Mitch ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed brown hair. ‘I know, and I got no proof, just this gut feeling that he’s either running some racket of his own or he’s getting a hefty rake-off for keeping his mouth shut about somebody else’s.’
‘You must have some reason for believing this.’
Mitch stood up, returned his empty coffee-cup to the tray and began pacing up and down. On the instant, the dogs raised their heads. When they realised their master was not going out they settled down again, but their eyes followed his every movement.
‘Heyshill Manor’s a luxury hotel in a popular part of the country,’ he began. ‘It’s aimed at the nobs – jet-setters, property dealers, wealthy foreign tourists, people who don’t have to worry about where the mortgage payments are coming from. So you’d expect to see plenty of Mercs and Jags in the car park, and the odd Roller and Bentley. But I got to wondering when I noticed the number of characters turning up in big Yankee cars, some of ’em with CD plates.’
‘Maybe they’d heard about the change of chef and come in search of good British grub?’ suggested Melissa, but there was no answering smile.
‘They were coming before that. And twice, when I happened to be in Reception when one of them turned up, I noticed that Kim made a point of calling Vic and introducing him. There was something about the way they greeted each other, like the first polite exchanges when you’re negotiating a deal. Nothing significant in itself, just the usual guff from Vic – “Hope you’ll enjoy your stay, the staff are at your service”, that sort of thing. He’d even take ’em up to their rooms himself.’
‘Well, if they were VIPs of some sort …’
For a second time, Mitch ran his fingers through his hair, twisting his head this way and that as if trying to shake out the words he needed. ‘There was more to it than that. I can’t explain any clearer. When you’ve done as many deals as I have, you get to know the drill – it’s almost like a ritual dance – shake hands, exchange small talk, size one another up, watch the body language. Those guys weren’t just there for a holiday, I’ll stake my life on it.’
His look challenged Melissa to make some reply, but she could only shake her head and he gave a grunt of exasperation.
‘Then there’s Vic’s own life style,’ he went on. ‘Flashy car, villa in Spain, membership of a snooty golf club, goes hunting with the local gentry – and have you noticed all that ice Kim wears?’ Each point was accompanied by a stabbing gesture with the right forefinger and Melissa found it easy to picture him in the chair at a business meeting, haranguing his directors, brushing aside objections. ‘I pay ’em well and so did the previous owner, but not enough to run to that lot.’ He lifted his hands and thrust his chin forward as if winding up a case against which there was no argument.
‘Could he be siphoning off some of the profits – the bar takings, for example?’
Mitch brushed aside the suggestion with a sweep of his arm. ‘Not big enough. Besides, our accountant’s been through the books with a toothcomb, checking against stock. No, it’s gotta be something on the side.’
‘But not necessarily illegal,’ Melissa pointed out.
‘Do me a favour! If it’s on the level, why all the secrecy?’ Mitch turned to look her straight in the face. The lines round his wide, mobile mouth had become hard and his blue eyes cold, laying bare the vein of ruthlessness that had driven him onwards and upwards from a street market in south-east London to the chairmanship of a multi-million pound corporation. ‘I’m not having one of my managers involved in shady deals,’ he snapped. ‘Mitchell Enterprises is a tightly run ship, it’s a clean ship, and that’s how it’s staying. Okay, so I can’t be behind everyone all of the time, but I keep as close a check as I can. I’ve built up a reputation for straight dealing and if I catch anyone on the fiddle, he’s out!’ He thrust his hands into his pockets and stood with his back to the fire, glowering down at Melissa as if challenging her to an argument on business ethics.
Deliberately, determined to show that she was not to be browbeaten, she put down her coffee-cup, leaned forward and caressed Khan’s head. He responded by sitting up and laying his black muzzle in her lap.
‘Has it occurred to you that Vic may have a private income?’ she said. ‘He’s quite a distinguished-looking chap; maybe he comes from a well-to-do family.’
