by Roy Lewis
‘Would it be OK if I come along?’ Grout asked tentatively.
The police inspector hesitated, grimaced. ‘I’m not sure it’ll do you any good. You’ll have access to our report, I guess, in due course. Once the release has been cleared back in Ponteland. Thing is, you’ll just be under our feet, you know what I mean? But I’ll check it out. Now I need to get on.’
Grout was not surprised by the man’s attitude. There was always local resistance to outside interference. Or even assistance. As Inspector Waters ambled out of the museum to make his way back to his car, Grout wandered in the direction taken by the curator. He found him seated in his office, poring over some heavy ledgers and a catalogue. He glanced up at Grout, then sighed and for the moment chose to ignore his presence. He rose, clutching the catalogue and went back to the exhibit room, checking off the items, clucking his tongue quietly as he did so. Grout leaned against the wall with folded arms, watched him for a while. He could understand the doubts in Inspector Waters’s mind, there could hardly be anything here that would attract a thief of Rigby’s inclination … or even young thugs from the west end for that matter. But what was Rigby doing out here at Chesters anyway? He was supposed to be making his way to London for Gus Clifford’s Board meeting, according to DCI Cardinal.
‘You have all this material up here catalogued, I see,’ Grout called out to the curator, ‘but what of the stuff in the storeroom below? Do you have a list of all the items there?’
The curator jerked his narrow head in surprise as though he had forgotten Grout’s presence. He frowned.
‘No catalogue, no. No printed record for public consumption, like up here. But it’s not unimportant material we keep down in the storeroom. It all has its interest, its importance. It’s merely that down there we keep articles that are of more interest to specialists, for study, rather than exhibition. We have regular visitors from the universities of Newcastle, Northumbria, and Durham, mainly the archaeological departments. Several of the professors use material held by us as a teaching resource. They’ve borrowed items from time to time, they arrange visits here for some of the students as well as encourage them to do work on the dig still going on up at Housesteads and elsewhere on the Wall. So they’ll have a pretty good idea of what’s down there, especially Professor Godfrey. Since he’s been in charge of the Newcastle University Antiquities section, he’s been here regularly. He’s made extensive use of our facilities of recent years.’
‘Professor Godfrey?’
‘Yes, you must have heard of him,’ the curator said impatiently. ‘He’s recognized as an authority on Roman antiquities, oh, yes, indeed. He wrote a monograph on the Wall a few years back … we have a copy up in the exhibition, in fact, most instructive, most instructive. The Wall and the milecastles and Mithraic influences… He’s encouraged his students to use our facilities a great deal. It was his antiquities section that sponsored the survey that was done here last year. …’ He paused as though irritated that he was being kept from his duties by Grout’s questioning. ‘As I told you, sorry, there’s no catalogue as such regarding the materials and artefacts that are held here in the storeroom. But I’m sure Professor Godfrey can assist you if you wanted to find out what importance our holdings might be to historical research.’
Grout could tell the curator was not only irritated by Grout’s presence, he seemed a little embarrassed that there seemed to be a flaw in the records and security procedures used at the museum. There seemed little point in flustering him further. He nodded, and walked away, back into the sunlight.
He was surprised to see that Inspector Waters was still there, getting out of his car. The officer waved his mobile at Grout. He seemed irritated.
‘Just been in touch with HQ. Had a call. It seems your superior – DCI Cardinal himself – has just cleared lines with the Chief Constable. We are now supposed to offer you freedom of the manor, so to speak. You can come along to The George, stand by if you like while we’re taking statements.’ He glared at Grout, making little attempt to hide the animosity in his eyes. ‘But let’s be clear about one thing. Whatever your boss, and for that matter whatever the Chief Constable says, you’ve still got no standing in this business as far as I’m concerned. We run the operational unit, this is our scene of crime, and while you can listen in, I don’t want you under our feet. Capisce?’
