Murder Between the Tides

by Campling Michael

  Edward inclined his head in acknowledgement. “That is correct.”

  “Of course! You’re here for the writers’ group.”

  “Once again, Matthew, you’ve hit the nail on the head. Now, perhaps you would be kind enough to bring my luggage inside.”

  “Be right with you. I’m just activating your keycard.” Matthew began typing on the computer’s keyboard, his fingers jabbing inexpertly at the keys. “Just one minute.” Matthew’s face fell. “This machine is taking its time, but it won’t be long. Probably.” He pushed the keyboard aside and smiled at Edward. “So, what kind of books have you written? Anything I might have read?”

  Edward’s expression froze. “That’s hard to say,” he began, but before he could explain further, a booming voice rang out across the lobby.

  “Max Cardew!”

  Edward and Matthew gazed at the man who’d called out: an imposing figure marching toward them from the entrance, a sense of authority in his every step.

  “You’re Max Cardew?” Matthew asked, his voice hoarse with suppressed excitement. “I love your books. The wife likes them too. Even my kids read your stuff, and they never pick up a book otherwise. We must have read everything you’ve ever done. And that series on the telly was fantastic.” Matthew licked his lips. “Is it true what they say about The Seventh Cipher? Are they going to make it into a film?”

  The new arrival let out a bellow of laughter as he joined them at the reception desk, then he gestured toward Edward. “You’ll have to ask my friend here. He writes under the name Max Cardew, not I.”

  Matthew frowned at Edward. “But you don’t look anything like him. I mean, I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but this gentleman is pulling my leg, isn’t he? Because, as I say, we’ve got all the Max Cardew books at home, and the photo on the back—”

  “Was taken some time ago,” Edward said. “You have to remember that I’ve been writing for many years, and my publicist insists that I keep the same photograph. It’s a question of branding, apparently.” Edward recovered his composure. “But thank you for your kind words about my work. If you’d like me to sign any of your books, please do bring them along. I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Right,” Matthew said. “Thanks. I might do that.”

  Edward cast a sidelong glance at the man who stood beside him. “Nice to see you again, Brian. I didn’t know you were joining us this week.”

  “Yes, I checked in last night. I wanted to get a feel for the place, get my feet under the table.”

  “I see. I hope this means that your book sales have taken an upturn. I was sorry to hear that you parted ways with your publisher.” Then, to Matthew, Edward said, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the famous Dr Brian Coyle. His books made quite a splash when they came out. Tell me, Brian, was it three years ago or four?”

  “Five,” Brian replied from between clenched teeth. “But I’ve got a whole new series coming out. This one’s going to be great. It’ll blow the roof off the bestseller charts, you’ll see.”

  “Ah, that is good news. You’ve found another publisher?”

  “Not yet. Actually, I’m thinking of going independent. I can take care of the whole thing myself. It’s the way forward.”

  “Self-publishing. Interesting.” Edward favoured him with a benevolent smile. “Good luck with that, Brian. And I mean that sincerely. I hope it works out for you.”

  Brian watched Edward carefully as though waiting for the other boot to drop, but finally he nodded. “Thanks, Edward. I appreciate it.” He hesitated. “And when I came in, I wasn’t laughing at you. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Edward said. “I’m very aware that I don’t live up to my pen name’s glamorous image, but there we are. We work with what we have.”

  “Very true.” Brian chortled quietly. “Still, all those years in intelligence — your old career gives you a certain aura of mystique. That kind of authenticity is gold dust. I can’t compete with that.”

  Edward tapped the side of his nose. “Hush, hush, old chap. You know I never talk about those days.”

  “And that only adds to your image. The quiet man with a secret past. I’ve got to hand it to you, you’ve got it all worked out.” Brian gestured at the reception desk. “I’ll leave you to get checked in. I’ve been out for a bracing walk along the clifftops, and I’m ready for a coffee.”

