by Graham Smith
Beth walked through the door of the office and took in the scene before her. Everything she’d expected to find was missing. There were no dynamic youngsters with traces of acne and superhero T-shirts, nor were there cluttered desks laden with files. In the background she could hear a DJ introduce the next song on his playlist.
Each desk was spartan in its appearance. Beyond two computer screens per desk, a wireless mouse and keyboard, there was only a mug or a glass of water resting on each polished surface. While she liked to work in a clean environment herself, this was just too sterile for her taste.
The four people in the office all confounded her expectations as well. In the absence of young comic-book nerds, she’d thought that there would at least be a man with a ponytail. Instead there were two men old enough to be her father. Both wore smart trousers with a crisp shirt.
The two women in the room were mid-forties and, like the three manning Forster’s mayoral office, they were both good-looking and dressed in the same sort of smart casual clothing the men had chosen.
To find four people so smartly dressed working in a place that had once held livestock sat at odds with Beth’s perceptions of how computer programmers would dress and act. Beth knew that she was wrong to have come here with preconceived ideas. She also knew that the way these people dressed and kept their office was a probable reflection on their ages, the last vestiges of Forster’s influence and their individual professionalism.
As one of the women came to greet her, Beth threw a glance at the pictures on the walls. There was a framed photograph of the four people in the room all popping the cork on bottles of champagne, with Forster in the centre of the picture. To Beth’s eye, every one of their expressions looked to be filled with joy. A newspaper clipping in the corner of the frame had a headline that told of the sale of SimpleBooker. The other two pictures were of coastal scenery and could have been from anywhere, although Beth thought she recognised the location of one of them.
Beth introduced herself and explained why she was there.
‘I know why you’re here. Derek called us and asked that we answer your questions.’ The woman’s smile was as soft as her voice.
The fact the woman was on first-name terms with the mayor was understandable. They’d all worked together in this office, and with there only being five of them including Forster, they’d be a tight-knit group. While they might not have been overfamiliar with Forster, they’d have discussed holidays, meals out and all the other minor events and occasions that made for small talk.
Forster having called ahead was something of a concern to Beth. If he’d done as the woman had suggested and asked them to cooperate, it wasn’t the end of the world, but it also made her think their cooperation could be manipulated. It wasn’t that they’d lie at his request, more that they might try and cover up something if they thought it was in their best interests. If one of them was the Lakeland Ripper or was working with him, they’d now been forewarned.
The picture on the wall gave the outward appearance of them all being one happy family, but she knew that any one of them could be putting up a façade of togetherness while plotting to bring Forster down.
The one thing she was sure of, was that the four people in the room were all more than capable of hacking into the mayor’s computer and leaving the incriminating pictures that Digital Forensics had found.
Beth gave a gentle smile to the woman with the soft voice and watched as her eyes locked onto the scar. Women tended to react in a different way to men. They’d see the scar and horror would fill their eyes as they imagined what it must be like to carry such a wound; they’d think of their own looks and how they’d hate to lose them in the way Beth had.
Men, on the other hand, would often see it and try to act as if they hadn’t. Their eye contact would be too forced or they’d revert to type and avoid looking at her face at all.
‘I’m Inga and they’re George, Pete and that’s Claire in the far corner.’ Inga’s hand pointed out each of the others as she spoke.
George and Pete looked round and nodded a hello, but Claire remained focussed on her screens.
‘Thanks.’ Beth looked around the room. There were two doors in one wall and she hoped that one of them would be a second office where she could talk to each of the four in turn. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’
Inga’s face creased in apology. ‘Sorry, those doors you were looking at lead to the bathroom and the kitchen. We could use the kitchen I suppose.’
‘The kitchen will be fine.’
Beth would have used a broom cupboard if necessary. The last thing she wanted to do was conduct interviews in a place where the next people she would speak to could overhear everything that was said. She didn’t want to give any of them too much time to prepare their answers, and she wanted them all to feel they could speak privately without the others knowing what they were saying.
The kitchen was big enough for them both to fit in and leave a two-foot gap between them if they pressed their backs against the worktops. Like most office kitchens it had a microwave, fridge, kettle and toaster. A collection of blue mugs sat upside down on the small draining board.
Inga gave Beth another of her soft smiles. ‘Before you start asking me your questions, I’d just like to say that I have no idea who’d want to harm Derek in any way. He’s a good man who does a lot for charity and he’s the only politician I’ve ever known who actually does what he says he will.’
‘I’ve met him. He seems like a lovely man to me. So genuine.’ The lie nearly choked Beth, but she wasn’t averse to white lies if they uncovered black truths. ‘You say that you have no idea who’d try and ruin his reputation. I take it that you’ve discussed this as a group?’
Beth listened to the answers Inga gave to her questions and rephrased them to see if she could catch the older woman from a different angle. Nothing she tried got a different perspective, let alone story, from Inga. Despite the woman having obvious intelligence, Inga seemed too nice, twee almost, to Beth to have an understanding of the darker side of people’s nature. Inga’s intellect and class shielded her in a way that bred naivety.
