Murder Between the Tides

by Campling Michael

  “Almost seven.”

  “Right. Let’s say quarter past. And if you’re there first, get me a pint.”

  “Fair enough. I dragged you down to a damp basement to look at a load of old junk today, so I reckon I owe you one. What do want, a pint of Tribute?”

  “Whatever looks good,” Alan said. “I trust you.”

  “I’m honoured. I must’ve graduated from the Hargreaves school of fine ale. Is there a certificate?”

  “Not until you swear to relinquish lager in all its forms.”

  Dan sucked air over his teeth. “Even if it’s artisanal?”

  “Especially if it’s artisanal, has the word craft on the label or comes in a flip-top bottle.”

  “I still have much to learn,” Dan said. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  “Right. And by the way, I found something out. Listen to this.”

  Dan frowned. A quiet hiss came from his phone, then he detected the faint strains of orchestral music.

  Alan came back on the line: “Did you get that?”

  “Yes. Classical music. Which room is it coming from? I can’t hear it from mine.”

  “It’s Tim Kendall. He’s in the next room, and I gather he’s fond of German opera. Very fond.”

  “Don’t tell me he joins in,” Dan said.

  “He sings both the male and the female parts, and he has a fair stab at the chorus too. Quite an accomplishment.”

  “And I thought you had a much better room than me.” Dan chortled. “I wouldn’t trade places for all the lager in the world.”

  “It’s not so bad. He’s in tune most of the time. And I’m oblivious to it while I’m working. In some ways, the background noise is quite motivational.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Dan said. “See you later.”

  He ended the call, then he headed for the bathroom. He only had a few minutes to get ready, but that was long enough to smarten himself up. As well as Daphne, he was hoping to bump into Roz, and he may as well try to make a good impression. When he’d last spoken to Roz, he’d been crass and insensitive, and Alan was right, he owed her an apology; he had to hope she’d hear him out.

  He hadn’t meant to upset her, but Roz had plainly taken his words to heart. He’d grasped that she was a highly intelligent woman and an independent spirit, but he’d totally misjudged her and made a fool of himself into the bargain. I should’ve been more aware, Dan told himself. I can’t believe I was so stupid.

  Dan washed and dried his face then decided it was time for a clean shirt. In the bedroom, he sorted through the meagre selection hanging in the wardrobe and selected his white Brooks Brothers cotton shirt. He changed quickly, and as he buttoned his cuffs, his mind went back to Roz. It was odd that he’d misread her so completely. That wasn’t like him. It wasn’t like him at all.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sitting in the hotel’s restaurant, Dan pushed a pint of beer across the table to Alan.

  “It’s Doom Bar,” Dan said, then he sat back to await the verdict.

  “Thanks.” Alan examined his pint, holding it up to the light before taking a sip. But his expression gave nothing away.

  “Well?”

  “Good choice. I’ve had it before, but not for a while. It’s like meeting an old friend.”

  “I’m having the same.” Dan sampled his pint, enjoying the aromatic bitterness of the hops. “Weird name. I hope it’s not an omen of the evening to come.”

  “It’s named after a sandbar. A notorious place for wrecks, so I believe.” Alan smacked his lips. “Mind you, it’s a bit moreish, so the name could easily turn out to be prophetic in the morning.”

  A young man approached the table, a notebook in his hand and an expectant gleam in his eye. “Good evening. Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes,” Dan said. “I’d like the grilled fillet of sea bream, but could you make sure it’s cooked without butter or cream?”

  “Certainly, sir. If you have any allergies, please let me know and I’ll check for you.”

  Dan smiled. “Thank you. It’s dairy products that I need to avoid.”

  “No problem. Although thinking about it, the bream usually comes with creamed potatoes. Can I offer you a substitute?”

  “Chips?” Dan asked hopefully. “Unless they’re cooked in animal fat.”