It was probably the only Italian Inspector Waters knew. It would have been gleaned from films such as The Godfather.
Grout nodded. He smiled slightly as the inspector turned back to his car. Even the engine roaring into life seemed to throw out a measure of defiance to the powers that be Detective Chief Inspector Cardinal of the York office, or Chief Constable of the Northumbrian police. As the door of Waters’s car slammed and the driver pulled away from the car park, Grout smiled. He was not being offered a lift. But it was no great distance to The George Hotel at Chollerford. A pleasant walk in the sunshine, nothing more.
The hotel manager at The George Hotel had set aside a conference room on the first floor where the police could interview witnesses. Grout managed to insert himself into the room, standing quietly at the back while statements were being taken and witnesses interviewed. The constable on duty outside in the corridor had asked to see his ID but had clearly been forewarned of the likelihood that Grout would turn up. He entered as the barman was making a statement, and he remained as a group of other staff, including waitresses and room cleaners were put through their paces. It all became a matter of routine, drudgery even, and Grout became bored. None of the people interviewed seemed to have seen Rigby, or noted anything of significance and Grout began to feel he might have been better employed back at Chesters, with the remainder of the forensic team who were still searching the locality in the hope of finding the murder weapon.
It was only when the hotel night porter was interviewed, however, that his interest quickened.
The porter was about sixty years of age, slightly bowed, but elegant in his immaculate if somewhat faded uniform. His grey, thinning hair was swept back neatly, his moustache was carefully trimmed and he showed himself in no way overawed by the situation. He exhibited a certain stubborn pride, in his appearance, his position and his responsibilities.
‘Now let’s get this straight,’ Inspector Waters was saying. ‘You were on duty from six in the evening until six next morning?’
‘That’s right, Inspector. My normal hours. Of course, I’d be dozing in my cubbyhole for a considerable part of that time, because well, there’s nothing much happening if you know what I mean, once any latecomers have gone off to their beds. Dead of night, there’s rarely even a mouse stirring. I check the keys rack, of course, to make sure no one is locked out, and then I settle down with my evening paper, but after that I have a snooze. Put my feet up. Until dawn. The manager knows about that. He raises no objection. I’m on duty, one ear cocked, one eye open, even so, on hand in case I’m needed.’
Waters tapped the sheet of paper in front of him, in which the porter’s statement had been taken earlier by another officer.
‘There’s just one bit of clarification I want. I’m sure you’re aware we’ve now interviewed all the residents in the hotel, and most of the staff. There’s one person we haven’t spoken to, a lady who signed the register as … ah … Eileen Grant. There’s no record of her checking out, I see.’
The night porter shrugged. ‘Far as I know she didn’t check out in the usual way. I spoke to the manager earlier. Seems she paid in advance for her room, so there was no real need, I suppose, for her to go through any other formalities. No need to go to the desk, when she decided to leave.’
‘No, I suppose not, though it’s a bit unusual. So you didn’t see her leave the hotel?’
‘I did not.’
Inspector Waters consulted the notes in front of him. ‘But you had met her. It says here that you carried her case up to her room when she arrived. But that’s during the day. How did that come about? You weren’t on duty, I i
magine.’
The night porter smoothed down the wing of grey hair at the side of his head. ‘I had just taken my usual snack below stairs. I was on my way to the room I use when I saw her going up to her room. She didn’t have much by way of luggage but I thought it would be the courteous thing to do, to offer assistance, show her to the room.’
Inspector Waters clearly felt it was sufficiently unusual for an off-duty staff member to behave in such a way to press the matter. ‘Courteous, hey? Pretty, was she?’
The night porter was offended. ‘She was, if you would like to know. But that was nothing to do with it. I’ve been in the business forty years. I believe certain things should be done properly, not because I’m paid to do them, but because it’s right to behave like that. My father before me, he. …’ The old man frowned, realized he was wandering. ‘And as I already told you, her luggage, the case, it was just an overnight bag really, light, probably carrying just flimsy night clothes, that sort of thing. It didn’t break my back to help.’
