Road Closed

by Leigh Russell

  ‘You all right, gov?’

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ the receptionist said. Geraldine brushed past the sergeant and displayed her identity card.

  ‘We’re checking the arrival and departure dates for a Mrs Sophie Cliff who stayed here earlier in the week.’

  The girl entered the name and scanned her screen. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Mrs Cliff stayed here this week.’ She checked her screen again. ‘She arrived on Saturday morning and checked out on Tuesday after breakfast.’ Although she had been on the desk that week she could tell them little about Mrs Cliff’s movements. ‘She stayed in room two hundred and thirteen. There’s someone else in two hundred and thirteen now. I don’t think you can go in.’ She looked worried. ‘But I do remember the woman from two thirteen, now I come to think of it, because she was a bit…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, first of all when she arrived she said she had no idea how long she’d be staying. And she was – scruffy.’ The girl hesitated and lowered her voice. Geraldine stepped closer. ‘She looked – well, as though she needed a shower, if you know what I mean. And she had this vague look, as though she wasn’t all there. To be honest, she gave me the creeps. I think she went out walking during the day,’ she added, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Walking?’

  ‘Most of our guests play golf or walk on the cliff path.’ She looked up as a group of men in golfing gear approached the desk. ‘Excuse me, I’ll just be –’

  ‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ Geraldine interrupted her.

  An earnest hotel manager took them into his office. He looked about twenty and seemed flustered by Geraldine’s questions.

  ‘We haven’t had any problems with guests before,’ he apologised, as though he was somehow responsible for the police enquiry.

  The manager confirmed that Mrs Cliff had eaten breakfast in the dining room on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday mornings. She had eaten there on Saturday, Sunday and Monday at seven in the evening.

  ‘Can you be sure about those times?’

  The manager checked his database. ‘Just a minute, yes, here it is. She checked into the dining room on Saturday, Sunday and,’ he clicked the mouse, ‘Monday evenings at seven exactly. Guests often eat early when they’ve been out walking all day. The views from the cliff tops here are spectacular.’

  ‘Can you tell us how long she stayed in the dining room in the evenings?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. We sign guests into the dining room, for billing purposes, but we don’t record what time they leave. I could ask the waiting staff, but I don’t suppose they’d remember.’

  ‘Where might she have gone after the dining room?’ Peterson asked.

  ‘She might have gone to the bar area, or to her room. Our rooms are very well appointed –’

  ‘Do you have CCTV in the car park?’ Geraldine interrupted his spiel. He nodded. ‘Do you still have the footage from Saturday and Monday evenings?’

  The manager drummed his fingers on his desk top. ‘We keep it for thirty days, but your colleague’s already asked about that. He took it away with him so I suppose it’s still at the local police station. You could check with him.’

  They took a statement from the manager. He sighed when they asked to be shown along the corridor on the second floor. He led the way, glancing at his watch but polite enough. Room two hundred and thirteen was situated at the end of a long corridor, opposite the lift.

  ‘How easy would it be for a guest to leave the building without being seen?’

  The manager told them it was impossible for anyone to enter or leave the building unobserved. ‘Our security system is second to none.’ The stairs and lift both led down to the entry hall, in full view of the reception desk and the porter, who doubled as a security guard. Access to the foyer and the entrance were covered by CCTV cameras.

  ‘Is there any other means of access to the building, other than the lift or the stairs?’

  ‘Only the staff lift, which is protected by a PIN code. All the fire exits are linked to the main alarm system, we have CCTV cameras at the back exit, and all the windows on the ground floor are kept locked. The insurance company insist on it,’ he added. ‘We’re a very safe place to stay. We never have any problems with intruders. You can check our insurance records.’

  ‘So there’s no way anyone could leave or return to the building unseen?’ Peterson asked again when they were back in the manager’s office.