‘Nah!’ Mitch dismissed the idea as if it were a fly not worth the effort of swatting. ‘If you’ve got that sort of bread, you don’t work as a hotel manager. In any case, don’t let the posh accent fool you. He comes from a working-class family, same as I do.’
‘How do you know that?’
With a suddenness that took her by surprise, his manner changed. His sense of humour came bubbling through the anger, bringing the familiar twinkle back to his eye. ‘Made a few enquiries, didn’t I? His Dad was a milkman and he grew up along the road from me in Walworth. The difference between us is, he put on a bit of la-di-da and the old school tie on his way up the ladder. I got further up, though.’ His smile radiated self-satisfaction.
Melissa smiled with him, but her brain was busy. ‘I suppose,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘Innocent Blood Avenged was simply a device for allowing Will to carry out a discreet investigation – find out whatever he could without arousing suspicion or frightening the horses.’
Mitch grinned. ‘In a manner of speaking, but it didn’t start like that. In the bar one night me and Chris saw this notice about the Stowbridge Players putting on some kinda revue. I said, “Why don’t I get them to do something to entertain the mob at my birthday knees-up?” and Chris said, “What a good idea.” That’s right, innit, Chris?’ He shot a glance towards the corner where his minder sat, silently nursing his coffee-cup and saucer.
‘Right,’ Chris agreed.
‘So Chris got in touch with Chloe, and Chloe got in touch with you, and that’s how it all started, right, Chris?’
‘Right.’
‘I’m beginning to understand,’ said Melissa. ‘When you saw my script and realised there was a detective in the cast, you hit on the idea of inviting a friend who was a retired policeman to play the part.’
Mitch’s expression of astonishment was comical. His mouth fell open and his eyebrows leapt towards his hairline. ‘How d’you know Will was an ex-copper?’
‘It crossed my mind when I first met him that he might have been in the force at some time.’
‘No kidding? What gave you that idea?’
‘A friend of mine is in the local CID and he has the same way of looking you straight in the eye that Will had.’ It was perfectly true so far as it went and she saw no particular point in adding that she had confirmation from another source.
Mitch nodded and gave a wistful half-smile. ‘Yeah, I know, like he could see the inside of your skull. When I was a kid and he caught me getting up to no good, he always knew if I was fibbing.’
‘You’ve known him a long time?’
‘All me life. Him and me Dad were best mates from their schooldays.’
‘So the scheme was that during rehearsals, when he wasn’t actually needed on stage, he could go off and chat up the staff, or maybe turn up early and wander round the grounds before it got dark, keeping his eyes and ears open to see what he could pick up.’
‘You got the idea.’
‘And you still made him go through with it, even when you realised he found acting such an ordeal?’
‘I never made him, honest.’ Mitch sat down opposite her and leaned forward, hands tightly clasped, his eyes fixed on hers, imploring her to believe him. ‘I wanted to drop the idea when I saw how it was churning him up. I told him, forget it and we’ll think of something else, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He never was one to give up, once he’d got his teeth into something. His manor took in parts of dockland and things can get pretty rough round there. He said no one was going to call Will Foley a wally for being scared of a bit of play-acting.’
‘He’d been in the force a long time, I
take it?’
‘Ten years on the beat, then moved over to the CID. He wasn’t flavour of the month with the local villains, I can tell you. A gang of ’em followed him one night when he was off duty and started to work him over. Me and me Dad saw it and pitched in to help him. He never forgot it.’
So that was what Will had meant when he told Dittany that he owed Mitch one. He had died while trying to repay the debt; Mitch had persuaded himself that he was partly to blame and was trying to expiate his guilt.
There was a short silence, during which she tried to think of some way of persuading him that, without even one piece of hard evidence to justify voicing his suspicions to the police, he should either hire a professional private investigator or let the matter drop. She wanted no part of it, could not in any case accept his reasons for suspecting Vic Bellamy. In running an hotel, as in any other business, it was the job of a manager to keep the customers happy. So far as she could see, the man was doing a good job.