‘I see… . Anyway, it seems she stayed in her room most of the time.’
‘I can’t confirm that, Inspector. I wasn’t on duty.’
‘You stated here you saw the woman a couple of times in the evening.’
The porter nodded. ‘I was off duty, but I was pottering around, having a meal. And later on I went for my usual evening constitutional, a stroll across the bridge. It’s pleasant doing that, a little evening air before I take up my duties again.’
Inspector Waters leaned forward, elbows on the table between them. ‘And you came across her outside. So precisely where did you see her?’
The porter wrinkled his nose. ‘First time I saw her she was standing outside the hotel, on the garden path. I nodded to her when I walked past, and she recognized me, smiled but said nothing.’
‘What was she doing there?’ Waters demanded.
‘In the garden? Admiring the scenery, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
The porter shrugged. ‘Well, she was standing there, looking out towards the river and the road.’
‘Not strolling.’
The porter hesitated, then shook his grey head. ‘No, just standing there. On reflection, you could say she might have been sort of hanging around.’
‘You mean she was waiting for someone? You didn’t mention that earlier when you made a statement.’
‘Well, no. Hadn’t thought about it, really. But who can say?’ He considered the matter for a few seconds, shaking his head slowly. ‘It’s just that I didn’t think about it much at the time, but looking back maybe she was watching for someone, a car or something, or expected to meet someone. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying that much attention.’
Inspector Waters was unhappy. His tone had become irritated. ‘When was the next time you saw her?’
‘Maybe an hour later, when I was walking back to the hotel after my stroll. That time she was on the terrace. She was casually walking around as though she was enjoying the evening air but again, who knows? She could have been keeping an eye on the road and the bridge and the cars passing by, that sort of thing.’
‘And according to your statement, you saw her again later?’
‘I did. Pretty late it was then. I was on duty then, and I was going through to the kitchen to pick up the snack they lay out for me. I caught sight of her going into the residents’ lounge. That was about eleven, and I think she must have ordered a drink because the barman was still on duty.’
‘And that was the last you saw of her?’ the inspector asked brusquely, slipping the statement into a file cover, clearly regarding the interview at an end.
‘That it was. But I remember thinking that if things were as they looked she’d—’
‘That’s fine, thank you.’ The inspector interrupted him, tossed the file aside, yawned, flexed his shoulder muscles.
The porter began to rise, his mouth set in a line, probably slightly offended by the manner in which the inspector had cut him off. Grout knew that the inspector would probably be less than pleased if he stepped in but nevertheless he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but could I have a word?’ Before waiting for permission, he spoke to the porter. ‘What were you about to say “if things were as they looked”?’
Inspector Waters was glaring at Grout with steely eyes. But he said in a cold voice, ‘Yes, tell us what you were about to say.’
The porter was aware of the sudden drop in temperature between the two officers. But it wasn’t his business. ‘Well, you see, like I said she was a handsome woman, and not beyond reacting to a man if you know what I mean. So when I saw her there, it occurred to me that he might make a move on her, the way he was trying to catch her eye. I don’t know if he managed it, of course, I wasn’t aware of any room prowling if you get my drift—’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ the inspector snapped.
‘I’m talking about the other guest in the lounge.’
‘The other guest? You made no mention of him in your statement.’
‘Wasn’t asked, was I?’
The inspector glanced angrily at Grout and then demanded of the night porter, ‘This other guest … who was it?’
‘The single gentleman,’ the porter said sturdily. ‘I mean, there was a group in from Newcastle that night, cricket club lot I believe, and they were a bit noisy in the bar but it wasn’t one of them, though if they’d have seen her I don’t doubt one of them would have chanced his arm. But they’d gone by then.’
‘The single individual,’ Waters prompted with an irritated sigh.
