The Hanging in the Hotel

by Simon Brett

  ‘It was very lovely to see you at lunchtime yesterday.’

  Carole couldn’t bring herself to reciprocate the sentiment, but she did manage to thank him for the meal.

  ‘And I’m sorry you didn’t feel ready to come and see the new office with me.’ He made the words sound like a euphemism for something really disgusting.

  ‘It wasn’t a matter of “feeling ready” or not; it was a matter of not wanting to,’ she snapped. Jude would disapprove of her threatening the continuance of Barry Stilwell as a contact within the Pillars of Sussex, but Carole had had enough of his sly insinuations, and she thought she’d probably exhausted his stock of relevant information anyway.

  He seemed impervious to her put-downs. ‘Don’t worry, Carole, I’m prepared to wait for as long as it takes.’ How about till hell freezes over and they hold the Winter Olympics there? ‘You’ll come round,’ Barry went on. ‘You know there’s something between us.’

  Loathing, on my side, thought Carole. Whatever Jude’s views, the situation could not be tolerated much longer. The moment was fast coming when Barry Stilwell must be given a massive, unequivocal brush-off.

  But he didn’t let her get to that moment. ‘There was one thing I thought I ought to make clear, Carole darling’ – Darling – yeuch! ‘about yesterday. I may have given you the wrong impression . . .’

  No, I think the impression you gave me was exactly the one you intended to. The wrong impression was the one you seemed to take away of my reactions to your advances.

  ‘It was my own fault. None of us are entirely responsible in our cups.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you didn’t have that much to drink.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about yesterday. I was talking about the week before, after the Pillars of Sussex dinner at Hopwicke House.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘As I say, it’s my own fault. I like whisky, but it doesn’t like me. And I’m afraid it was the whisky that rather blurred my recollections of the end of the evening . . .’ He paused, but Carole didn’t give him any help. ‘The fact is, I think I told you that I was up in Bob Hartson’s room drinking whisky, and there were just the two of us.’

  ‘That’s what you said, yes.’

  ‘Well, the point is, I’d completely forgotten . . . but his daughter was with us too . . . stepdaughter, that is. Kerry. Don’t know if you know her?’

  ‘I saw her briefly when I went to the hotel.’

  ‘Right. Well, she was there – that night – so it was the three of us drinking whisky.’

  ‘I see. And who finished first?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Who was the first one to stop drinking whisky and go back to their own room?’

  ‘Oh. Kerry. Yes. Kerry’s not much of a whisky drinker. She just had a small one and tootled off to her bed. And then, a bit later, I rolled off to mine.’ He chuckled at the folly of his alcoholic excess. ‘Had a bit of a head in the morning, I can tell you.’

  ‘Hm. And on the way back to your bed in the middle of the night . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You didn’t happen to see Nigel Ackford, did you?’

  ‘No, good heavens, no. Of course I didn’t.’ Having expressed his shock at the mere idea, Barry moved back into seductive mode. ‘Do you know something, Carole?’

  Yes, she thought. I know Bob Hartson has been on the phone, giving you a three-line whip to toe the party line.

  Jude knew she ought to talk to Suzy directly; they had been friends for long enough. In the past there had never been any subjects that were off-limits between them, but suddenly there were. In their last two conversations, Suzy had clammed up on her. And now the ex-husband was putting in his two penn’orth as well. Neither of them wanted any further investigation into the death of Nigel Ackford.

  The Pillars of Sussex seemed equally against the idea. Nor did the police apparently have any trouble with the suicide verdict.

  Jude might by this stage have started to think she was over-reacting. There was a lot of logic against the idea of Nigel Ackford having been murdered, and she might reluctantly have come round to the majority view. But two recent events made her more convinced than ever that something strange had happened that night at Hopwicke House. The conversation she had had with Rick Hendry was one of them. Why on earth should he suddenly be concerning himself with the affairs of the hotel?