  Matthew, who’d been turning his head to follow their conversation, was suddenly roused into action. He grabbed his computer’s keyboard and typed with renewed vigour. “Right. Before I get your key, Mr Hatcher, I just wanted to check something with your friend if that’s all right.”

  “Be my guest,” Edward replied.

  “Thank you, sir. Dr Coyle, is it? I have you down on my system as Mr Coyle. Is that incorrect?”

  “Yes. I prefer to go by my proper title. And before you ask, no, I’m not a medical doctor. I have a PhD.”

  “In that case, I need to update the system.” Matthew scowled at the screen. “I’ll do it later. Now, Mr Hatcher, you wanted a hand with your bags. I’ll fetch them in.”

  “Oh dear,” Brian said. “Edward, I hope those weren’t your cases I saw outside.”

  “Why?” Edward asked.

  Brian stifled a smile. “A small dog was passing by, a scruffy little terrier, and I’m afraid he cocked his leg against your suitcase.”

  Edward’s cheeks coloured. “What?”

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I’d have stopped the little brute, but I was too late. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Oh my God!” Edward pointed at Matthew. “This is your fault, you idiot! If you’d done your job properly, this wouldn’t have happened. If anything’s been damaged, I’ll expect full compensation.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses,” Edward snapped. “Just get out there and fetch my bags then bring them up to my room.”

  Matthew nodded unhappily. “Certainly, sir. I’ll see to it straight away.”

  Edward held out his hand. “Key.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Flustered, Matthew hunted through the items on his desk, his fingers made clumsy by his haste. At last, he produced a plastic keycard and slid it across the counter toward Edward. “You’re on the fifth floor, sir. The views from up there are fantastic. They’re our best rooms.”

  “Is there a lift?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It’s being renovated over the winter. But we’re very proud of our grand staircase. It’s an original feature.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Edward said. “And assuming I survive the ascent, where will I find my room?”

  “That’s easy, sir. Turn right as you leave the stairs, then head to the end of the corridor. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.” Edward scooped up the card, then he nodded to Brian. “Nice to see you again. I’m sure we’ll have time for a chat later.”

  “Definitely,” Brian said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Edward sent a stern glance at the beleaguered receptionist, then he strode toward the stairs. Not an auspicious start, he thought. But surely, things can only get better.

  MONDAY

  7 December

  CHAPTER 3

  Newquay

  In his room on the fifth floor of the Regent Hotel, Dan set his holdall on the floor and glanced around his room. As well as the double bed, which looked okay, there was a small desk and chair, a wall-mounted television and a narrow wardrobe, but that was pretty much it. He checked the bathroom; while it was small, it was clean and functional.

  Returning to the bedroom, he crossed to the window and pushed the slats of the vertical blind aside. The tall sash window let in plenty of light, but the view was uninspiring: a steady stream of traffic trundled past in both directions, and over the road an odd assortment of small shops was sandwiched between a supermarket and a pharmacy. Dan spotted a coffee shop, but it looked as though it was closed.

>   At this time of day? It was mid-morning, and a prime time to dispense cappuccinos to those in need of caffeine. But there was little in the way of passing trade: the hotel seemed to be some distance from the town centre, and precious few pedestrians graced the wintry pavements.

  Dan sat on the edge of the bed, pleased that the mattress was reasonably firm. Beside the bed there were four separate light switches, all of which looked as if they’d been added on separate occasions. Briefly, he experimented with the switches in various combinations, but discovered the purpose of only three of them.

  He cast his eye over the TV’s remote control, but it was unlikely to hold any surprises, and anyway it was time to go and explore.

  Alan’s room was only a little way along the corridor from Dan’s, but the contrast between the two bedrooms was stark. “Very posh,” Dan said, taking in the polished oak desk and the king-sized bed.

  “I had the same room last year, so I made sure to book it in plenty of time,” Alan replied. “Is your room okay?”

  “It’s fine. Shall we go out and grab a coffee, or do you have an official event to attend?”

