The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  “Oh yes.”

  “I’m sure if anything odd has been going on in the Pillars of Sussex, he’d know about it.”

  “And Kerry knows more about that night than she’s letting on. I’m going to get back in touch with her.”

  “Through the hotel?”

  “No, direct.” Jude remembered something and tapped her fingers on her chin. “Mind you, I am going to talk to the hotel. Find out why the hell Suzy lied about calling me yesterday morning. She really is behaving very strangely.”

  Their plans for the next stage of the investigation were just about in place when the phone rang. Carole answered it.

  “It’s all right,” a conspiratorial voice whispered. “I’m calling on my mobile from the garden shed.”

  She’d completely forgotten the existence of Barry Stilwell.

  “I’m sorry, Jude. I wasn’t deliberately lying.”

  “Yes, you were, Suzy. You told Carole you’d rung me, and you hadn’t.”

  “Okay, I lied, but it wasn’t important. I just wanted to get her off my case.”

  “As you want to get me off your case?”

  “Yes, Jude.”

  “But when we met in London, you were fine about things. What’s made you change your—?”

  “Please. This is just for the time being. I’ll be in touch when this has all blown over.”

  “When what has all blown over?”

  “Oh, the financial crisis at the hotel. The press interest in Rick.”

  “You know I’ve seen him?”

  “Yes, he said.”

  “For a couple who had such a bitter divorce, you seem to be constantly in touch.”

  “You don’t know the situation.”

  “I know what you feel about him. God, I listened to enough of it just after the split-up happened.”

  “Yes, and I’m very grateful to you, Jude.”

  “So why are you once again living in each other’s pockets?”

  “Time heals.”

  “Not that much, Suzy. I think you’re so closely in touch because you share a secret. Something you both want to hide.”

  There was a silence. Then Suzy Longthorne announced coldly, “You asked if I wanted you off my case, Jude. The answer is yes.”

  The coldness gave way to desperation. “Please, Jude.” The emotion in Suzy’s voice was the real thing. “I’ll give you a call in a month. Then we’ll get together and I’ll explain everything. I will. Trust me.”

  “The number of times you’ve lied, Suzy,” said Jude implacably, “you haven’t given me much reason to trust you.”

  “No.” Another silence.

  “Okay.” The moment had passed. Jude’s tone was lighter now. “By the way, is Kerry there? I wanted to have a word with her about—”

  “Kerry doesn’t work here anymore,” said Suzy, firmly ending the conversation.

  “I was ringing, Sandra, about a new Promise.”

  “Yes?” the woman at the other end of the line sounded bewildered and a little deterrent, as though a “Promise” were possibly some kind of double-glazing system.

  “It’s Carole. Carole Seddon.”

  “You said.” Still no recognition.

  “We met at Brenda Chew’s.”

  “Oh yes.” Now she knew, and everything in her middle-class upbringing was activated to cover the lapse. “Of course. How lovely to hear from you, Carole. Sorry, I was preoccupied with . . . Anyway, so good to hear you. The Pillars of Sussex auction, yes. So what Promise have you managed to get?”

  “A session of kinesiology . . . ?” said Carole tentatively.

  She needn’t have worried about its reception. “That would be wonderful,” Sandra Hartson cooed, sounding more animated than she had at any time during their acquaintance. “Do you really know someone qualified to do that?”

  “My next door neighbour’s a trained kinesiologist,” said Carole, with the casual mastery of being well-connected.

  “And she’s really prepared to give the service free?”

  “I’ve managed to persuade her,” confided the omnipotent Carole.

  “Does she know the Pillars of Sussex?”

  “She’s heard about them. Knows about the good work they do.”

  “That’s excellent. Kinesiology.”

  Carole had not expected Sandra Hartson to be into alternative therapies. “Have you tried it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And it worked?”

  “For a while. I don’t know why I stopped going, really. I suppose it was when I moved on to reiki. Or maybe it was round the time I had the colonic irrigation . . .”

  Carole was beginning to get a clearer image of Sandra Hartson’s personality. An alternative therapy junkie, constantly in search of a quick fix for all her problems. Carole wondered what pressures put Sandra in such permanent need of help, and whether being married to Bob Hartson was one of them.

  “Anyway, Carole, well done. That’s a terrific Promise. I’ll certainly bid for the kinesiology session myself.”

  Carole was struck again by an anomaly in the system of charity giving. Sandra Hartson must have been rich enough to buy as many kinesiology sessions as she wanted to at the going market rates, and yet she was prepared to pay way over the odds in the context of an Auction of Promises. Surely not just to show off to her friends? The Pillars of Sussex and their womenfolk must already have seen enough evidence of the Hartson wealth. Odd.

  Still, Carole’s opening gambit had worked well. Time to use that platform to advance her investigation. “Incidentally, Sandra, you know you said your daughter Kerry probably wouldn’t be staying long at the hotel . . .”

  “Sorry?” Their recent encounter seemed to have made little impression on Sandra Hartson.

  “Yes. When we were going to the car.”

  “Right.” But she still didn’t sound as though she remembered.