  “Rapeseed oil,” the waiter said. “Is that okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  “And I’ll have the cod and chips with minted peas,” Alan said. “Nice and simple.” He plucked Dan’s menu from the table, then passed it, along with his own, to the waiter.

  “Thank you, sir.” The waiter gave them an appraising look then hurried away.

  “I know people have allergies and that’s no laughing matter,” Alan began, “but I remember when you could walk into a restaurant and order what you wanted without all this fuss. A meal should be a relaxing thing, but it’s been turned into a game of twenty questions.”

  “Times change,” Dan said. “People like to know what’s in their food and where it comes from. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “There is if it makes everyone obsess over every mouthful. All that stress and anxiety, it can’t be good for you.”

  “This, coming from a man who rejects lager on the grounds that it’s untrustworthy.”

  “Touché,” Alan said. “I’ll give you that one.”

  They paused to enjoy a few mouthfuls of beer, then Dan turned to survey the room. “There’s no sign of Daphne. Perhaps she’s working in the kitchen.”

  “She’s probably poisoning your dinner as we speak. You might be getting too close to the truth. You’ll have to be eliminated.” Alan chortled. “You should see your face. Priceless.”

  Dan joined in the laughter. “So, how was your friendly neighbourhood opera singer? Still performing?”

  “He was in fine voice when I came down. At least, he was trying. You’d have to give him full marks for effort.”

  “You should have a word with him,” Dan said. “I’m sure he’d stop if you asked him. Tim came across as nice enough.”

  Alan shrugged. “Let him have his fun. He’s not doing me any harm.”

  “I’m not sure I’d be so tolerant. You’re a very patient man.”

  “It comes in handy now and then.” Alan glanced across the room. “Oh, I didn’t notice Brian sitting over there.”

  “He came in just before you. He said hello, but I think he wants to be alone.”

  Brian was occupying a small table near the wall. He sipped from a large glass of red wine without looking away from the book he was reading: an old hardback with gold lettering on a faded blue cover.

  “He said there’s a hard frost,” Dan added. “The pavements are quite treacherous, apparently.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Alan said. “I looked out when I closed the blinds, and the sky was crystal clear, but there was a halo around the moon. They say that means snow.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale. Or should that be, old partners’ tale?”

  “It doesn’t have the same ring to it. We’ll have to call it a superstition and leave it at that.”

  They chatted for a while, but after quarter of an hour or so, they lapsed into companionable silence, sipping their drinks, each content to be alone with their thoughts.

  This beer’s going to my head, Dan decided. I need to eat. Checking the other tables, he tried to figure out which customers had ordered before them, and how many of them had already been served. But before he could come to a firm conclusion, the kitchen door swung open. Briefly, he hoped Daphne might emerge, but instead, their waiter made his way through the door, a heaped plate in each hand.

  “I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Dan said, “but I can spy some chips. This might be for us.”

  “Excellent.” Alan grinned, craning his neck to see. But the waiter halted in the middle of the restaurant, his brow furrowed and his gaze fixed on something across the room.

  Dan turn
ed in his seat. A lone man stood in the centre of the restaurant’s main entrance. He wore a smart Berghaus coat, but his grey trousers were soaked from the ankle to the knee. The man ran his hand through his dark hair, restoring his neat side parting. Then, keeping his expression blank, he scanned the room. He was looking for someone, but not in the way that one friend might search for another. His stare was cold and hard; the look of a professional assessing the scene.

  Dan lowered his voice and, catching Alan’s eye, he said, “Police. I’d put money on it.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against you,” Alan whispered. “It must be something to do with Edward. I hope he’s all right.”

  As if hearing them, the man’s head snapped around, his gaze sliding from Alan to Dan. His expression didn’t change, but he began walking toward them, his stride measured.

  At the same time, the waiter overcame his surprise, hurrying forward to meet the new arrival. “Sir? Can I help you? Do you have a reservation?”

  The man barely glanced at the waiter. “No. I’m Detective Sergeant Firth. Devon and Cornwall Police. I’m looking for anyone who knew a man called Dominic Rudge.”