When she’d finished with Inga she talked with both the men. Neither gave her any great clues as to who might be behind the defamation, but something Pete said about Claire pricked her attention. It wasn’t an accusation of any kind, but there was enough in his scoffed comment to suggest that the SimpleBooker family wasn’t as happy as outward appearances suggested.
Pete’s overall demeanour intrigued her. While he was open with his answers, he came across as something of a cold person. Maybe he was the kind of man who didn’t suffer fools or had a superiority complex, or perhaps he was just having a bad day. His hair was short and while his shirt was tight on his body, he was in good shape for a man in his fifties. And for all he came across as cold, nothing else about him jangled a warning bell for Beth. She recalled that his police record was non-existent.
George was a different character. He was meek, polite and apologised with every answer that stuttered from his lips. Unlike Pete, his shirt hung loose on an obese body. His every mannerism belied his discomfort at being questioned and while it was obvious he wanted to help, he didn’t know anything.
Claire’s attitude was different to that of the others. Where they’d been respectful of her status as a detective, Claire seemed to be indifferent. If the SimpleBooker employees were a family, Claire was the sullen teenager.
‘So, you don’t know of anyone with a grudge against Derek Forster? Can’t think of someone who’d like to bring him down a peg or two?’ Beth hardened her questions in response to the challenge of Claire’s attitude. ‘Are you going to be like the others and tell me that he’s basically a saint that someone is trying to martyr?’
‘I’m going to tell you the truth. I don’t know of anyone who’s got it in for him. He was very generous when he sold the business and easy to get on with when he was my boss. There’s nothing more to tel
l.’
Beth was convinced that Claire had a lot of story to tell. The way she’d dressed was novel in itself. Her skirt was mid-thigh and the blouse she wore showed a generous amount of cleavage. A thin necklace hung down her chest with an engagement ring hanging at its lowest point.
To Beth the outfit was overkill for the job she had. Claire’s clothing was chosen for a reason other than practicality. Both George and Pete had worn wedding rings; therefore unless she was trying to seduce one of them, she must be meeting someone else straight after work.
Even so, the length of her skirt and the amount of cleavage she was showing was more suitable to a night on the town than eight hours in a former barn.
Whatever the reason, Beth wished that Claire hadn’t been the last person she spoke to. If one of the others had followed her, she’d have been able to ask if this was how she usually turned up for work.
Regardless of what she thought of the woman and her choice of workwear, Beth had questions she needed answered.
‘How did you get on with Derek on a personal level? You’ve said he was generous and good to work for, but did you get on with him?’
‘You’ve met him right? You know what it feels like to have him turn on the charm for your benefit. He’s suave, charismatic and handsome as hell. I got on with him as well as I’ve got on with anyone in the workplace. He was my boss and that’s how it was between us. Him the employer, me the employee. We’d chat about shit that didn’t matter and then go our separate ways.’
Beth couldn’t help but notice the wistfulness that crept into Claire’s tone when she mentioned Forster’s looks. ‘Sounds like he was decent enough to you.’
‘Oh he was. To a point. He held the power and while he never abused it or even mentioned it, he’d just assert his authority with a quiet word or a look.’
‘Really? I’ve never seen that side of him.’
‘You won’t have. He’ll see a pretty young thing like you as a potential conquest; me, I was paid to do a job.’ Claire looked at her watch. ‘And on that note, the new owners aren’t as forgiving as Derek was in terms of missed deadlines; I’m afraid I need to get back to my desk soon.’
Beth put a few quick questions to Claire, but it was clear the older woman thought she’d crossed a line and had clammed up in case she said anything that might cause trouble for Forster.
As Beth laid her jacket on the passenger seat of her car, her entire focus was on what Claire had told her. She was sure the programmer had intimated something and then drawn back from it on purpose. She’d been given a riddle that she had to solve.
Thirty-Two
7 June
Dear Diary
Derek has only gone and been elected as mayor of Carlisle!!!
He was on his best form and insisted we join him for a celebratory dinner. I’ve told you how charming he is as a person, well tonight he just oozed charisma, and if I’m honest with you, more than a little sex appeal.
Don’t worry, Diary. Derek pays my wages and there will never be anything between us.
I’m nobody in comparison.
A girl can dream though.
Until tomorrow.
Thirty-Three
The Wall Park Hotel was an old building. Its sandstone walls shone bright in the noon sunshine and its tree-filled garden gave it the air of a country house hotel despite it being in the centre of Workington.
When Beth entered the reception there was a huge wooden desk behind which a young woman sat. She wore the kind of uniform that was standard to hotels the world over and her greeting was warm and friendly.
Beth explained who she was and why she was there.
The girl’s smile never slipped as she invited Beth to have a seat while she located the hotel owner.
As she waited, Beth took a quick look around the reception. A set of carpeted stairs led to what she assumed would be the guest rooms and off to one side a bar-cum-restaurant housed a dozen tables. Only two of the tables were empty, the rest were surrounded by what her mother described as ‘ladies who lunch’ or businessmen tapping away at laptops. In the far corner a fat bald man in jeans was reading a battered paperback with an intense concentration.
