Chapter 22: Chapter 20: Hotel Redhead Homicide

The East London Homicide Investigation Team arrives to look over the crime scene at the Castle Hotel. As Helmswood and his men enter the suite in question, they are immediately overwhelmed the carnage.

"Blood hell! How many bodies do we have here?!"

"Just one, sir."

Forensic specialist Neville Lyles, dressed head to toe in white overalls and latex gloves, approaches him and reports.

"So... whose body is it?"

Lieutenant Faisal glances around the room at all corners of the room plastered in blood smears and fleshly chunks, unable to tell what's what. The forensics staff lurk about the room, taking photos and carefully collecting blood and flesh samples.

"I believe this will give us the answer."

Lyles gestures for the officers to follow as he approach a white sheet covering something on the bed. He lifts the sheet to reveal a severed head with the top half of the skull removed, the inside of the cranium gouged of its contents.

"This shit again? So, who's this miserable wanker?"

Helmwood immediately covers his nose with a scowl.

"I've identified him as the pharmaceutical entrepreneur Hugh Hoskins. The methods here are fairly consistent with those of the Mardsen Brothers' homicide."

"Yes... I can see that. Right then, what did poor Doctor Hoskins do to earn a visit from our brain-eating zombie vigilante?"

"If I'm not mistaken, he was connected to the death of that newswoman down at the Grand Majesty Hotel, although his name has been cleared by several alibi during our investigation..."

Lieutenant Faisal chimes in.

"Right then... Lyles, you keep at it with your forensics team here. See if we can find traces of any other person who's been in this room. Faisal, go talk to the staff. See if there is security footage or if somebody has seen who was with Hoskins last night."

"Yes, sir."

---

A few weeks after, on a flight from Dublin to London, a middle-aged man with thinning auburn hair and bell-shaped body sits in an aisle seat, fidgeting with a clown-like doll. A stewardess with long ginger-colored curls, bottle green eyes, and slender high cheekbone across her slim pale-white face saunters along with a cart, stopping at each row.

"Good day, sir. Something to drink?"

Glancing up at the young attractive redhead from his thick round eyeglasses, a smirk creeps across his round stubbled face. He holds up the clown doll and, waving it around, responds in a high-pitched voice:

"A fizzy drink for me, ehehehe!"

The stewardess chuckles politely and pours the drink for him, leaning over to address the doll directly as she places the cup on his tray table.

"Well now, where did you come from, sir?"

"Me mate is a doll maker. See? Here's one of me mot."

The “doll” responds, at which point the doll maker pulls out another doll resembling the red-headed stewardess, outfit and all. The stewardess's jaw hangs slightly ajar, obviously a little creeped out by now, but forces a polite smile before quickly moving on to the next aisle.

In the adjacent aisle, a small boy has his curious gaze fixed on the gesturing dolls. Suddenly, the clown doll's head swings around on its own, its visage menacing, and bellows out with a deep, threatening voice:

“Wha’re ye lookin’ at, boyo?”

With a startled gasp, the lad quickly looks away.

As the stewardess finishes her cart run, she informs her colleagues and makes her way toward the end of the aisle. The “doll” watches her hips from behind, tightly hugged in a black skirt, as she enters the toilet stall. Slowly, the clown doll's head cranes upward to the doll maker.

"This here's our chance, mate."

As the stewardess emerges, there was someone waiting just outside, she smiles with a polite nod and shuffles by with her gaze turned away as the middle-aged doll maker quickly enters, bolting the lock behind him. 

Once inside, he pulls out the red-headed doll. Stooping down, he puts his face to the toilet seat and takes a deep whiff, and then proceeds to wipe the doll all over the cover, mopping up all possible traces of the stewardess's body fluids...

By the time the plane touches down at Heathrow, the clock has struck 9:30pm. After all the passengers have disembarked, the ginger-haired stewardess makes her way to the luggage claim with the other airline employees.

"This one here's mine. See you gals on the next flight!"

"Have a good one, love!"

The stewardess retrieves her bag, bids her companions good night, and hops on the bus headed for her lodging at the airport hotel, unsuspecting of a cab that is following closely behind.

Once she enters her moderately spacious room with the double bed, she lets out a tired sigh of relief  as she slips out of her black heels and begins stripping out of her stewardess uniform, including her black laced undergarments, and slips into a little black satin nightgown with a lacy see-through mesh and floral fringes.

Excitedly prancing into the washroom, she turns on the tub faucets and begins drawing a hot bath in preparation for a nice, long soak after the flight. She cranes her head toward the door at the sound of a knock on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Room service, for Miss Guinevere Flaherty."

That's odd. I didn't order anything.

Perplexed, Guinevere slowly opens a slight crack in the door and sees no one standing in the hall. On the floor by the door is a box tied with a decorative red ribbon and a note that reads:

A Welcome Gift. For the Pleasure of Our Valued Guest.

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Glancing around one final time, she quickly retrieves the box and shuts the door. Placing the box on the bed, she untie the ribbon and opens it. Nestled inside the box: a clown-faced doll holding a pink vibrator. She pulls them out, snickering at the idea that the hotel would give sex toys as a welcome gift, before putting the vibrator back into the box. Maybe this is nothing more than a silly little prank from one of the gals at the airline, some of whom do enjoy teasing her about being single.

Now, this, on the other hand... She holds up the doll and examines it curiously, feeling like she's seen it before but could not recall where. She shrugs it off and puts the clown doll on the bed next to the box. As she heads back into the washroom, she glances back and points at the clown doll with a playful wink.