  The manager shook his head. ‘It’s quite impossible. Unless…’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘We do get busy when there’s a function on.’ He checked his screen again. ‘Saturday was busy. It usually is. A wedding party. We had an influx of guests at around eight. The hall was heaving. But the ballroom’s downstairs and we watch the stairs and lift carefully. No one could have gone up to the rooms without being seen. The porters do lift duty and check guests’ room numbers, for security purposes.’

  ‘But someone could have left the building unobserved in the melee?’ Geraldine persisted.

  ‘Of course. There’s no reason why they couldn’t have done so. It was a function. People are always free to go in and out downstairs. But no one can go up to the rooms without being seen.’

  ‘But she’d have had to get back in again,’ Peterson pointed out. ‘We know she came downstairs to get to breakfast in the morning. How did she get back upstairs without being seen?’

  ‘What time did the guests leave?’

  ‘The function closed at midnight.’

  ‘So the hall would’ve been busy then?’

  The manager frowned. ‘Look, Inspector, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I can assure you our security measures are second to none,’ he repeated.

  ‘It’s possible Sophie Cliff could have got in and out of the building on Saturday evening without being seen,’ Peterson said as they went back to the foyer, ‘but what about Monday night? Local CID checked the CCTV and they didn’t see her or anyone like her using the lift or the stairs.’

  On their way out, Geraldine stopped to speak to a porter. ‘I wasn’t on duty on Monday,’ he said. ‘That would’ve been Bern. He’s not in today but he’ll be on duty tomorrow.’ Geraldine quizzed the old man for a while, but he couldn’t help. She wandered outside to think.

  Peterson went over to the desk and chatted to the receptionist. ‘What about keys?’ he asked. ‘Can you check when a room’s occupied through the electronic keys?’

  ‘No. Some hotels have that facility but our system’s not that sophisticated. We encourage guests to leave their keys at the desk when they go out, just in case we need to evacuate. The smoke alarms go off all the time. We had one go off only last week. We had to get everyone out, and of course it turned out to be a false alarm. We had to go along the corridors banging on doors in case anyone was in, because they don’t always think to leave their keys when they go out so we don’t know who’s in and who’s out. It happens all the time. Whenever a guest leaves the door of the shower room open, the steam sets off the smoke alarm. We put signs up in every room, please close the cubicle door, but they still do it. Some idiot leaves the door open and it’s everybody out.’ She pulled a face and smiled at the sergeant.

  ‘Did you evacuate the hotel on Monday evening?’

  ‘Yes, I think we did, but only for a few minutes. We only had half the guests out. The shower had been turned off and we sorted it out pretty quickly. Sometimes the guest’s in the shower, and then they don’t always hear the alarm –’

  ‘Is it possible for you to tell us which room the alarm was set off from?’

  The girl checked her screen, typing rapidly. ‘Room two hundred and thirteen. It’s on the second floor. Oh, that’s where that woman you were asking about was staying. How’s that for a funny coincidence.’ She looked up, but the sergeant was already running out of the building, looking for Geraldine.

  By now she had walked to the edge of the patio and was gazing out past the cliff top
across a grey ocean, wondering what lay below the ruffled surface. The clouds broke, letting through a shaft of winter sunlight. Brilliant dots flickered on the water far below reminding Geraldine of the blue ocean she had seen in Dubrovnik.

  57

  Suspicion

  Geraldine drove fast on the way back. It took just over an hour.

  ‘At night you could do it in forty minutes,’ she said as they reached the outskirts of Harchester. Peterson grunted. He had been unusually quiet on the journey back as though reluctant to return home. The closer they got, the more morose he became. Geraldine glanced across at him. ‘Is everything all right?’ He grunted again but didn’t answer. ‘Is it Bev?’ she hazarded and was rewarded with a slightly more articulate noise. It could have been, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ he answered gruffly adding, after a pause, ‘Bev’s left me.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ It was a clumsy question, but she didn’t know what else to say. She liked Ian Peterson and felt genuine sympathy for his misery. At the same time, she was aware that her friendly impulse wasn’t entirely unselfish. Peterson seemed to have no problem attracting women. He would soon find another girlfriend. Geraldine was the one in need of friendship.