  “Anyway, I heard through a friend of mine who works up at Hopwicke House that Kerry has left.”

  “Seemed a bit pointless for her to stay on in the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Well, I can’t see Kerry ever going back into the hotel business after what’s happened.”

  “I’m sorry? I’m a bit behind you, Sandra. What has happened?”

  The mother’s voice took on a note of awestruck pride. “Kerry’s ambitions look as though they may be realised. She’s passed the audition. She’s going to be on Pop Crop.”

  28

  “I RANG TO say congratulations.”

  “What for?” Kerry Hartson sounded suspicious. Why was Jude, whom she only knew vaguely, ringing her again?

  “Congratulations on getting the Pop Crop audition.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, thanks. It’s a big opportunity for me, and I’m determined to do my absolute best. I’m really going for it.”

  Instantly the girl had dropped into interview mode. Jude could picture her, sitting in her flat, looking over the sea at Brighton and indulging the fantasy of the television crew around her, the fawning presenter asking about her next single. She could even imagine Kerry tidying up her sitting room, in case the interviewers arrived unannounced. The prospect of fame could have a wonderful effect on the domestic habits of teenagers.

  “You heard from Suzy, I suppose?” the girl went on.

  Jude saw no reason to contradict her. “She said you were going to stop working at the hotel.”

  “Yeah, well, that was like only work experience, but I don’t reckon I’m going to end up in hotels. Obviously, now Pop Crop’s come up, well, I’ve got to, like, really go for it, haven’t I?”

  Still in interview mode. Jude wondered whether Kerry would repeat herself as much in a real interview, and decided the answer was probably yes.

  Time for a change of tack. Time to find out where Kerry really was on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death. When last asked the question, she had claimed to be drinking whisky in her father’s room. Bob Hartson had supported tha
t, and claimed Barry Stilwell as a witness. Somebody had been lying, though, and, determined to find out who, Jude spelled out to Kerry the inadequacy of her alibi.

  The girl was thrown. “Look, why’re you on about this again? I’ll have to tell Dad you’ve been asking.”

  If that was meant to be a threat, the words had no effect on Jude. “Fine. But you answer me first.”

  “I don’t have to.” Archetypal adolescent defiance.

  “No, you don’t have to, but if you don’t, I will know for definite that you have something to hide.”

  There was a silence while Kerry took in the logic of this. Then she asserted, “I haven’t got anything to hide. I did go up to Dad’s room, like I said, and drank a bit of whisky with him . . .”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “No,” she snapped. “There was someone else there.”

  “Barry Stilwell says he was there, but he says you weren’t.”

  “Well, I wasn’t there all the time. I just had a drink and left them to it.”

  “So where did you go then?”

  “I went to bed.”

  “You weren’t in your room when I turned in round three.”

  “No, I was . . . It was later than that when I left Dad’s room.”

  “Your father said you left about two.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She was really floundering now. “Dad’s never got a good sense of time, and when he’s been at the booze . . .”

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing to me, Kerry.”

  “It’s the truth. Ask that solicitor.”

  “Barry Stilwell? The one who first of all said he was with your Dad, but you weren’t there, and then changed his tune and suddenly remembered you had been there? I don’t think he’s a very reliable witness. In fact, I’ve a feeling Barry Stilwell will say anything your father tells him to say.”

  Kerry Hartson might have been expected to pick up on this criticism of her precious father, but she didn’t. Instead, she spoke as if new light had come flooding into her life. “Of course, I got it. The reason we’re getting all mixed up over this . . .”

  “Oh?” asked Jude cynically. “And what is that?”

  “It’s Dad.” The girl chuckled. “He’s always had this dreadful thing with names . . . mixes people up. He said the solicitor was with us, right?”

  “Yes. Barry Stilwell.”

  “But that’s it, you see, it wasn’t Barry Stilwell in the room with us while we were drinking the whisky.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “Dad’s own solicitor. Mr. Chew.”

  “Donald Chew?”

  “That’s right. Yes.”

  Jude reckoned a long time had passed since she heard quite such a preposterous lie, but she let it pass, thanked the girl for clearing the matter up, and moved on. “Going back to the Pop Crop thing . . .”

  “Yeah. Exciting, isn’t it?” And then, as if the words hadn’t been said enough, “I’m really going to go for it.”

  “Good for you. And you got that by doing an audition in Brighton?”

  “Sure. There were a lot of people, but I thought if I, like, gave it my best shot . . . really went for it . . . well . . . And it turned out okay.”

  “And you were auditioned by Rick Hendry?”

  “Right.” A note of caution had come into the girl’s voice.

  “Was that the first time you’d met him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, was the audition the first time you met Rick Hendry? Or had you met him before up at the hotel?”

  “No,” said Kerry Hartson. “First time I met him was at the audition.”

  But she sounded as guilty as hell. Jude wondered how soon after putting the phone down on their call, Kerry would be ringing her stepfather.

  “Carole Seddon?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Brenda Chew.”

  “Oh, good afternoon.”

  “I heard from Sandra Hartson about the Promise you’d secured for the auction. This session of . . . canasta?”