  “Some of us are meeting for lunch in the restaurant downstairs. I’m free until then, so I’m sure we’ll be able to scare up a decent cup of something.”

  Downstairs, Alan halted at the entrance to the hotel’s bar. “This place is open, and there’s a distinct aroma of fresh coffee.”

  “I’m happy to give it a go,” Dan said. But when they stood at the bar, he frowned at the automated bean-to-cup coffee machine on the counter. “Maybe we should try somewhere else.”

  “Why trudge all over town looking for somewhere better?” Alan asked. “This will be fine, and the conservatory is nice. You get a great view of the sea.”

  Alan indicated an archway in the far wall, and when Dan peered through to the conservatory, he caught a glimpse of the sea, the winter sunlight catching the white-crested waves.

  “Why don’t you find a table?” Alan said. “I’ll get the coffees. I know what you want.”

  “Are you sure about that? Perhaps I might take a sudden fancy for a skinny soy latte with a shot of hazelnut syrup.”

  The barman appeared to take their order, and Alan said, “Two large Americanos, please. One black, and one with cold milk on the side.”

  “Certainly, sir,” the barman said. “Anything else?”

  “No thanks,” Dan said, then he offered Alan a smile. “You win. But I’ll pay for the coffees, and you can choose the table.”

  “Done.” Alan headed to the conservatory, and a couple of minutes later Dan found him relaxing on a sofa by the window, a slender woman with long red hair sitting at his side.

  Alan waved him over and he joined them, standing awkwardly to one side.

  “Roz, this is the friend I was telling you about,” Alan said. “Sit down, Dan. Make yourself comfortable. This is Roz Hammond. Roz is an old friend, and a very talented lady indeed.”

  Roz smiled and patted Alan gently on the arm, a multitude of colourful bangles rattling on her wrist. “You mustn’t flatter me, Alan, it’ll go to my head. But you’re so charming, I can’t help but forgive you.”

  Alan and Roz laughed at the same moment, and Dan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They’re bringing the coffees over, but it looks as though you two have a lot of catching up to do, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Roz said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’ve been dying to meet the infamous Daniel Corrigan. Alan’s told me all about your adventures, and I want to see if you live up to the legend.”

  A young woman arrived bearing a tray of drinks. “Two Americanos, one with milk?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Alan said.

  The drinks were placed on the low table, and the decision was taken from Dan’s hands; he had to stay. He took an armchair facing Alan and Roz, and as he took an experimental sip of his coffee, Roz leaned forward, focusing her attention on him. And Dan couldn’t look away.

  Roz had the kind of natural beauty that came from fresh air and clean living. Dressed in a unique style, she wore an eclectic mix of flowing fabrics in bold patterns. Her silky scarf and dangly enamelled earrings were a dazzling shade of turquoise, and the colour emphasised the deep blue of her eyes.

  There was something otherworldly about Roz, and although her voice was soft, Dan found himself listening with rapt attention. “So, Dan, tell me about you. What makes you tick?”

  Dan’s expression froze. “I’m not sure how to answer that. Who could?”

  “What do you mean?” Roz asked.

  “It seems to me that we all have our own ideas about what we’re like as individuals, but we can never see ourselves as others see us.”

  Roz held his gaze. “So when you look at me, what do you see?”

  “Well, if I had to guess, I’d say that you’re an artist, or rather, an illustrator. You work with children. You’re from somewhere in the London area, but you now live in Cornwall. You’re a local. You enjoy walking, but you cycled here today. You cycle regularly, partly for the exercise, but mainly out of concern for the environment.”

  “How did you know all that?” Roz turned to Alan. “Have you told him about me already?”

  Alan chuckled. “Not at all. I knew you were coming today, but I haven’t mentioned you to Dan. It’s just a knack that he has.”