  ‘She’s left me. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Left you?’

  ‘We had a row, she packed a bag. She left.’ They drove on in silence. ‘Tell you what, gov,’ Peterson said as they pulled into the station car park. ‘How about that drink?’ Geraldine smiled, relieved. ‘On one condition,’ he added.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Two conditions, actually. We don’t talk about the case and we don’t mention Bev.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘And you did say the first round’s on you?’ They both laughed.

  ‘So, I’ve got to watch what I say,’ Geraldine grinned as she handed the sergeant a pint in the pub over the road to the police station. ‘Here you are. Drown your sorrows.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘I haven’t had time to mope about Bev all day.’ Geraldine smiled. Peterson finished his pint and stood up.

  ‘Just a half,’ Geraldine told him but he shook his head. ‘I get it. Now you’ve had a pint off me, you’re leaving,’ she laughed. ‘No time for –’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ he interrupted her. ‘They’ll all be piling in here soon and… I just thought it might be nice to talk about something else for a change. Get away from….’ he rolled his eyes around the bar, ‘all this. Just for an hour or so.’ Geraldine stood up and reached for her bag.

  They found a quiet pub along the river on the other side of the motorway, past Ashford, where the river took a meander away from the railway line.

  ‘This is nice,’ Peterson said. He leaned on the rail and looked out over the water. It was a clear night. The river rippled faintly below them in the moonlight. Geraldine shivered. ‘Want to go inside?’ he asked. She smiled at his acuteness.

  ‘I’m fine out here.’ And she was.

  After a while they went in. Cheered by the warmth of the pub, Geraldine relaxed. Their easy chat drifted back to their colleagues. Avoiding any mention of the case, they gossiped inconsequentially.

  ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know Polly’s got a crush on you?’

  Peterson turned away and coughed to hide his embarrassment. Geraldine laughed. ‘And what about you and the DCI?’ he asked. Although annoyed at being the subject of gossip, Geraldine didn’t mind her name being linked with the DCI; she was flattered.

  The evening passed pleasantly. Oddly enough, although the sergeant knew all about the case, Geraldine found she could forget about it when talking to him. He was an amusing companion, and she liked him.

  ‘You gossip like a girl,’ she told him and he grinned sheepishly. She could tell he was pleased.

  ‘I don’t usually,’ he assured her. ‘Only with you.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  After dropping the sergeant back at the station, Geraldine went home to type up her report. She poured herself a large glass of wine before sitting down to work. The image of an old man drinking alone in a corner of a pub crossed her mind. She hesitated before pouring her wine down the kitchen sink. The she brewed a pot of coffee.

  Next morning she sat at her desk wondering if Sophie Cliff could have paid someone else to assault Barker but the bungled attacks weren’t the work of a professional. As she tussled with possibilities, which grew more far fetched with each new thought, the duty sergeant tapped on her door. The DCI was on his way.

  ‘We’ve found Bert Cartwright.’ Ryder looked grim. ‘He’s been in the canal for about five days.’

  ‘The body’s been in the water all this time, without anyone seeing it?’ someone asked.

  ‘The divers brought him up with a bag of bricks tied round his neck. Whoever lifted it was strong. It seems unlikely Cartwright could have done that by himself.’ There was a long pause.

  ‘Bang goes any help Cartwright could have given us,’ Peterson said. They had been hoping Cartwright had gone into hiding out of fear, because he had information on Martin. They had done their best to find the old man before Martin did. And all the while, he had been lying at the bottom of the canal.

  ‘Maybe the PM will tell us something,’ the DCI said. He didn’t sound optimistic. ‘Now, what else have we got?’