Mitch had leaned back in his armchair, looking emotionally drained. Their eyes met; his said, as plainly as if he had spoken aloud, I’m out of my depth, I don’t know where to go from here – please help me. It would have taken a harder heart than hers to ignore the appeal.
‘Tell me,’ she said gently, ‘did Will find out anything at all?’
‘I think he might have been on to something, from what he said to Chris, but he wouldn’t be drawn. Wouldn’t stick his neck out unless he was sure.’
‘What did he say, Chris?’ she asked.
Chris glanced at Mitch as if seeking permission to answer, and received a nod in return. He cleared his throat.
‘He took me out one evening to have a look at Vic’s car, asked me if I noticed anything about it. I couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary till he pointed out it had twin exhausts and one looked cleaner than the other. He wanted to know if that was usual.’
‘And is it?’
‘No.’
‘Did Will give you any idea of why he was asking?’
‘No.’ From his wooden expression and vague shrug of the shoulders, Melissa deduced that Chris was more accustomed to answering questions than analysing what lay behind them.
‘You said it wasn’t usual, but it could happen? If one silencer developed a fault or got damaged if the car hit a rock or something and had to be replaced, the new exhaust would look cleaner than the other, wouldn’t it?’
Both men looked at her in surprise. Plainly, they had not expected a mere female to know about such things.
‘Oh, sure,’ agreed Chris.
‘Did you tell Will that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. He just stood there sort of whistling through his teeth, and then we came back indoors.’
‘I remember now,’ said Melissa, ‘he was looking at Vic’s car yesterday evening, when Iris and I arrived to watch the rehearsal. He was peering through the driver’s window.’
‘Now, why would he do that, I wonder?’ said Mitch.
‘Checking the mileage?’ suggested Chris.
‘Maybe he wanted to know if it had been on any long trips since he last looked at it,’ said Melissa. A thought struck her. ‘You mentioned Vic and Kim had a villa in Spain. Do they use it often?’
Mitch considered. ‘Dunno exactly. Several times a year – I’d have to ask the Joyriders. The department at head office that keeps an eye on the outposts of me empire,’ he explained, in response to Melissa’s questioning look. ‘I call ’em that ’cos it gives ’em any God’s amount of excuses to swan round doing on-the-spot check-ups. I send Chris out now and then to check on the checkers,’ he added. He seemed anxious to impress her with the efficiency of his control system, but she was only half listening.
‘Does he go by car?’
‘Can’t say as I’ve ever asked him.’
‘Who runs the hotel while he’s away?’
‘A relief manager and his wife. It’s a long-standing arrangement with the previous owner.’
‘Have the Joyriders vetted him too?’
Mitch chuckled. ‘Chris has. He’s clean. Retired from full-time work a few years ago on health grounds, but does the odd stint here and there to top up his disability pension.’ He gave her a keen look. ‘You got something in mind?’
‘Nothing specific at the moment. I’m trying to figure out why Will should be so interested in the exhaust. It’s a pity he played everything so close to his chest.’
Mitch sighed. ‘That was Will for you.’
‘Chris, haven’t you any idea?’
Chris did not appear to consider it part of his remit to have ideas. ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he said, his face a blank.
‘But you are something of an expert on cars.’
‘Course he is,’ said Mitch proudly, as Chris gave another shrug. ‘What he doesn’t know about ’em isn’t worth knowing. Mind you,’ he grinned at Melissa, ‘imagination’s not his strong point. You have the ideas, he’ll tell you if they’ll work. I reckon you two’d make a great team.’ His eyes swivelled from one to the other. ‘I was right to rope her in, wasn’t I, Chris?’
‘Right,’ Chris agreed, predictably.
‘But I haven’t done anything,’ protested Melissa. ‘And I’m not sure I …’
‘Not yet, but you will. I’ve got this gut feeling.’
Melissa caught the faintest movement in Chris’s left eye and bit her lip to kill the smile that might betray an inclination to weaken. ‘You seem to be strong on gut feelings,’ was the only comment she could think of.
