There are a number of hotels and guesthouse in Cartwright Gardens. Some of them are attractive looking places, ones that someone walking by would find themselves thinking, "I'd like to stay there". Some of them are a bit more mediocre but still are not-uninviting places, ones of which a passer-by might say, "it would not be the end of the world if I found myself staying there". And then there is the Cartwright Friendly. Its dilapidated exterior hints at the horrors that lie within – peeling wallpaper, endlessly subdivided room reduced to a tiny fraction of their former size, ghastly décor that even the most exploitative slum landlord would consider a bit much, bathrooms either tiny or so oddly shaped as to be semi-unusable, and staff notorious in the hospitality industry for their complete antipathy to anything approximating to customer service. As Hackett and Maguire approached this dreadful place they found themselves thinking that bad and all as their hotel was, the worst they really had to put up with was a sleazy receptionist they could tell to fuck off. In contrast, the entrance to the Cartwright Friendly looked like a portal into hell.
"Indeed", said Hackett.
They pushed in through the door. The reception area was dimly lit. A portly individual of indeterminate gender sat behind a desk, staring vacantly in their general direction. He – or she – did not react when they approached. Eventually Maguire spoke.
"Good afternoon. We're here to inquire about a friend of ours. He was staying here, but he seems to have disappeared. His name was… Daithí Ó Cionnaith. Do you remember him?"
The receptionist grunted and shook his, or her, head.
"He would have been in his mid-thirties", said Hackett. "With long-ish hair, for a man, and a bit of a beard. He was here twice – for about ten days, about a month ago, and then again two weeks ago. Ring any bells?"
This elicited the same response.
"Our understanding is that he stayed one night here last time, but then was reported missing", Hackett continued. "We were told that the police were here, possibly also National Security. Do you remember that, or even hearing about it?"
The receptionist paused, as though trying to think of something, and then grunted again and shook his, or her, head.
"OK", said Maguire. "Maybe a picture would help. Do you recognise this man?" She handed over a photo of Ryan, and a fifty-pound note.
The receptionist pocketed the money and then studied the photograph in a manner that suggested it had qualities that were a tad confusing. Eventually the receptionist grunted, and with a headshake handed the photo back to Maguire, before resuming his or her vacant staring.
"Mmmm", said Maguire. "Is there maybe someone else we could talk to? Someone who might remember a bit more of our friend?"
"Preferably someone who isn't a moron", Hackett added helpfully. The receptionist turned to face her, now looking both perplexed and perhaps annoyed.
"Perhaps the supervisor or manager?" Maguire hastily continued. "Would he or she be around?"
Now the receptionist eyed them suspiciously. With a grunt, he (or she) slid back into a recess behind the desk, picked up a phone and dialled a number. There followed a conversation conducted in a low grunting voice, while the receptionist continued to look carefully at the two women. Eventually the phone was hung up and the receptionist rolled back to the desk, nodded to Maguire and grunted again.
"So… what? The manager is coming?" said Hackett. She was clearly annoyed, but Maguire signalled her to be quiet. They waited, for what was only a couple of minutes, but it seemed like an eternity, with Hackett becoming ever more tense, Maguire become more concerned about what Hackett might do, and the receptionist staring tranquilly ahead. Eventually the silence was broken by the arrival of a woman, somewhere the wrong end of middle age, who looked carefully at Maguire and Hackett from thin eyes that seemed to have seen much. For all that this evidently was the manager of the Cartwright Friendly, her face had a distinctly unfriendly quality to it. Indeed, she gave every impression of liking nothing less than having to interact with people, especially people like Hackett and Maguire.
"What d'ye want?" she said, in a clipped Irish accent. "You're asking a lot of questions".
"We're friends of Daithí Ó Cionnaith", said Maguire. "He was staying here, but he seems to have disappeared. We were wondering if you could tell us anything that might help us find him?"
"Are you cops? Or National Security?"
"Well, no", said Maguire. "Nothing like that. We're friends –"
But she was cut off by the manager. "Didn't think so. Well, if you're not cops then I don't have to tell you anything, so fuck off out of my hotel".
The receptionist grunted in agreement.
"Sure", said Maguire. "You don't have to tell us anything. And I don't have to give you these two fifty pound notes".
The manager snarled. Her face seemed to be computing the advantage of just throwing out these two nosey parkers versus the pleasure of taking those two fifty pound notes her own. Eventually greed won over pride. She grabbed the notes and said: "Alright, what d'ye want to know?"