  Geraldine sketched out her theory. ‘Sophie Cliff booked into the Excelsior Hotel in Sandmouth for an open ended visit, stayed there until she’d achieved what she was there to do, then checked out on Tuesday morning, believing Raymond Barker had died in the fire she’d started in his house the previous evening. She could’ve slipped out under cover of a wedding party at around eight on Saturday evening, discovered Barker was in the pub, waited and attacked him on his way home at around eleven, returned to the hotel and slipped back in as all the guests were leaving.’

  ‘A lucky coincidence,’ the DCI remarked.

  ‘Not really, sir. It would’ve been easy enough for her to have checked what time the function finished so she’d know what time to return. It just fell right that she found Barker alone. She could’ve been stalking him, waiting for her chance. Only he didn’t die. She must’ve found out about that in the paper. Or she could have phoned the hospital. So she tried again. On Monday she set off an evacuation of guests from the hotel. She could’ve slipped up to her room after a quick dinner, set off the alarm at seven thirty, turned off the shower, and left the hotel in all the confusion of the alarm. Suppose she left at seven forty, she’d be back in Harchester at around eight twenty, just in time to see Martin arrive at the pub. Seeing Barker wasn’t with him, she could have broken into the house, found Barker, started the fire and left at eight thirty, to arrive back in the hotel at around nine fifteen. I daresay if we examine the footage, we might see her go back in although it’s impossible to identify some of the guests, all bundled up in hats and scarves. It’s feasible she made the journeys, but we’re still left with the question of how she managed to get hold of a false licence.’

  ‘She could’ve used a stolen vehicle,’ Bennett said.

  ‘Or bought one,’ someone else suggested. They discussed the possibilities.

  ‘Perhaps she stole a car and it hasn’t been reported yet.’

  ‘The owner might be away.’

  ‘She could have borrowed a car.’

  ‘Or bought one. A cheap banger. A private sale.’

  ‘There’d be no record.’

  Geraldine was depressed by all the speculation. They were going round in circles. Sophie’s movements might be almost impossible to trace. Geraldine put forward her theory that the suspect had hired a car under a false name, and travelled in disguise. Even she had to agree it sounded far fetched.

  ‘Check out all reports of stolen vehicle
s,’ the DCI said. He looked thoughtful. ‘But if she was using a stolen vehicle…’

  The briefing broke up in an atmosphere of frustration. The optimism at the beginning of the case had faded rapidly. They were no closer to arresting the person responsible for Evelyn Green and Thomas Cliff’s deaths and since the investigation had opened Maggie Palmer and Bert Cartwright had been killed and someone had tried to murder Raymond Barker. All the records had been checked by constables, but Geraldine took copies of all the schedules from cab and car hire firms, stations and bus timetables, and known details of stolen vehicles, home with her. There were a lot of papers, but if there was anything to indicate how Sophie Cliff could have returned to Harchester undetected, she was determined to find it. There was always a possibility something had been overlooked.

  Having drawn a blank with Sophie Cliff, Geraldine looked at Callum Martin again. The whole case seemed to be unravelling, going nowhere. She was absorbed in trying to work out how they might crack Martin’s alibi when Craig phoned to discuss what they were going to do that evening. His cheerful voice jarred with her desperation. She answered more curtly than she had intended.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t spare the time right now.’

  ‘It’s Saturday night,’ he protested.

  ‘I’m sorry, my work’s no respecter of weekends. I’ve got some reports I must get through. We’re looking for a stolen car –’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. It really can’t.’ She explained that there was a killer on the loose and lives could be at risk. Her words sounded melodramatic. Craig would think she was making excuses.

  There was a brief pause before he offered to pick her up the next day for an early supper. Geraldine knew she would be working all day, but she agreed to spend the evening with him. Sunday was technically her day off. She had to see Craig if their relationship was to stand a chance. He already sounded as though he might be losing interest in her, if he had ever been seriously interested in her in the first place.

  ‘What time shall I pick you up? Let’s make it early. I know this really nice little pub by the river.’