‘Sure I am. Half me business decisions are made on that basis. And talking of business, that’s another reason why I want this done nice and discreetly. No adverse publicity that might scare off the customers. We find out what Vic’s up to and confront him with it, he goes quietly, problem solved.’
‘We find out?’ Melissa raised a cynical eyebrow.
Mitch treated her to a full frontal smile – the complete works, as she later recounted to Iris: white teeth, dimples, blue eyes alight with whimsical humour.
Once again, she found herself exchanging glances with Chris. Until now, she had sensed that his attitude towards her, while by no means hostile, was at best one of resigned acceptance. Mitch wanted her there, Mitch was the boss, and that was that. By that flicker of an eyelid, Chris had shown that he too welcomed her presence.
They’re in it together, dogs and all. As if to reinforce the recurring thought, Khan, who had once more settled down to sleep at her feet, stood up, yawned, stretched himself, and then shoved his nose under her hand, his tail gently wagging.
‘Tell you what, I’ve just had this great idea.’ Mitch was on his feet again but this time there was no restless pacing to and fro. He was like an athlete before the start of a race, tense and ready for the gun. ‘You told us over dinner your next book’s set in an old house with a spook, right?’
‘Right,’ Melissa agreed, wondering where the question was leading.
‘You wanna get the atmosphere spot on, don’t you?’
‘Ye … s.’
‘So you oughta spend a few days in a spooky old house, to get the feel of it.’
‘What are you getting at?’
Like a salesman brandishing a sample of his most seductive product, Mitch held out both hands and treated her to yet another blinding smile. ‘Be my guest at Heyshill Manor for a few days – do some field research. Give you the perfect excuse to snoop around.’
There was a pause, during which Melissa’s sense of adventure did battle with sound and sober judgement.
Mitch made an impatient gesture. ‘Well, what do you say?’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Course I am. Will you do it?’
A long-case clock in the far corner of the room struck eleven. She heard it with relief and seized the opportunity of playing for time. Gently pushing Khan’s head aside, she stood up. ‘I had no idea it was so late, I must be going,’ she said.
‘You haven’t given me an answer.’
‘I’ll have to think about it. It’s very generous of you, but I’m not sure I want to commit myself to … what you’re asking of me.’
But she was already committed, even if she was not prepared to admit it just yet. The whiff of mystery was like a heady perfume in her nostrils, exciting, irresistible. All the same, she was not going to let Mitch think she was a pushover. ‘I’ll let you know in a day or two,’ she promised.
As if recognising that to press her further could be counter-productive, Mitch nodded to Chris, who picked up the keys of the Jaguar and left the room without a word. By the time Mitch and Melissa reached the front door, having said their good-nights, he had already started the engine and was standing by the front passenger door, holding it open for her. She thanked him as she climbed in and received a brief nod in return.
For the first two or three miles he drove in silence, giving her an opportunity to observe him out of the corner of her eye: a rounded forehead beneath cropped hair, a jutting lower lip that put her in mind of the young Winston Churchill. She wondered how he had come to be associated with Mitch and was trying to devise a tactful line of enquiry when, without warning, he spoke.
‘You gonna do it, then?’
With some vague notion of giving herself time to prepare a noncommittal reply, she was on the point of lamely responding ‘Do what?’, but for a fraction of a second he took his eyes from the road ahead and looked directly at her. Even in the semi-darkness, she could read their message: ‘No bullshit – just tell me straight.’
There had been no opportunity to confer with Mitch; he was doing this off his own bat. It wasn’t idle curiosity, he wasn’t that sort of man. He wanted to know because of his one hundred per cent loyalty to his employer. He deserved a frank reply, and she gave it to him.
‘I’m not really convinced that there’s any mystery about Will’s death,’ she said. ‘So, if I accepted Mitch’s invitation to stay at Heyshill Manor as his guest, it’d be a great benefit to me as a writer, but I’m afraid he mightn’t get value for his money.’
‘But you’d do as he asks – keep your eyes peeled, maybe ferret around a bit?’
Murder at the Manor Hotel Page 8