  The other anomaly had arisen from Carole’s phone conversation with Barry Stilwell, which she had, needless to say, reported verbatim to Jude. The clumsiness with which the solicitor had supported Bob Hartson’s alibi left no doubt that somebody was lying.

  So, on one side, Suzy and Rick; on the other, the Pillars of Sussex . . . and possibly Kerry. Both groups had something to cover up. Or – unlikely though it might seem – were they working together to cover up the same thing?

  Jude decided, before another direct confrontation with Suzy, she should try a more oblique approach. Someone else had been around Hopwicke Country House Hotel on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death; and so far as Jude knew, he hadn’t yet been a part of any cover-up. She had his mobile number; he’d given it to her once when there had been a crisis about a potential double booking in the restaurant. Jude rang Max Townley.

  She decided there’d be no harm in a direct approach. It was as likely to work as any other. ‘Wondered if we could just meet for a chat? Wanted to talk about that night at the hotel, when Nigel Ackford died.’

  ‘Oh yeah. And I got a bit too deep into the vodka, because of what had happened with that bloody production company. I thought my television prospects were totally buggered.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, I’ve been, sort of, putting two and two together about things, and there are just a couple of ideas I’d like to run by you.’

  Max sounded surprisingly enthusiastic. ‘Sure, I’d be game for that.’

  He was currently at the hotel, doing the morning preparations. He’d finish those round one, then be off duty until he came back about five-thirty to ready himself for the evening’s dinners. His home was in Worthing – chef’s hours necessitated living either on the premises or very near by – and he’d be happy to meet up with Jude for a cup of coffee.

  As she ended the call, Jude asked herself about one of the great mysteries of the catering business. What do chefs do in the afternoon? Her own experience couldn’t really provide an answer. When she had run a cafe, it had been a very ad hoc affair, with her doing most of the work and her various helpers mucking in as and when. Her life had not followed the rhythms of a proper restaurant chef. Given the fact that many of them worked late hours and were in early in the mornings to check the day’s orders and start their preparations, she assumed a lot of chefs dedicated their afternoons to sleeping. Maybe some used the time to conduct elaborate love lives, to pursue academic study, or to go fishing. Perhaps, considering how little all but the top celebrity chefs were paid, some of them spent their afternoons as minicab drivers. It was a question to which Jude had never before directed her attention.

  She had arranged to meet Max in the same coffee shop where she had talked to Wendy Fullerton. As she waited, she wondered what was going on in the mind of the girl who was presumably at work in the building society opposite. Was Wendy managing to maintain her detachment from Nigel Ackford’s death, or were tears constantly threatening to break through the veneer of her make-up?

  Jude had a feeling she probably needed to talk to Wendy Fullerton again. There were other questions to which Wendy might provide useful answers, answers which might provide direction for Jude’s investigation. At the moment it felt rudderless, drifting in a sea which contained too many suspects and too little information.

  When Max Townley arrived, Jude realized how little she actually knew him. She had met him a few times in the hotel kitchen; she had seen him posturing and bitching, presenting his persona of the temperamental culinary genius; but she had no idea what he was like beneath the surface. If he hadn’t said that throw-away line ab
out liking women, she would even have had doubts about his sexual orientation. A certain high campness was an essential ingredient of the image he presented to the world.

  What became obvious as soon as he spoke that afternoon was how incredibly self-centred he was. Jude had wondered why he had so readily agreed to meet her, but it instantly became clear he thought her interest was in him rather than in Nigel Ackford, or indeed anything else in the world.

  ‘I assume you know why I was upset, why I hit the vodka that night.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘I thought that was what you wanted to talk about.’ Jude looked at him curiously, as he explained. ‘The bad news I’d had that afternoon.’

  ‘I remember you mentioning bad news, but you didn’t tell me exactly what it was.’

  ‘Oh.’ Max looked flummoxed and slightly petulant. He was wearing grey jeans and a black Ted Baker T-shirt. He looked the smart off-duty professional who wouldn’t need to change if filming was suddenly required. ‘I’d heard that afternoon about the television pilot,’ he went on, as though Jude should be familiar with all the details.