  “It’s not that difficult,” Dan said. “You have some small ink stains on your fingers, and judging by the bright colours, it seemed likely you’re an illustrator. Being from London myself, I recognised the cadence in your voice, but your accent has changed, and your vowels have taken on a distinctly Cornish note. Your shoes are sturdy, waterproof and built for walking, but I think you cycled here this morning. There’s a tiny mark on your forehead that looks like the impression left by a cycling helmet. Apart from your shoes, your clothes are not from high street stores, and they’re all made from natural fibres. I’d say they were fair trade cotton and, taken together, your concern for the environment is fairly obvious.”

  Roz stared at him. “But how did you know I worked with children?”

  “That’s harder to explain,” Dan said. “There’s something in your manner and in the disarming way you ask such frank questions. Most adults shy away from saying anything too personal when they first meet someone, but children are refreshingly honest when it comes to finding things out. When they want to know something, they simply ask, and it seemed to me that you may have picked up the habit from working with children regularly.”

  “I’m extremely tempted to tell you that I’m an accountant from Edinburgh and I’ve never ridden a bike in my life,” Roz said. “But the truth is, you’re pretty close. You didn’t guess that I practise tai chi every morning as the sun rises, but then, how could you know? And, of course, you missed out the important detail that as well as being an illustrator, I’m a writer.”

  “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Dan replied. “After all, you’re at a writers’ retreat. Why else would you be here?”

  An awkward silence fell over the group, but then Roz laughed, leaning back in her seat and chuckling, her hand on her stomach. “I can see that we’ll all have to be on our best behaviour or you’ll find us out, Dan.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Alan said. “You’re one of the kindest people I know, Roz.”

  Roz laid her hand on Alan’s arm. “That’s very sweet of you.”

  “I mean it. The work you do in schools is an inspiration. I was a teacher myself, remember, and I know that what you do makes a real difference.”

  “I enjoy it,” Roz said. “I wish I could say that it pays the bills, but with all the cuts these days, there isn’t enough money to go around. And I don’t like to charge too much or the schools won’t be able to afford it.”

  “It’s a damned shame. There should be proper funding.” Alan lowered his voice. “Speaking of money, I was sorry to hear about that business
with the Max Cardew books. Did you ever get paid properly for that?”

  Roz shook her head. “I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I’ve stopped chasing them. It was all my fault. I should have looked at the contract more carefully.” She hesitated. “Did you know that he’s here this week?”

  “Yes, I saw Edward’s name on the list.”

  “Max Cardew himself,” Roz said.

  “You’ve lost me,” Dan admitted. “Who are you talking about, someone called Max or someone called Edward?”

  “They’re one and the same,” Alan explained. “Max Cardew is the pen name of a man called Edward Hatcher. His books are very popular and they’ve even been made into a TV series. A few years ago, Roz did some great work for him, creating character art for his book covers, but she was never properly paid.”

  “They used my work on all kinds of merchandise,” Roz said. “Pencil cases, posters, you name it. I did get some money, but the publishers, not to put too fine a point on it, screwed me over. For a while, I hired a lawyer to fight for my rights, but now the publishers have dropped all my artwork. They offered me a small lump sum if I agreed to draw a line under the whole thing. That’s when I gave in.”

  “That’s a shame,” Dan said. “It must have been very upsetting for you.”

  Roz shrugged. “I’ve let it go. Since the TV series came out, everything was rebranded using the actors from the show, so as far as I’m concerned the whole affair is over. I don’t hold grudges.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Alan said, “and he shall appear.” He nodded toward the doorway, and Dan turned to see a smartly dressed man in his late fifties marching into the conservatory, scanning the room as if searching for someone. His gaze lit on Roz and his step faltered, but he carried on walking toward them, a broad smile plastered across his face.

  “Roz!” he called out. “How lovely to see you. I’d heard that you were joining us, and I wanted to say personally how sorry I am about the way my publishers treated you. I did my best to intercede on your behalf, but the bean counters wouldn’t listen to me. The only thing they care about is profit.”