The Hanging in the Hotel

by Simon Brett

  She took in the names as they were introduced, but there was only one who really interested her. She was the youngest woman in the room, in her early forties, ten years younger even than Carole. Expensively dressed, but with more taste than the rest of them: grey knitted silk top, well-cut white jeans, black boots with high heels. Short blonde hair and a family likeness so strong Carole had identified her before being told that her name was Sandra Hartson.

  Her shape and posture shadowed her daughter’s, though Kerry carried herself with more attitude, a stroppier jutting of the hips than her mother. Sandra Hartson had probably looked more like Kerry when Bob had married her, but now she was altogether more tentative, even self-effacing, as though her fragile personality had been crushed between the egos of her daughter and her second husband.

  Carole felt a little glow of triumph. She would talk to the woman, get to know her, and through her find out more about Bob Hartson. The thought made Carole feel empowered. Up to this point, Jude, because of her connection with Hopwicke Country House Hotel and Suzy Longthorne, had been the dominant partner in their investigation. Contact with Sandra Hartson offered Carole a more equal role in the proceedings.

  But she couldn’t start her probing straight away. Particularly because no one else was allowed to take the initiative in any room which contained Brenda Chew.

  ‘You haven’t missed much, Carole. I was just bringing the ladies up to date with what’s been achieved so far. As you know, the auction of promises is being held on Saturday week at Hopwicke Country House Hotel.’

  Carole nodded knowingly, though the information was new to her.

  ‘Members of the Pillars of Sussex will be filling up tables with their guests, and remember, ladies, we don’t want any empty seats. Sixty is the dining room’s capacity, so we want sixty paying bottoms on those seats. Tickets are only a hundred and fifty pounds a head, and for that the guests will not only be able to enjoy the auction of promises, but also an excellent gourmet dinner cooked by the resident chef at Hopwicke House, Max Townley. I’m sure most of us have already tasted his cuisine and know what a treat we have in store.’

  A murmur of pampered agreement ran around the room.

  ‘We’re only up to thirty-two definite acceptances at the moment, so I really do urge you to use all your feminine wiles’ – a little giggle greeted this daring proposition – ‘to get those seats filled. Of course, I will be doing a ring-round of some of those who’re dragging their feet, but I can’t do it all on my own, so, ladies, I am relying on you as well.’

  ‘I’m quite optimistic of getting four from the bridge club,’ one elderly lady volunteered.

  ‘Very good, Betty.’

  ‘And I’m sure Bob can be relied on for half a dozen,’ said Sandra Hartson, ‘if he pulls in a few favours.’

  This was greeted by an appreciative chuckle. The womenfolk all knew about Bob Hartson pulling in favours. But his wife hadn’t spoken with any pride in her husband’s power. She had simply said what was required of her, and retreated back into her shell.

  ‘Thank you, Sandra. So lots of effort from all of you, please. I want to be in a position of actually turning people away. Use any means at your disposal – not forgetting those feminine wiles.’

  If something had been worth giggling at the first time, it proved worth giggling at again.

  ‘Another thing I wanted to mention was our auctioneer. Now we all remember that James Baxter did the job for us last year. And, though we’re very grateful for all the hard work he put into the job, the fact remains that he wasn’t really very good. It makes so much difference to these kinds of occasions if you can get an auctioneer with a bit of personality, a bit of charisma. A celebrity, of course, would be an enormous bonus. James has volunteered to do the job again this year and since I haven’t actually said no, we do have him there as a long stop – but, if we could get someone else . . . So, ladies, think of all the celebrity friends you have.’

  There was a silence. The womenfolk didn’t seem to have many celebrity friends.

  With a sigh at the poor quality of the people she had to work with, Brenda Chew continued. ‘Oh well, there we go. Now, can we move on to the promises themselves? I’ve made a superhuman effort of persuasion, and the list is beginning to look quite impressive, but we still need more. We’ve had some examples of magnificent generosity – like Bob and Sandra’s offer of a week in their villa near Malaga.’ She nodded graciously to the donor, before making an implied criticism, ‘All the successful bidders will have to pay for is the cost of the flights.

  ‘And Suzy Longthorne has been kind enough to offer a luxury weekend at Hopwicke House. Then we’ve got parachute jumps and days in speedboats and a hospitality box at Goodwood and lots of dinners for two. But we do need more – particularly in the services area. You know, last time the bidding went quite high for the complete bodyscrub, and the golf lesson with the Worthing professional, and the week’s loan of a cleaning lady. So that’s the kind of thing we want to be thinking of, ladies. Things that people will bid over the odds for.’