"Well", said Maguire, "what do you recall of our friend?"
"Not much". She spoke guardedly, her eyes darting round as though looking for hidden listeners. "He arrived and checked in. I didn't deal with him on the desk, but I heard he seemed a bit agitated. I did see him go out in the evening, and he didn't look the best. I don't think anyone saw him come in and he didn't come down for breakfast the next day. But one of the cleaners went into his room, and he seemed to have slept there. So he must have slipped out early, leaving all his stuff. No one thought much of it. People come and go as they please here".
"When did you become concerned?" asked Hackett.
The manager looked somewhat guilty now. "It was when he'd reached the end of the days he'd paid for. We'd have to tidy up the room for the next guest, but all his stuff was still in it. And we realised that no one had seen him since the first day. So we didn't know what to do. In the end we called the cops, and they came and started poking around, and next thing National Security were all over the shop poking around".
"I see", said Hackett.
"What kind of things were the police and National Security doing?" asked Maguire.
"Looking at your friend's stuff, asking everyone questions about him – who'd been talking to, where he'd been going, that kind of thing. Like anyone here knew or gave a shit – he could have been talking to the Zeppelin Confederacy for all we knew. Then they took away all his stuff and told us to let them know if he came back". She paused. "Or if anyone came along asking about him".
Maguire handed over two more fifties to the manager.
"Enda here'll need something too", the manager said.
Maguire gave another fifty to the receptionist, who chuckled excitedly.
"Do you have anything else to tell us?" asked Hackett.
"No, nothing to tell you", said the manager. "But maybe something to give you. Or something to show you. You see, the cops took away all your friend's things. At least, they thought they did. We found one thing they didn't, and I have it inside if you want it".
"What is it?" said Hackett, trying to sound vaguely threatening.
"It's a book. Do you want it? If you catch up with your friend he might want it back".
"OK, give it to us".
"Well, I can't just give it to you. I was thinking more of… selling it to you".
"Haven't we given you enough money?" said Hackett, sharply.
"Do you want it or not?"
"We want it", said Maguire, handing over another fifty.
The manager smiled. "Wait here", she said, and she went off through a door from the reception area and then came back with a book. "Here you go", she said, handing it to Maguire.
"You've just paid fifty quid for the latest Andy McNab", said Hackett.
"It might have sentimental value for your friend", said the Manager, a slight sneer in her voice. "Now, anything else I can do for you?"
"No, you're grand", said Maguire. "Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else, ring me at this number". She handed a slip of paper with a scribbled phone number to the manager, who took it diffidently. Maguire continued to Hackett, "come on, let's go".
"Bye", said Hackett as they left the Camden Friendly, hoping never to return.
Outside, as they walked away, Hackett said to Maguire, "Jesus, fifty quid for an Andy McNab?"
"You never know, Ryan might have left a message in it. Hey, it's book-marked". She opened the book and they looked at what it said.
" 'You look fucking famished', said Ned.
'Yeah mate, I need some nosebag bad' said the marine.
'Get some nosh here fast!' shouted Ned. Then he asked the marine, "What happened to you, mate?'
'Bhaji ambush. IED took out our APC, then they were on us with – "
Maguire looked up from the book with a disappointed facial expression.
"Any hidden messages there?" said Hackett.
"Doesn't look like it. Not there anyway. But maybe somewhere else in the book… I might need to look through it all. Ryan could have scribbled something in the margin for us".
"I hope you don't get distracted by the riveting prose".
"I'll try not to".
"And you gave the manager your phone number". There was a slight questioning inflection in the tone of Hackett's voice.
"Don't worry, I gave her the number of the backup phone, the one I only turn on for messages when we're well away from the hotel. Even if she gives the number to National Security they're not going to track us down with that".
"Sweet".
They walked on.
"So what now?" said Maguire. "The antiques dealer seems to have shut up shop. The Friendly has nothing for us but this amazing book. Where does that leave us?"
"I don't know. Maybe we're running out of leads. Maybe not. Hey, here’s a pub. Let's go for a drink and think about it".
"Mmm, yeah, let's. But wait a minute – here's a pub, just down the road from the Friendly…"
"Yeah?" said Lexa Hackett.
"Well", said Claire Maguire, "If you were staying in the Cartwright Friendly and you came out the front door in the mood for a drink, where do you think you might end up?"
"Aha. Let's check this place out".
18/11/2011
An inuit panda production
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