  ‘The pilot you did as a TV chef?’ she pieced together.

  ‘Yes.’ His lower lip jutted in childish petulance, as he continued, ‘It was all set up. The producers told me it’d be a shoo-in. I’ll show you the video one day. The format’s a great idea – not just me cooking, but bringing in, like, these other unknown chefs, just people I’ve met at restaurants or pubs I’ve been to. So it’s different from what anyone else is doing . . . though of course it’s still me at the centre of the whole thing. No, you must see the video. I mean, it wasn’t done with full production values, but, you know, it gives a very good idea of how the format would work. I’m bloody good in it – got a bloody sight more personality than Gary Rhodes or Jamie Oliver.’ He sneered at the names. ‘And I’m a bloody sight better cook. Oh, no, I wasn’t the reason why the BBC turned the idea down.’

  ‘Then what was the reason?’

  ‘Went with the wrong production company, didn’t I? Should have taken my talents direct to the BBC, rather than going through an independent. OK, the company I went with have got a good track record of getting programmes made, but it’s all been with ITV.’

  ‘Ah. Of course,’ said Jude, as though this made everything clear.

  ‘So the Beeb’s going to be pretty resistant to anything they offer, isn’t it?’

  ‘I thought these days independent production companies sold across the channels.’

  ‘No way. Well, some of the big ones do. I’m sure, if your production company’s got a big hit and is flavour of the month, you can sell anything to anyone, but that’s not the general rule.’ Max had justified the reasons for his rejection, and he wasn’t going to let mere details like facts get in the way. ‘Some are always selling to ITV, some to the BBC. I should have realized, but I’m a bit naive when it comes to that kind of stuff. I mean, I haven’t got a media background like you.’

  Like me? She let it pass.

  ‘But the trouble is, I’m really buggered now. Because I’ve been offered to the BBC, and been rejected – for the wrong reasons, but nobody’s going to know that – it’s like I can’t be offered there again.’

  ‘Couldn’t you be offered to ITV?’

  He grimaced. ‘Not such a track record there with cookery programmes. They haven’t really developed their own line in celebrity chefs. I suppose Channel 4’s a possibility . . . unless you’ve got any other ideas?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. Presumably that’s why you wanted to meet.’

  Jude couldn’t quite believe the direction the conversation was taking. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You said you’d been putting two and two together.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there were a couple of ideas you wanted to run by me.’

  ‘But I said ideas about the night Nigel Ackford died,’ Jude pointed out.

  ‘Yes. And that was the day I’d heard about being rejected by the BBC. I thought you had some ideas about my future as a celebrity chef.’

  His self-centredness was quite astonishing. He seemed unaware of any world outside his own. At that moment Jude knew rumours of Suzy having an affair with Max must be nonsense. Suzy would never link herself to such a blinkered egotist.

  ‘Max,’ Jude said gently, ‘I didn’t ask to see you to talk about your career.’

  ‘Oh.’ The disappointment was undisguised. ‘But I thought you, with your media background . . .’

  ‘Let’s get this straight. I don’t have a media background.’

  ‘You said you and Suzy—’

  ‘I met Suzy in my late teens when we were both models. We stayed friends, but I very quickly gave up the catwalk and went into theatre.’

  ‘And television?’

  ‘I did a little bit of television, yes.’

  ‘Then you must still have useful contacts who could help me . . .’

  She was surprised at the desperation of his naivety. She’d have expected him to be more streetwise. He’d rubbed shoulders with celebrities; he should have known better how the media world worked, and how short memories were there.

  ‘Max, I ceased to have any contact with the world of television in the early seventies. Any people I knew who might have had any influence in the medium are long retired, probably dead. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all in that way.’