  “Knew?” Dan said. “We know Dominic. Has something happened to him?”

  DS Firth pulled a small wallet from his pocket and presented his warrant card. “I understand that Mr Rudge was here with some sort of writing group. Are either of you gentlemen in that group?”

  “I am,” Alan replied. “Is everything all right?”

  “I need a word,” Firth said. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping into another room for a few minutes, that would be most helpful.”

  “I’d better come too.” Dan stood, returning Firth’s stare. “I may have some information that could be of use to your enquiry.”

  “No one said anything about an enquiry,” Firth replied. “Your name, sir?”

  “Daniel Corrigan. I was employed by Edward Hatcher, the man who disappeared.”

  “I’m aware of the report on a missing person, Mr Corrigan, but I’m here in relation to Mr Rudge.”

  “Even so, I might be able to help,” Dan said.

  “All right.” Firth gestured toward the door. “Let’s go through. There’s a room we can use.”

  “But, what about these?” The waiter indicated the plates he was carrying.

  “Could you keep them warm for us?” Alan asked. “We’ll be back soon. I hope.”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Alan looked longingly at the pile of golden chips on his plate, then he nodded to DS Firth. “Let’s go.”

  Firth led them through the lobby to a wide doorway, and opening one of the double doors, he ushered them inside.

  The room was probably used for private functions, but the tables and chairs had been stacked and pushed against the walls, revealing an expanse of brightly patterned carpet.

  Firth plucked a couple of chairs from the nearest stack and arranged them next to each other, then he added a seat for himself. “Please, sit down. This shouldn’t take too long.”

  Dan and Alan sat uncomfortably, their hands in their laps, while Firth recorded their names, addresses and contact details in his pocketbook.

  “Mr Hargreaves,” Firth said, “how would you describe your relationship with Mr Rudge?”

  “Reasonably friendly. I didn’t know him well, but we got along. Dominic organises these writing retreats every year, and I usually attend. I’d describe him as a professional acquaintance.”

  “I only met him on Monday,” Dan put in. “But my first impressions were that he was once married, but now he lives alone. Divorced rather than separated. He’s short of money, but he’s held back by his refusal to let go of the past.”

  Firth narrowed his eyes. “You said you only just met the other day. Did he tell you all this?”

  “No, but it was obvious to me. You can tell a great deal by the clothes people wear, their choice of words, the way they deal with others. Dominic had success once. He carries around a laptop that, in its day, was top of its class. But it’s due for the scrapheap. I’m surprised it still works. But that’s not all he’s clinging on to. He’s still dining out on past glories, or trying to, but they don’t bring him enough to live on. There’s a small hole in the front of his jacket, and it looks like moth damage. He knows it’s there — he keeps holding his hand in front of it, trying to cover it up — but he hasn’t had it repaired or bought a new one. All his clothes are looking a little jaded.”

  “You’re right about him being divorced,” Alan said. “How did you know?”

  Dan hesitated. “Have you seen the way he looks at women? There’s something disturbing about it, something hungry and hateful at the same time.”

  “You might have something there.” Alan chewed on his lower lip. “I saw him coming out of Lucille’s room, and I knew something wasn’t right. He gave me the creeps, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Thinking back, it was just as you say. That look in his eyes…”

  Firth pursed his lips as he consulted his notebook. “Lucille. I don’t have a guest by that name.”

  “Her surname is Blanchette,” Alan said.

  Firth frowned. “No. Could she have registered under another name?”

  “It could be a pen name,” Alan replied, “but I’ve always thought Lucille was her real name.”

  “Could you describe her, sir?”

  “Twenties, petite, short hair, Afro-Caribbean.”

  Firth made a note. “Right. Let’s get back to Mr Rudge. When did you last see him?”

  “It was probably around eleven o’clock this morning,” Alan replied. “He was coming from Lucille’s room. Whatever her real name is, her room is on the same floor as mine.”

