The Hanging in the Hotel

by Simon Brett

  Because of the tight timetable to which the seminar had been planned, lunch was a relatively short break. Some wine was drunk, but not a great deal. The dining room was clear by two-fifteen; tidying and re-laying for dinner would be complete by quarter to three.

  Jude had to go to the first-floor linen room to fetch clean tablecloths. The mobile laundry service delivered everything up there – bedding, towels and table drapery.

  The linen room was also the base for the chambermaids and, when the hotel had had one, the housekeeper. (As profit margins tightened, Suzy had cut the full-time post, and the housekeeper’s duties were thereafter shared between the chambermaids or added to Suzy’s already excessive workload.) As well as stocks of linen, the room’s shelves were filled with individual packets of soap, shampoo, shower-gel, shower-caps, teabags, instant-coffee granules, sweetener, long-life milk and cream, shoe-cleaning wipes, sewing kits and all the other impedimenta which form an obligatory part of the twenty-first-century hotel experience – even in a country house hotel.

  There was a clipboard on the wall of the linen room for the daily bedroom sheets. On these forms were three columns: for the room numbers, for guests’ names to show whether or not the room was occupied, and for the ticks the chambermaids had to put in when the room had been cleaned and tidied ready for the next guest. A form of shorthand was used to show when beds needed new sheets rather than just remaking, when breakages had occurred, and when maintenance work – like replacing light bulbs, retuning television sets or unblocking sinks – was required.

  The clipboard gave Jude an idea. There was no fixed schedule for removing its old sheets. Often they wouldn’t be cleared until their mass became too great for the new one to be clipped in, which was the case on this occasion. Jude flicked through and found the sheet for the Wednesday in the small hours of which Nigel Ackford had died. The ticking of the form that morning had been erratic. With a police investigation on the premises, the chambermaids’ re-tidying of the bedrooms had had a low priority. But the names showing which rooms had been occupied were all in place.

  Pushing at the release clip, Jude slid out the relevant sheet. She folded it and put it in her pocket, with a view to checking the rooms against the Pillars of Sussex guest list at Woodside Cottage.

  Downstairs, the accountants were leading their prey to the next sales pitch in the conference suite. ‘Wish they were all like this,’ Suzy confided to Jude, as the last guest left the dining room. ‘One of the big downturns of the hotel industry is watching customers lingering over their meals, while all you want to do is move in and clear up.’

  ‘Are they here for dinner?’

  ‘No, thank God. Tea and biscuits at five, then they’re off – the company people to plan their follow-up phone calls, and the potential clients to forget they’ve ever been here.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve got an evening off?’

  ‘No, but it’s not stressful. Just a private party.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Kerry Hartson’s sixteenth.’

  ‘Amazing to think she’s that young.’

  ‘I know. She’s been fifteen going on twenty-five for a long time.’

  ‘So is it going to be a wild teenage rave here tonight?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. Just an elegant family dinner party. No doubt she’ll go clubbing with her mates on some other occasion.’ Suzy’s shoulders rose in an involuntary shudder. ‘Anyway, thank God I no longer have to deal with Kerry.’

  ‘Why did you take her on, Suzy?’

  ‘Oh, she wanted to learn the hotel business. As ever, I needed another pair of hands.’

  An inadequate answer, but Jude let it pass.

  They were in the kitchen. The other waitresses had knocked off, and Max had gone to do whatever it is that chefs do in the afternoon – in his case, possibly practising television celebrity faces in front of a mirror.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ asked Suzy.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Come back to my place.’

  Jude had been into the barn before, but was once again struck by the elegance of its decoration. As with her wardrobe, Suzy had used only the best designers; everything in the barn conversion was minimalist and perfect.

  In the kitchen she produced a couple of cappuccinos from the Italian coffee-maker, and sat down at the long wooden table. The rain had stopped ; the weather was warm enough now for the French windows to be opened, and for the two women to look out to the rolling green curves of the South Downs, cleansed by their recent drenching.

  Suzy let out a long sigh. ‘I hope things settle down a bit now. I think I’ve had more than my share of bad luck in the last two weeks.’

  ‘Two deaths in the hotel,’ said Jude.

  ‘Exactly. Two too many.’

  ‘And is it your view that there was a connection between them?’

  Another, even longer, sigh. ‘I honestly don’t know. And I’m afraid I don’t really care. Sounds callous, but maybe I am. You have to develop a strong core of selfishness if you run your own business. When the first death happened, I was afraid it threatened the hotel. Now . . .’ The sculpted shoulders shrugged.

  ‘You think the danger’s gone away?’

  ‘The danger of damaging publicity, yes. There are always other dangers to a business like this, mind you, so I can never relax. Recessions, lack of bookings, international crises, Americans still pussy-footing about travelling abroad. If I want to worry, I can always find something to worry about.’

  ‘So why have you stopped worrying about the bad publicity?’

  The hazel eyes turned curiously towards Jude. ‘I told you. The young man’s death was reported in the local paper, and Hopwicke House wasn’t even mentioned.’

  ‘And what about the old man’s death? Are you confident that will be discreetly reported too?’

  ‘Yes. I am, actually.’

