little doubt she was phoning either for reinforcements or to warn room 41 that the cops were on their way up.
The lift was a pre-World War I affair, a grilled cage that ascended at the dignified pace necessary for mystical assumptions into heaven. It was suitable for two individuals without luggage. But possession of luggage did not appear to be one of the qualifications for filling out a registration card in this hotel.
The door to 41 was open when they finally got there. The occupant was waiting for them, pyjamas on body and foreign passport in hand. He looked to be round twenty years old. He said, "Hello. How do you do. I am Ibrahim Selçuk. Mr. Tatlises is my uncle. I speak English little. My papers are in order."
Like the words of the receptionist below, all of what he said was rote: lines you must recite if a cop asks you questions. The place was probably a hotbed of illegal immigrants, but that was something they were not concerned about at the moment as Lynley made clear to the man when he said, "We're not involved in immigration. On the eighth, a young boy was brought to this hotel by an odd-looking man with yellow-white hair and dark glasses. An albino, we call him. No colour in his skin. The boy was young, blond-" Lynley showed Selçuk the picture of Davey Benton, which he took from his jacket pocket along with the mug shot taken of Minshall by the Holmes Street police. "He may have left in the company of another man who'd already booked a room here."
Barbara added, "And this song and dance-young boys being brought to this place by the albino man and leaving later with some other bloke?-it's supposedly happened over and over, Ibrahim, so don't let's try to pretend you haven't seen the action." She thrust the two e-fits at the night receptionist then, saying, "He might look like this. The man the young boy left with. Yes? No? Can you confirm?"
He said uneasily, "My English is little. I have passport here." And he danced from one foot to another like someone needing to use the toilet. "People come. I give them card to sign and keys. They pay in cash, that is all." He gripped the front of his pyjamas, in the area of his crotch. "Please," he said, casting a look back over his shoulder.
Barbara muttered, "Bloody hell." And to Lynley, "'I'm about to wet myself' is probably not part of his English lessons."
Behind the man, his room was dark. In the light from the corridor, they could see that his bed was rumpled. He'd definitely been sleeping, but he'd also been prepared by someone at some point to keep his answers minimal at all times, admitting to nothing. Barbara was about to suggest to Lynley that forcing the bloke to hold his bladder for a good twenty minutes might go some distance towards loosening his tongue when a diminutive man in a dinner suit came trundling towards them from round the corner.
This had to be Mr. Tatlises, Barbara thought. His look of determined good cheer was spurious enough to act as his identification. He said in a heavy Turkish accent, "My nephew, his English wants repair. I am Mr. Tatlises and I'm happy to help you. Ibrahim, I will handle this." He shooed the boy into his room again and he closed the door himself. "Now," he said expansively, "you need something, yes? But not a room. No no. I've been told that already." He laughed and looked from Barbara to Lynley with a we-boys-know-where-we-want-to-plant-it expression that made Barbara want to invite the little worm to take a bite of her fist. Like someone would want to have a shag with you? she wanted to ask him. Puhh-leez.
"We understand that this boy was brought here by a man called Barry Minshall." Lynley showed Tatlises the relevant photos. "He left in the company of another man who, we believe, resembles this individual. Havers?" Barbara showed Tatlises the e-fits. "Your confirmation of this is what we require at this point."
"And after that?" Tatlises inquired. He'd given a scant glance to the photos and the drawings.
"You're not really in a position to wonder what happens after that," Lynley told him.
"Then I do not see how-"
"Listen, Jack-o-mate," Barbara broke in. "I expect your handmaiden of the boots downstairs put you in the picture that we're not here from your local station: two rozzers looking round their