dressed in a gold-spangled black singlet, blue slacks and white loafers, and sported a heavy gold chain around his neck. His powerful bare shoulders and forearms were covered in tattoos, and he wasmashing gum with sharp little incisors that reminded the Weatherman of a piranha fish he had once seen in the local aquarium.
    Staring down at the eau de Nil carpet, the Weatherman said, ‘Oh, hi. I’ve come to see Mr Smith.’
    The Albanian, who had once made a living by illegal bare-knuckle and cage fighting but now had a cushier gig, stared at him for several seconds in silence, chewing continuously with his mouth open, then gestured him into a large suite which reeked of cigar smoke and was furnished in plush, ersatz Regency, and closed the door swiftly behind them. Pointing