It was the scene she’d expected to see. Wall Park Hotel wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed those of a working-class disposition. It was aimed at the higher end of the market and this was reflected in the prices she’d seen when looking at the hotel’s website.
The receptionist returned with the owner: a tall man with a stoop and thinning hair.
‘Good day, Detective. My name is Ketteringham.’ The man’s accent was local to Workington, but refined, as if he’d sanded its rougher edges to better impress his guests. ‘If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I think my office is the best place for us to talk.’
While the man was cordial, Beth couldn’t help but pick up on his snooty condescension. The fact he’d introduced himself by surname only spoke of an inbuilt snobbery that was decades out of date. There was no welcoming handshake and he’d taken control of the situation in the way he had requested she come to his office.
As she followed him she had to bite down on her temper. Tempting as it was to play hardball with him, he could easily clam up and refuse to give her the information she needed from him. It’d be easy enough for her to get a warrant, but that would take time and she knew that the case was being closely monitored by not just the brass, but also the PSD. Therefore any errors of judgement she made would have greater repercussions than usual.
His stoop made him look as if he was scouring the ground for lost change, and as spic and span as he might be, the image that stuck with Beth was that of a drunk person bumbling their way home.
Ketteringham took a seat in the leather chair behind his desk and waved a hand towards a plastic chair by Beth.
She didn’t know the man, but she’d already taken a dislike to him. His having a hard uncomfortable chair for visitors would be his way of exercising his superiority and making sure visitors to his office were keen to leave at the earliest opportunity.
‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind, I’ve been in the car for an hour so it’s good to stretch my legs a bit.’
Beth would have taken the seat in other circumstances, but she didn’t want to yield any ground, and by standing she retained some dominance.
‘Of course.’ Ketteringham twiddled with his cravat. ‘Now, if you could be specific about the information you require, I’ll see what I can do about it.’
Beth told him the date the mayor had met with Lorraine, her room number, and requested that he share what information he had about the booking and the person who’d made it.
‘I see. Shouldn’t you have a warrant to justify me breaching a customer’s confidentiality?’
‘That depends on you, Mr Ketteringham. I can come back with a warrant. But I’m investigating four rapes and murders so your cooperation will save me a lot of time.’
‘I see. And do you think the killer may have stayed here, at the Wall Park?’
‘Not that I know of, but I think the person who did stay in that room on those dates may be connected to the killer.’ Beth put a hard look into her eyes. ‘Now, are you going to give me what I need, or do I have to come back with a warrant?’ The way Ketteringham held her stare was infuriating to Beth, so she decided to add a little extra pressure. ‘You have a bar in the Wall Park, therefore you must have a licence to sell alcohol. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that licences and their renewals are granted by the licensing board, and that they take into account the opinion of the police when they’re assessing individual applications or renewals. I’m sure that you don’t want a black mark going against you.’
‘You wouldn’t.’ Ketteringham’s face had blanched with shock and fury. ‘You’re blackmailing me to give you information without a warrant. That’s immoral and despicable.’
‘I’m doing no such thing.’ Beth feigned an air of innocence. ‘All I’m doing is pointing out how the decis
ion you’re about to make may come back to haunt you. If my DI or DS was here with me, they would suggest there may be surprise visits from Customs and Excise to check your measures and the provenance of your alcohol supplies. I’m sure you have invoices from breweries for every drop of alcohol on the premises and that you don’t buy it from a supermarket, because you know fine well that it’s illegal for a licensed premises to purchase liquor from a public retailer and then resell it. Something else they might do if they wanted to force you to answer their questions is threaten you with anonymous complaints to the likes of Trading Standards and Environmental Health. They aren’t here though, and all I’m doing is asking you to save me a few hours and a bit of paperwork, because, let’s face it, one way or another, we’ll have the information from you before the day’s out. So it’s up to you, Mr Ketteringham. When I leave here, will I be calling my DI to share information, or will I be asking her to sort out a warrant?’
Beth didn’t hear what Ketteringham muttered under his breath as he opened the laptop on his desk and she didn’t care. She’d get what she wanted and that was all that mattered.
She didn’t speak as the hotelier looked up the details of the booking.
After five minutes of awkward silence the printer whirred into life and spat out a sheet of paper. It contained the details of the booking and the name and address of the person who’d made it: ‘L. Jones’.
So Lorraine’s surname was Jones and the listed address was in Keswick.
Best of all, though, was the mobile phone number.
As she scanned further down the page, Beth saw that the room had been booked through the Booking.com website. As delicious as the irony was that there was a chance Forster’s software had unknowingly been used by the woman he’d slept with, Beth was pleased that she’d used the system. The name may well be false, the surname of Jones suggested it may be, as might the address and even the phone number, but Beth remembered signing up for Booking.com herself. She’d had to feed in her card details, and therefore Lorraine would have had to do the same. That meant she could still be traced if the other details turned out to be false.