  For a moment, Carole tried to work out the economics of the auction of promises. She had got the firm impression that there was a three-line whip for attendance among the Pillars of Sussex. If they all brought their womenfolk two-thirds of the seats in the hotel dining room would be filled, so the people who were doing the bidding would be the same people who had donated the promises. Being a Pillar of Sussex was evidently an expensive business.

  She was dragged out of her sums by the realization that Brenda Chew was addressing her. ‘. . . and we were wondering whether you, Carole, as a newcomer to our little group might have any ideas?’

  ‘Ideas for promises?’

  ‘Yes. Particularly, as I say, for services. Any thoughts?’

  Carole didn’t have any. Or, rather, the ones she had were so pathetic that she didn’t dare voice them. She was sure she could persuade Ted Crisp to donate a bar meal for two at the Crown and Anchor. She herself could offer to walk people’s dogs on Fethering beach. Maybe Jude would agree to do a couple of hour’s healing? None of them seemed to have quite the gloss the Pillars of Sussex womenfolk would require.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t think of any ideas off the top of my head. Give me a couple of days and maybe I’ll come up with something.’

  Brenda Chew let out a long-suffering sigh, the schoolmistress whose charge had once again failed to produce her homework. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll think of something else. Not having children or grandchildren to distract me, of course I know I have lots more time on my hands than you other ladies.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And, as ever, if you want a job done – better to do it yourself.’

  Carole suspected she had identified Brenda Chew’s type when they first spoke on the phone, but now she had no doubt about it. Her hostess was one of those women who went round in a perpetual aura of martyrdom, who never let anyone forget how hard she was working and how little she complained of the fact. From her experience in the Home Office, Carole knew exactly how impossible such people were to work with.

  The meeting continued. Brenda Chew delegated various tasks to individual ladies, but with a kind of patient defeatism, as if she knew they’d get their commissions wrong and she’d have to end up doing everything herself. She asked Sandra Hartson to co-ordinate any new offers of promises, but again with the air of someone who knew she’d have to come in and pick up the pieces.

  At twelve-thirty sharp Brenda signalled the end of the session, and the ladies dispersed variously to golf clubs, hairdressers or lunch parties. As she left the bungalow, Carole noticed its nameplate. ‘Innisfree’ had been pokered out of a plaster piece of driftwood, over which three brightly coloured pixies coyly peeped. No, there really was nothing round the Chews’ home that she would have given house room to.

  She found herself beside Sandra Hartson as they walked to their cars, and saw an opportunity to maintain contact. Carole tried to think what Jude would h
ave said in the circumstances. Jude never had any problem easing into a conversation; it was a skill Carole didn’t have, and envied.

  ‘I believe I’ve met your daughter,’ she announced, more brusquely than she’d intended.

  Sandra Hartson stopped, slightly alarmed. ‘Kerry?’

  ‘Yes. I was looking round Hopwicke Country House Hotel and she was introduced to me. I gather she works up there.’

  ‘Work experience. She’s learning the rudiments of the hotel business. At least, she is for the time being.’

  ‘Thinking of moving on?’

  Sandra Hartson looked rueful. ‘Kerry has ambitions to be a pop singer. Like every other girl her age.’

  ‘Do you think she has the talent to make it?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘I’m not sure it’s a matter of talent these days. Not sure it ever has been. It’s promotion and packaging – and investment. Maybe Kerry’ll make it. She certainly will if her stepfather has anything to do with the matter.’

  Carole was surprised at how much edge had been put into the last words. And also, was it usual for a wife to refer to her husband as her daughter’s stepfather? Carole wanted to talk more to Sandra Hartson.

  But the woman had already clicked the remote to unlock her Mercedes. Now wasn’t the moment for further conversation. So, in an atypically effusive manner, Carole said, ‘It’s been such a pleasure to meet you, Sandra. Do hope we meet again. Let’s exchange addresses and phone numbers.’

  Sandra Hartson looked slightly bewildered by this sudden chumminess, so Carole quickly pointed out that, according to Brenda Chew’s schedule, Sandra was meant to be the collection point for offers of new promises. With contacts duly scribbled down, they parted.