"No peeping while I take a bath, yeah?"

As she enters the washroom, she could have sworn there was a slight grin on the doll's face after her little racy joke, causing a sudden chill to crawl up her spine, but she quickly dismiss it as a side effect of her exhaustion from the flight. She lets the glamorous mesh gown drop to the floor tiles as she eases her slender naked body into the tub with a sigh of relaxation.

Elsewhere, a finger is gently rubbing under the skirt of the red-headed doll.

In the tub, Guinevere is inexplicably feeling more and more aroused and begins to squirm about and moan softly. Reclining with her head propped up on one end, she slowly spreads her thighs and reaches a hand in between to pleasure herself, letting out a soft squeal as the tip of her finger pentrates her submerged vagina. She gently thrusts her finger in and out, flicking her clit with another finger, then, seemingly remembering something, she hurriedly climbs out of the tub, wraps herself in a towel, and tiptoes into the bedroom. 

She quickly opens the gift box and takes out the vibrator before prancing back into the steamy washroom, ignoring the clown doll with beady button eyes seemingly trained on her every movement. Now facing the sink, she leans forward, props one hand on the sink counter, and spreads her legs. She quickly locates the power switch for the vibrator and slide it over her clit, rubbing it up and down as she moans passionately. Her towel slips off and falls to the floor, uncovering her slim waistline and creamy hips twitching with each stroke.

"Oh god~~♥ Oh god~~♥ Oh god~~!♥"

Her sensual moans grow louder and louder as the clown doll in the background faces her rear from the bed, admiring a direct view of her jiggling pastey ass. She dips her head and tenses her body as her thighs quiver with the intensely pleasurable stimulation. As she lifts her head, she is greeted with the sight in the mirror's reflection of an obscure figure standing right behind her. She lets out a scream that was barely able to escape her throat before the figure swiftly seizes a handful of her long curly ginger hair and violently slams her head face-first into the open toilet besides the sink.

"Mmmhph...!!"

As Guinevere flails around to break free, the figure holds her head underwater with one hand and unzips his pants with the other to spring forth a pulsing, erect manmeat, not particularly lengthy but definitely making up for it with girth. He mercilessly penetrates the struggling redhead from behind with his chubby knob and begins to thrust rhythmically, ignoring the flailing kicks and arms that are fruitlessly pushing up against the toilet seat. Several minutes must have gone by as the flailing gradually slows before coming to a full stop and Guinevere’s arms and legs go limp, swaying in rhythm to the sudden assailant's plows. Next to her feet, the vibrator lays droning on the floor.

---

About 25 kilometers to the east, at the Metropolitan Police Precinct in the heart of London, Helmwood sits in his dimly lit office, reading the description back to Faisal, who is sitting across from him:

"Long black hair, pale white skin, blue eyes. Female. Age is about early to mid 20s... is this the best we have after two weeks, Rezo?"

"Unfortunately, all the hotel staff who saw the person arriving with Hoskins that night only caught a glimpse."

"We need something more specific than this. Any noticeable birth marks. The mention of a name someone overheard. Facial scars or any other noticeable markings..."

Faisal shakes his head.

"This hotel keeps its interior lighting pretty dim to create this medieval castle ambience, so it's hard for anyone to see clearly. And it has no security cameras, due to the... er, type of services they typically provide."

"Bloody hell..."

Helmwood tosses the paper on his desk and curses under his breath, running his dark, leathery palm over his wrinkly forehead.

Meanwhile, young community support officer Corbin Graystone cautiously makes his way into the forensics lab, glancing about to make sure he isn't being observed by his superiors.

As he reaches the lower level laboratory, he sees just the man he was looking for: forensics specialist Neville Lyles, sitting in his office and scanning through a stack of papers on his desk. Graystone approaches and softly raps on the open door. The thin-faced Lyles glances up from his glasses, evidently anticipating Corbin's sudden visit.

"Is it ready?"

"Yes, I'm looking through the results now."

Lyles holds up the stack while beckoning Corbin over. He lays three documents side by side on the desk.

"This one here is the DNA sequence of the original semen sample from the Grand Majesty Hotel crime scene. This middle one here is the DNA sample we collected from Mister Hugh Hoskins. And then there's this one..."

He pushes the spectacle up the bridge of his long, thin nose and points to the document on the far right.

"It looks like the first one..." Corbin murmurs.

"Exactly, this is from the blood sample you secretly collected and brought to me personally from Hugh Hoskins' homicide scene two weeks ago. As you can see, it matches the first sample from the Grand Majesty Hotel crime scene."

"Which means...?"

"Yes, Hugh Hoskins was the one who left his DNA all over Connie Sinclaire's corpse."

"But the second sample..." Corbin turns his eyes to the forensics specialist with a perplexed look.

"How could it be different?"

"The only possibility I can think of is that somebody in this department made a mistake and ran the wrong sample, or..."

"Or...?"

Corbin gazes at him intensely, but before Lyles can continue, Corbin came to the conclusion himself:

"Somebody in this department falsified the report."

He straightens his stance at the shocking realization, glancing about the room with shifty eyes.

"Somebody in the police precinct was covering up for Hoskins."

---

In the lower cellar of Jericho Parish, Kazelle is submerged unconscious in a tub with an icy, semi-transparent fluid, several clear tubes join her limbs to a whirring machine. Mother Rahab stands in front of an electric panel, closely monitoring some numbers and graph lines that appears on the screen of a machine. She glances down at the black folder sitting next to the panels.

"I suppose this will have to wait."

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