  “And I saw him a couple of hours before that,” Dan said. “He’d called a meeting to let everyone know what was happening about Edward Hatcher. Which, as it turned out, was precious little because the police hadn’t taken it seriously. Perhaps now that someone else is in some kind of trouble, there’ll be a change in the official attitude.”

  Firth remained impassive, but Dan saw the way his nostrils flared.

  “At this point,” Firth began, “I should inform you that Mr Rudge was found a short while ago, and sadly, he is deceased.”

  Alan gasped, and Dan sat very still, staring at the policeman. “What happened?”

  “We’re doing our best to piece that together, but I can tell you that just before seven o’clock this evening, Mr Rudge was found on a beach nearby, and he’d sustained injuries consistent with a fall.”

  “Do you think he might’ve… done it deliberately?” Alan asked, his voice faint. “Maybe, with Edward going missing, it put the idea into his head.”

  “That’s unlikely,” Firth said. “Mr Rudge’s hands were tied behind his back. We’re treating his death as suspicious, and I fully expect that this will become a murder enquiry.”

  “My God!” Alan murmured. “Someone pushed him off a cliff. That’s… I don’t know what to say.”

  Alan paled, and Dan said, “Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?”

  “Something stronger,” Alan replied. “I’ve never fainted in my life, but I don’t feel too good.”

  “You need to eat something.” Dan turned to Firth. “Is there anything else or can we go?”

  “You’re free to leave. We’ll be in touch, but if you think of anything that might help us to establish Mr Rudge’s movements during the day, please contact me.” Firth swapped his notebook for a business card and, when he offered the card, Dan took it.

  “We’ll talk again soon,” Firth went on. “My colleagues are already speaking to the other guests, but we often need to follow things up, so we’ll give you a call.”

  “Right,” Alan said. “Can we leave the hotel? Can we go home if we want to?”

  Firth considered this for a second. “The short answer is yes, but if you and Mr Rudge’s associates could stay until, say, tomorrow evening, it might be more convenient for
all concerned.”

  “That’s no problem,” Dan said.

  “Good. Thank you. I’ll let you get back to your dinner.” Firth stood, and Dan and Alan followed suit.

  But as Firth made to leave, Dan said, “What did they use?”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  “To tie Dominic’s hands,” Dan replied. “You didn’t say, but what did they use?”

  Firth narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s significant. It’s the weapon, isn’t it. If Dominic had simply been pushed, he might’ve fought back or managed to save himself. But his hands were tied, and that’s what makes this a deliberate murder. Planned. Cold blooded.” Dan locked eyes with Firth. “The murderer had one choice to make: how to tie Dominic’s hands. That decision is critical, and in the murderer’s mind, that makes it significant.”

  “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you’d be wrong,” Firth replied, a note of anger creeping into his voice. “Most murders are simple: brutal, but simple nevertheless. It’s a crime committed by people who are vicious, mean and ignorant. They’re too lazy to work for what they want, but when they see an opportunity, they take it, using whatever comes to hand. And generally, they’re too stupid to notice they’re on CCTV the whole time.”

  “But in this case, I’m right, aren’t I?” Dan said.

  Reluctantly, Firth nodded. “He was tied with some kind of ribbon.”

  “Like a decorative thing?” Alan asked.

  “No. We think it came from an old-fashioned typewriter.”

  “The one from the basement,” Dan blurted. “The ribbon was missing.” He moved closer to Firth. “There’s an old typewriter in a storeroom downstairs. Matthew, the receptionist, can show you. The ribbon was missing. That must be where it came from.”

  “We’ll look into it. Did either of you touch this typewriter?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dan said. “But…” he glanced at Alan.

  “There were two, and I touched both of them,” Alan admitted. “Sorry. I had no idea…”

  Firth allowed himself a small sigh. “We’ll need you to come over to HQ at Bodmin so we can take your fingerprints. That way, we can eliminate your prints and see what’s left. I’ll need both of you. It’s about a thirty-minute drive from here.”