Page 56 of Ethan & Grace

“I don’t see how,” Hank said. “The data is highly confidential. The system is designed to protect guests and their belongings. It wouldn’t work if all staff members had access. And I can’t think of a reason why Henry or your dad would have shared their access with someone.”

I nodded thoughtfully. I had come to Hank wanting to help Grace, not imagining that my dad might be involved. But now that I knew, there was no going back. I couldn’t hide this from her. It would make me no better than the man I despised.

I got up, reached into the front pocket of my hoodie, and pulled out another two thousand pounds. I dropped them on the desk. “Thanks for your help.”

“You’re welcome.” Hank reached for the money. “There’s one more thing.”

“Yeah?”

“There might not be any footage of the accident itself, but there is some from the underground car park. I handed it over to the police. I’ve no idea why you’re asking me all these questions—and to be honest, I don’t really want to know—but if you’re trying to find out whether someone from the hotel was responsible for the death of the Claymore girl, that might help.”

“Do you still have the originals?”

He shook his head, and the brief flicker of hope I’d felt vanished. “I’m afraid not. Like I said, the server only stores data for a week before it’s automatically wiped. I didn’t make an extra copy after I gave it to forensics. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“If you want to dig deeper,” Hank added, “you could talk to your brother or Rakesh. The gala was meticulously planned. Nothing was left to chance. There were lists and schedules for everything: who got picked up by the limousine service, who’d be seen on the red carpet, who’d stay the night at the hotel, and who’d be parking in the car park. Parking spots were high in demand that night—they were going for a thousand pounds each. All going towards a good cause, naturally.”

Lists weren’t as good as CCTV footage, but they were better than nothing. I left Hank’s office and had pulled out my phone before the door had even closed behind me.

Me:

Where are you?

Henry:

At the hotel.

Me:

Funny. Where exactly?

Henry:

In my flat. Why?

Me:

Could we meet in your office?

Henry:

When?

Me:

Now.

I was already waiting outside his office when Henry showed up five minutes later. It was the first time in ages I’d seen him wearing something other than his tailored suit, which was his official uniform since taking over managing the hotel. Today, he was dressed in casual sportswear, although I had the feeling he’d spent the last few hours on the sofa with Kate rather than on the treadmill. And I suspected his messy hair came from Kate’s fingers rather than an intense cardio session. I felt a twinge of guilt for summoning him into his office on a Sunday.

“Hey,” Henry greeted me. I caught a hint of concern in his eyes.

“It’s nothing bad. I just need your help.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he entered the security code on the keypad that unlocked his office door. It opened with a click, and we stepped inside.

“What with?” Henry walked around the desk and, out of habit, sat down in his executive’s chair.