  His desolation was almost comical, and Jude realized once again how potent was the dream of television fame. Max nursed the fantasy of being taken up as a media darling, of having his face spread across the nation’s screens and magazines, of lucrative deals for supermarket ads, of recipe books piling up at the top of the best-sellers’ lists. That was his escape route, his way out of the daily grind of preparing unappreciated food for the guests at Hopwicke House. Television fame could get him out of his flat in Worthing, and into the glamorous metropolitan world which he reckoned was his rightful milieu. He could buy an even more expensive motorbike.

  Max came back to life, his desolation replaced by a resentful curiosity. ‘Then why did you ask to meet, if it wasn’t about helping me to get on television?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about what happened that night at the hotel.’

  Max Townley looked puzzled. ‘We have talked about it. I’ve told you. I was pissed off about being rejected by the Beeb, so I drowned my sorrows in vodka.’

  ‘Something else happened.’

  For a moment he genuinely did not remember anything else happening. Then he said, ‘Oh yes, of course, that solicitor topped himself.’

  ‘Yes. I wondered what thoughts you had about that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not many. One solicitor more or less in the world – doesn’t make a lot of difference, does it? Some people might even think it was a good thing.’

  ‘But you didn’t see or hear anything odd that night?’

  He didn’t like the new direction of her questioning. ‘You’ve asked me this stuff before. And last time you even insinuated I might have been having it off with Kerry, which I didn’t take to very kindly.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But you are quite friendly with Kerry.’

  ‘I’m friendly with lots of people – doesn’t mean I shag them!’

  ‘No. Incidentally, a friend of mine saw you on Saturday giving Kerry a ride on your bike.’

  ‘What is this? Under bloody surveillance, am I?’

  ‘It’s just you saying you haven’t got a relationship with Kerry and—’

  ‘I haven’t! I was just giving the kid a lift to some audition she wanted to go to in Brighton – all right?’

  ‘Audition for what?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

  His stock of goodwill was rapidly diminishing. Jude became more conciliatory. ‘I’m not getting at you, Max. I’m just convinced that there was something funny about that young man’s death at the hotel.’

  ‘Funny?’

  �
�Like it not being suicide.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Like it being murder.’

  ‘Ah.’ Max considered this idea for a moment, but then decided it didn’t concern him. ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t know. Like I said, I was dead to the world.’

  ‘You didn’t get up at all during the night? Or hear anything?’

  ‘I’ve told you – no.’ It sounded genuine. ‘I did wake up at one point, and considered going to see Rick Hendry and throwing myself on his mercy. But then I guess I just went back to sleep again.’

  ‘Rick Hendry?’

  ‘Yes. Surely you know he owns Korfilia Productions. It was named after that overblown album he did with his band – can’t remember what they were called . . .’

  ‘Zedrach-Kona.’

  ‘Bloody hell, yes. Knew it was something poncy.’

  ‘Max, you said you thought of going to throw yourself on Rick Hendry’s mercy?’

  ‘Yes. Well, after the success they’ve had with Pop Crop, Korfilia Productions could sell anything to any of the networks, so I thought maybe I might get him to back me as a celebrity chef. He knows how well I’ve done at Hopwicke House, so I thought if Korfilia Productions backed me, then the BBC would have to listen and—’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Stop.’ Jude held up her hand. ‘Why did you think of throwing yourself on Rick Hendry’s mercy in the middle of the night at Hopwicke House?’

  ‘Because he was there.’

  ‘That night?’

  ‘Yes. He was staying with Suzy.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Hello. This is David.’

  ‘Oh. David.’

  ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I remember,’ said Carole. Though she’d tried to put all thoughts of their failed marriage behind her, she still recognized his voice.

  ‘I was ringing about Stephen . . . and, erm . . . Gaby.’

  Instantly she recalled how irritating she had found that little ‘erm . . .’, a mannerism her ex-husband contrived to get into almost every sentence he spoke.

  ‘Oh yes. It is excellent news, isn’t it? About them getting married,’ said Carole conventionally.