‘It was Mr Gilbert, of course. He’d been staying here for a few days. The one who found the body down at Chesters this morning. He was going into the lounge, and it looked to me like he was hoping to join her. I heard later, when I was chatting to the barman, that he’d paid for her drink, so maybe he knew her, maybe they was acquainted, but what happened after I saw him go into the lounge, I don’t know. Not surprising though, she was a bonny girl.’
After the porter had left the room, the inspector drew the file towards him and stared at it. Bright red spots were burning on his cheeks and he kept his head down when he spoke.
‘I did point out you had no standing here, Detective Sergeant Grout.’
‘You did, sir.’
‘So keep your nose out of it.’
‘I—’
‘I’d have got around to that bit of information in due course,’ Waters announced severely. ‘But it’s our job to carry out these interrogations, not yours, so if you are going to stick around, keep your mouth shut. You’re an observer, nothing more.’
He stood up, marched across the room, flung open the door and ordered the constable in the corridor to get hold of Paul Gilbert. He came back in, sat down, ignored Grout and stared at his hands laid flat on the table in front of him. The silence grew around them, edged with hostility. Grout wondered why the inspector was so touchy but he stepped back to lean against the wall when the door finally opened and Paul Gilbert entered.
Grout eyed him curiously.
The man was perhaps thirty-five or forty years of age. His features were lean, tanned and his eyes were quick and grey. His hair was sandy in colour, neatly smoothed back and there was a hint of encroaching baldness at the temples and also at the crown of his head. He was a man who was careful about his appearance, Grout guessed; he wore an expensive shirt, open at the neck with a silk scarf knotted at the throat. His trousers were pale blue, his shoes pale brown corduroy. Grout felt it was a curiously effeminate outfit. The man’s fingers, laced together as he sat down in front of Inspector Waters, were slim.
‘Mr Paul Gilbert. It says here in your statement that you’re a photographer.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And an author.’
‘Correct. You have this on file now, don’t you? And I’ve already made a statement. What more do I need to add?’ Gilbert sounded irritated.
The inspector’s eyes were hostile
as he looked at the silk scarf Gilbert affected. ‘These books you write … they wouldn’t be about sex and violence, that sort of thing?’
‘Hardly,’ Gilbert drawled easily. ‘I produce photographic essays, and before you jump to the wrong conclusion they do not include what some describe as art shots.’
‘Naked birds, you mean?’ the inspector asked insolently.
‘If you so wish to describe them. No, I do not photograph nubile young women in states of undress. My books are mainly of landscapes. I did a successful publication last year based on the West Riding. I followed that with an exhibition of my work. In Leeds. At present I’m preparing a similar production on Northumberland and Hadrian’s Wall. That’s the reason for my presence at this hotel. But I’ve already told you all this. Or told one of your minions, anyway.’
‘You are interested in sex, though,’ Waters grunted provocatively.
Grout was beginning to think that the inspector’s interviewing technique was almost antediluvian and certainly objectionable.
Gilbert’s back stiffened. ‘What on earth do you mean by that remark?’
‘Women. You’re interested in women.’
Gilbert blinked. ‘Who isn’t? Yes, I have a healthy interest in the other sex, as you also probably do, Inspector.’
‘My inclinations are not in question here! Are you married?’
Paul Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. ‘No, I am not.’
‘But you have girlfriends, is that right?’
‘No steady partner, if that’s what you mean.’ Gilbert’s tone hardened. ‘What’s this got to do with my finding that body at Chesters this morning?’
‘Don’t know yet. But why didn’t you tell us about picking up that woman last night in the lounge?’
There was a short silence. At last, Gilbert said, ‘I resent the tone of your voice, Inspector. I’ve been asked about, and made a statement concerning what I found this morning. That’s the only relevant matter, it seems to me, that can help in your enquiries. And I resent the manner in which you seem to want to trawl through my private business.’