  “Kinesiology,” said Carole, as though she had been familiar with the word from birth.

  “Yes. Well, I’m very grateful to you, but I thought I’d better check the details.”

  “I gave all the details to Sandra.”

  “But I just wanted to be double-sure.”

  Recognising Brenda Chew’s continuing inability to delegate, Carole said rather tartly, “The details are all exactly as I gave them to Sandra. My next-door neighbour, who is a trained kinesiologist, is offering a free two-hour session for the Auction of Promises at the Hopwicke Country House Hotel next Saturday.”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what Sandra Hartson said.”

  “Of course it is. It’s exactly what I told her.”

  “Hm. So what is your friend’s name?”

  “Jude.”

  “Jude what?”

  “Most people just call her Jude.”

  “Oh dear. I’m not sure that that will look quite right in the catalogue. Though I suppose, in the world of alternative therapies, you might expect people to be a bit odd. . . . Still, I’ll discuss it with her.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to telephone her. Could you give me the number?”

  Carole did so, and then asked, “Are you just going to ring her to say thank-you for the offer?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right.” A moment’s pause. “Well, and just to double-check all the details.”

  With difficulty Carole managed not to grind her teeth.

  “Oh, and there’s another very good bit of news, Carole . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know I was saying at our meeting how useful it would be to our cause if we could get a celebrity auctioneer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ve got one.”

  “Who?”

  Brenda Chew’s voice was full of smug pride as she announced, “That man from the television. Rick Hendry.” She went into a very bad impersonation of his catch-phrase. “I wish I’d been born deaf!”

  “What! Who on earth fixed that?”

  “Oh, I did it. As I may have said before, if you want a job done properly, do it yourself.”

  29

  CAROLE’S SECOND APPOINTMENT with Donald Chew was the following afternoon, but before revising her will she went for coffee at Woodside Cottage, and the two women pooled their new information.

  “What seems to be happening,” said Jude, “is that the divergent elements of the case are drawing together. For a long time we couldn’t find a single connection between the world of Rick Hendry and the world of the Pillars of Sussex, but now we’re spoilt for choice.”

  “Yes. I can’t imagine what pressure was put on him to take on this auctioneering job.”

  “From what I know of Rick, it must have been pretty strong. He’s never been known for his charity works. Having long pockets is part of the image he’s so carefully built up. Deliberately refused to take part in the Live Aid recording, regularly refuses to have anything to do with Children in Need, Red Nose Day and all those other telethons. So the idea of him turning out for the Pillars of Sussex . . . somebody’s twisted his arm pretty hard.”

  “Suzy?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well, maybe you could ask her?”

  Jude grimaced. “She’s trying to freeze me out at the moment. Doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “Is that permanent?”

  The narrow thread of jealousy in Carole’s nature meant she couldn’t help hoping the answer would be yes, but Jude shrugged off the suggestion. “No, we’ve been friends for too long for anything like that to be permanent.”

  “Oh,” said Carole.

  “Anyway, you will talk to Donald Chew about the alibi he’s supposed to be providing for Kerry?”

  “I don’t quite know how easy it’ll be to bring the conversation round to that.”

  “Won’t be a problem, Carol
e. He’ll probably volunteer the information. I’m sure the Pillars of Sussex grapevine has been busy overnight. Bob Hartson will know that his daughter’s changed her story, and the damage limitation work will be well under way.”

  “All right. I’ll do my best.”

  “Meanwhile I’m going to recontact Wendy Fullerton . . . you know, Nigel Ackford’s on/off girlfriend. There may be something else she can tell me about his background.”

  “Might be useful, yes.” But Carole didn’t sound very convinced. “What we really still need is a timetable of the movements of everyone in the hotel that night.”

  “And in Suzy’s house as well.”

  “And don’t let’s forget the stable block. The staff quarters. How many potential murderers have we got in there?”

  “Me?” Jude suggested. “Kerry, Max . . . Ooh, and of course, Bob Hartson’s driver, Geoff.”

  “Is he in the frame then?”

  “Wish he was,” said Jude wistfully. “But Inspector Goodchild seemed to rule him out. Anyway, Geoff wouldn’t have had a key to the hotel and, according to Max, he was snoring away in his bedroom after the kitchen door was locked.”

  “Which was before Nigel Ackford was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Max could have been lying,” Carole suggested.

  “He could have been. He’s lied about plenty of other things. But we don’t know for sure, do we? Frustrating business, solving murder mysteries, isn’t it?”

  “Mm.” Carole picked up her handbag in a determined fashion. “Well, let’s see what I can find out this afternoon from my friendly local solicitor.”

  As soon as her neighbour had left, Jude did an hour of yoga. Her mind was too filled with permutations of the suspects at Hopwicke Country House Hotel, and of how Nigel Ackford might have died. The yoga, she knew, would empty and cleanse her, leaving a more effective brain in a more relaxed body.

  So she went through the comforting movements which were by now almost instinctive, and they left no spare concentration available for niggling thought. In the privacy of her bedroom her plump body posed and balanced with surprising grace, and at the end of the session she felt, as she had known she would, completely recharged.