  ‘And is that because the editor of the Fethering Observer and Detective Inspector Goodchild were both here on Saturday night when it happened?’

  Suzy Longthorne framed her face in two hands, which she swept up through her auburn hair. ‘That may have something to do with it. Oh, stop looking at me with righteous indignation, Jude.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you were. If there’s one thing my years of the so-called “celebrity lifestyle” have taught me, it’s that you need people to fix things for you. And if you get an offer of having something fixed, then you’d be very stupid to turn it down.’

  ‘Even if what is being fixed for you is the cover-up of a murder?’

  ‘If I thought a murder had been committed, Jude, I might feel differently. But I don’t.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really. From the moment you found that young man’s body, you have been the only person in the world who thought it was murder. Well, maybe you’ve convinced your friend Carole too. Nobody else thinks it was anything other than suicide.’

  ‘Then why did they all start making excuses and fabricating alibis?’

  ‘For reasons of their own. For self-protection. To avoid bad publicity. Not because they thought they were murder suspects.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s you who planted that idea, Jude. And all the questioning from you and your friend Carole just got people more nervous, so they started to make up new stories to get you off their backs.’

  Jude’s brown eyes returned the hazel stare. ‘Do you sincerely believe what you’re saying, Suzy?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ She laid her long hands palms upwards on the table, pleading. ‘God, Jude, how long have we known each other? Can’t you tell when I’m speaking the truth?’

  ‘Yes. I can.’ But Jude wished she could have said it with more conviction. ‘Very well. Say Nigel Ackford did commit suicide – what about Donald Chew?’

  ‘It was an accident. He fell down the cellar steps.’ Suzy sounded weary now. ‘All right. Maybe I should have checked that the door was locked. But I can�
�t do everything.’

  ‘No.’ There was a silence between them. ‘Suzy, I can’t deny it’s very convincing. Suicide and an accident. Certainly a much more appealing explanation than two murders.’

  ‘Then, for heaven’s sake,’ demanded Suzy, her weariness now turning to exasperation, ‘why can’t you believe it?’

  ‘I just can’t.’ Feeble, she knew, but the only answer Jude could come up with. ‘Maybe I could if I hadn’t heard what Nigel Ackford said the night he died. They weren’t the words of someone about to kill himself.’

  ‘And that’s all? If you had a reason why he should have done it, then you’d believe the death was suicide?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jude. ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Right,’ said Suzy. She lifted herself out of her chair and crossed to a small cupboard set into the old beams for the barn. ‘I’m not meant to show you this, but I think the moment has come when I’ve got to.’

  The young man at the end of the phone sounded wary. Yes, his name was Karl Floyd and he did work for the Fethering Observer.

  ‘And you’re there as an investigative reporter?’ asked Carole.

  It had been the right thing to say. Whether or not her description was rather overstating his role, there was a note of pride in his admission that yes, he was an investigative reporter.

  Now she had to take a risk. The minute Jude had mentioned Nigel Ackford’s name to Karl Floyd, their conversation had been ended very abruptly. But then the young man had been on his mobile. Now he was at work. If she just phrased it right . . .

  ‘I might have some information relevant to one of your enquiries.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He was interested, but still cautious. ‘Can you tell me who I’m talking to, please?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter for the time being.’ Another calculated risk. But Carole reckoned she’d got him hooked, and didn’t want to give him any excuse to put the phone down. The fact that his informant was a middle-aged retired woman from Fethering High Street might do just that.

  Now the biggest risk. She was guessing, and if her conjecture was wrong, she could look forward to a very quick end to their conversation. ‘The enquiry I’m referring to is the one you had been talking about to Nigel Ackford and Donald Chew.’

  Total silence from the other end of the line. Carole raised the stakes of her risks further. ‘About Renton and Chew?’

  Still silence, and she started to worry she’d made a conjecture too far.

  Then Karl Floyd spoke. ‘What do you know about them?’

  Carole felt herself relax. She’d been right. He’d admitted he had been investigating Renton and Chew.

  ‘I’d rather not talk on the phone. Would it be possible for us to meet?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of meeting people whose names I don’t know.’

  ‘Very well. My name’s Carole Seddon.’

  ‘Oh.’

  His intonation was blank, could have been approving, could have been disapproving. In case he was about to put the phone down, Carole said quickly, ‘I am a client of Renton and Chew.’

  Thank God, that did it. ‘OK, let’s meet. I’d better tell you, though, that even if I do get all the facts for this investigation together, there’s a strong likelihood that the Fethering Observer won’t run it.’

  No, it’ll be spiked by the editor, thought Carole, while he counts down the days to full-time sea fishing. The Pillars of Sussex would close ranks, as ever – particularly now they had a cosmetic presentation job to do on the death of Donald Chew.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘There are other newspapers.’

  Again she’d hit the right note. Every young journalist still dreamed of the huge international scoop. All the President’s Men must have been obligatory viewing during their training.

  Karl Floyd’s flat turned out to be in Fethering, within walking distance from High Tor. He’d certainly be back from work by seven. Carole arranged to go round and see him then.

