Chapter Thirty-Six Holly
Chapter Thirty-Six
HOLLY
We head toward the reception area, crossing the swinging bridges, their decadent hue making vibrant contrast to the slate-blue waters of the pools.
As we approach, I crane my neck to take in the enormous proportions of the atrium. Simone’s messages are flittering through my mind.
Unmask Trinity. Is the answer in these caves?
‘Quite the approach,’ I mutter, as we pass.
Polished tree branches fan out like rays of the sun around the entrance.
Living vines curl around them, creating a soft halo of green leaves at their tips.
Beyond its grand entrance, the vast roof is a deep black-gray mass of natural rock, bubble-textured like breaking surf.
‘Volcanic heat,’ says Fitzwilliam as we enter. ‘Can you feel it?’
I nod. There’s something other-worldly about the way the air has become super-heated, and cloyingly humid, scented with a strange overlap of essential oils and struck matches.
A reception desk made from the same polished branches as the entrance sits adrift on the expanse of shining floor. It fronts a row of deep shelves, artistically set with Elysium-branded spa products, carved wood deities and luxuriant white towels.
‘What is this place, anyway? Some kind of natural cave network?’ I’m tipping my head back to take in the vast textured ceiling.
‘Given the volcano, I’d guess this to be a pre-existing lava tube,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘A hole cut by lava flow, back when the volcano was active. They built the spa inside it. Rather clever,’ he adds, grudgingly.
‘A lava tube? Someone paid attention in geography.’
‘If your parents throw enough money at your education, some of its bound to stick,’ he replies, a half smile on his square-jawed face.
‘OK.’ I take a breath of the burned sulfur air, and try to set my thoughts in order. ‘I’m too hungry to think straight,’ I tell him. ‘All my sugar-hits are in my luggage. I’d kill for a mini-muffin or a Ding Dong right now,’ I add wistfully.
‘Any snack named with an alliteration isn’t real food,’ says Fitzwilliam. ‘Nor is any product from the Hostess cupcake range.’
‘Essentially, my main food group. OK.’ I rub my temples, trying to ignore the gnawing in my belly. The vast interior of the reception is completely overwhelming.
‘Entry and exit points,’ I decide, calling to mind the first principles of crime scene analysis. My eyes drift to the reception desk. There’s a logbook, attached to the desk so as to face outward for visitors to sign in. I approach it, delving into my backpack for gloves.
Carefully I lift the cover. It’s filled in with names scrawled hastily in pen, with times in and out. None of which I recognize. Staff, presumably, or contractors.
On a hunch, I pull some fingerprint powder from my pack, and dust for prints.
‘Maybe Simone has left a clue like in the Plaza,’ I explain to Fitzwilliam. ‘Some shape, or word that shows up with forensic tools. That would be exactly her style, for the TV show. Camera-friendly forensics.’
But as I sweep my brush, there’s nothing. At all.
‘Not a single fingerprint,’ I say.
‘Unfortunate.’ Fitzwilliam casts a nervous look toward the entrance.
‘More than that. It’s … strange. Look at all these people who signed in and out. You’d expect this page to be covered in prints. Paper can be a challenging surface to fingerprint, due to its absorbency, but still … You’d expect something.’
‘You’re saying lack of evidence is meaningful.’
‘Absolutely. Every contact leaves a trace. Locard’s principle. The fact this page is completely free of oil or sweat transferred from hands means it’s been wiped clean.’ I think for a moment. ‘Simone won several big cases by proving forensic clean-up. What it signified.’
‘What does it signify?’
‘That you should take a long, hard look at what’s been cleaned.’