  She put the phone down with a huge glow of satisfaction. This was a breakthrough. There was no question now about her contributing her fair share to the investigation. Immediately she dialled Jude’s mobile number.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Suzy as soon as Jude ended the call. ‘Sorry, am I being nosy?’

  Her friend grinned. ‘Well, you are, but that’s nothing new. It was Carole.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘She’s tracked down another link in the chain.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There was someone Nigel had been in touch with a lot in the weeks before he died called Karl Floyd. I spoke to him once on the phone, then he vanished. But good old Carole’s tracked him down.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Suzy. ‘I keep forgetting it’s not just you.’ She giggled, ‘We’ve got two matronly supersleuths on this case, haven’t we?’

  ‘Less of the “matronly”, thank you very much.’ Jude’s large bosom swelled in mock affront. ‘Just because some of us haven’t spent our entire lives staying young and beautiful, it’s very mean of you to snipe.’

  Suzy held up her hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Sorry. Take it all back.’

  ‘Anyway, we’re wasting time. Show me what you were going to show me.’

  ‘All right.’ Suzy removed a sheet of white copier paper from the Hopwicke House envelope she’d taken out of the cupboard.

  ‘And this is going to convince me that Nigel committed suicide?’

  ‘I think it will, yes.’

  ‘Don’t forget you’ve got to convince Carole too. After an entirely characteristic moment of doubt, she’s now back fully committed to the investigation.’

  ‘This’ll convince her too.’ Still Suzy did not hand the piece of paper across. ‘I’d better explain how I come to have this. You remember, when you found Nigel Ackford’s body in the four-poster room, you came straight down and told me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I went up to have a look. I found a letter under the pillow. Before the police arrived’ – she waved the sheet of white paper – ‘I took a photocopy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was confused and shocked, and I suddenly saw all my hard work building up the hotel being threatened, so I just thought, the more information I had . . .’

  ‘So you never told anyone else about the letter? Like the police?’

  ‘Of course I did. I wasn’t in the business of destroying evidence.’

  ‘You say that, but you didn’t tell the police about the threatening note Kerry found.’

  ‘No, but that pointed towards a possible murder, which would have been a publicity disaster. This letter pointed towards suicide, which was bad, but not as bad. No, as soon as I’d photocopied the letter, I put it back for the police to find.’

  ‘Surely your fingerprints would have been on the paper?’

  ‘I suppose they would. I wasn’t really thinking of that. Anyway, when Inspector Goodchild questioned me, I told him exactly what I’d done, so if they did find my fingerprints, they’d know why.’

  ‘But why on earth didn’t this letter come out before?’ Jude wailed. ‘If proof existed that Nigel had a reason to kill himself, then Carole and I could have saved ourselves a great deal of bother.’

  With a rueful nod, Suzy agreed. ‘I know. But Inspector Goodchild told me not to mention it to anyone, and I’ve obeyed him – well, until now.’

  ‘Why would he do that, though? Because he’s part of the Pillars of Sussex cover-up conspiracy?’

  ‘Jude . . .’ Suzy shook her elegant head in aggrieved exasperation. ‘There is no cover-up. There’s nothing to cover up. Nigel Ackford died on my premises, which was extremely unfortunate. The preliminary inquest was adjourned, to give the police time to assemble their evidence. When that evidence is assembled, Nigel Ackford will be adjudged to have committed suicide. Inspector Goodchild is a professional policeman. He’s not about to show classified information or evidence to two middle-aged women who have fan
tasies of being crime-solvers.’

  In all their long friendship, Suzy had never before said anything so cruel to Jude, and she regretted it as soon as the words had left her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That just came out. I’ve had it up to here over all this business. As you know, the hotel’s been under threat, and this couldn’t have come at a worse time. You and your friend Carole have made it even worse.’

  There was a cold silence. Jude reached out a plump hand. ‘I’d better read it then.’

  Suzy handed the photocopy across.

  The letterhead was the address and telephone number of a flat in Hove. The contents were handwritten in the elegant italic style favoured by artists, designers and architects. It was dated the day before the Pillars of Sussex dinner.

  Dear Nigel

  I know you’ve made up your mind, and I know you wouldn’t listen to me on the phone, but I can’t just let you go ahead without one more plea to you not to do it.

  OK, I’m not pretending you haven’t got problems, but I’m sure if you calm down and give yourself a bit of space, you’ll be able to deal with them. I know our relationship didn’t work out, and I know you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you love Wendy, but deep down you know you’re gay. You always have known it. And you’ll only ever find happiness when you accept that fact. To fulfil yourself completely, you’re going to end up in a loving relationship with another man. I wish that person could be me. I still can’t totally damp down the hope that, once we’ve spent some relaxed time together, it will be me. But I’m not putting any pressure on you.

  What you’ve got to understand, Nigel, is that nobody’s putting any pressure on you – except, perhaps, Wendy, a little. The only person who’s really putting pressure on you is yourself. All your worries about the ethics of your personal and professional behaviour are self-imposed. I don’t mean by that that they’re irrelevant – all the talking we’ve done on the subject should prove that to you – but they’re the kind of anxieties that any thinking person is going to have as he or she negotiates a way through the complexities of life.