  And Carole Seddon felt a little glow of achievement. Jude would be proud of her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Rick Hendry had aged since Jude last saw him in the flesh, but he had aged sensibly. The long permed hair had been abandoned as soon as Zedrach-Kona split up in the early eighties, and he’d opted for a short crop, which had become more fashionable over the years and still looked smart now the blackness was dusted with grey. His wardrobe had changed as well. Gone were the romantic frilled shirts, the heavy brocades and velvets that would not have been out of place in an upholstery catalogue. In their place came a lot of grey: shirts in stone and slate, charcoal jackets and trousers. The only remaining concession to the dandy was his pair of trademark black cowboy boots.

  Rick had dealt with advancing years more gracefully than many of his contemporaries; no straggly pony tails or white-flecked stubble for him. Whenever re-forming Zedrach-Kona for a final bank raid of a tour was mooted – as it frequently was – people asked Rick Hendry whether he would grow his hair long again to recapture the band’s former glamour. He never gave a straight answer to the question, though he had long ago decided he would have wigs made. Nor, in spite of pleas from other band members, would he commit himself to when the group would re-form. His former colleagues had been less shrewd with their money; for them a revival tour was a necessity; for Rick, with his canny investments and his reinvention as a television personality and producer, it was a pension, waiting to be taken when he decided that the time was right.

  Rick Hendry had no sagging jowls or beer-gut either. He’d taken care of his body and was still as thin as a whip. Though the rock publicity machine had blown up the mandatory debaucheries of Zedrach-Kona, Rick himself had only dabbled lightly with drugs and alcohol. A control freak by nature, he disliked anything that limited his command of himself or his circumstances. So, all the time he was encouraging the press to run stories about cocaine-fuelled post-concert orgies and the other excesses necessary for a rock star image, he had kept himself almost entirely clean.

  Rick Hendry was a businessman. He would have made a fortune in whatever industry he’d chosen. But, as a young man, he’d seen rock music as his most promising opening.

  He smiled when Jude was ushered into the office. His was a big smile, much caricatured in the music press. The teeth had always been too bulky for his mouth and expensive cosmetic dentistry had ensured that their makeover was exactly like the original – though now with an unnatural whiteness. The famous smile deepened the grooves of his facial muscles.

  ‘Long time no see. Take a seat.’

  She knew that was all he would offer. No peck on the cheek, certainly no refreshment. Other men might have conducted this interview over lunch, or at least a cup of coffee, but Rick Hendry lived up to his legendary parsimony. The room chosen for the meeting was anonymous, just another conference suite in a town whose main business was conferences.

  Why hadn’t he made more effort, Jude thought with annoyance. He’d initiated the meeting, and she’d made her way there on the train from Fethering at a time that fitted in with his schedule. But he was the supplicant. He was the one who wanted something. (Well, actually, Jude wanted something too, but he wasn’t to know that.) Rick had known she would turn up, exactly when and where he specified. The infuriating thing was that his confidence had proved justified. There she was.

  ‘Great to see you, Jude.’

  ‘And you, Rick. What brings you to Brighton?’

  ‘Work, of course. It’s always work. The way the Pop Crop thing has taken off is just out of this world. Broadcaster wants a new series almost before the last one’s finished. So I’m here auditioning the young hopefuls.’

  ‘Female young hopefuls or male young hopefuls?’

  He gave her a sharp look, suspicious she was referring to the tabloid allegations. Jude kept the stare of her brown eyes steady, and he backed off. ‘Both. I make and break boy bands and girl bands indiscriminately. Have you seen the show, by the way, Jude?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not for me, I’m afraid. Unlike most of the viewing public, I’ve never confused humiliation with entertainment.’

  He didn’t take the criticism personally, just smiled one of his big smiles. ‘You’re right, of course. I’m constantly amazed that “ordinary people” still put themselves up for this garbage. They should have seen enough of the programmes to know that everyone who’s on them ends up getting stuffed. Any television producer with half a brain in an editing channel can make a “member of the public” look stupid. But still they turn up – each one presumably convinced they can break the sequence, that their natural personality will shine through, that they’ll become stars. They’re wrong –’ another big smile ‘– but don’t tell them. I’m making a lot of money out of them being wrong.’

  ‘But some of the ones who’ve been through Pop Crop must’ve had talent. I read somewhere they’ve had number-one records.’

  A cynical laugh. ‘Talent and number ones don’t have a lot to do with each other. The Pop Crop kids have done well just because of the promotion and coverage they’ve got. Give the same amount of airtime to a choir of donkeys with sore throats and they’ll go to the top of the charts.’

  Jude couldn’t help admiring his candour. With a journalist, he’d have been extolling his programme’s encouragement of new talent, its achievements in giving young people hope and aspirations, its contribution to the nation’s cultural heritage. With her, he cut the bullshit.

  There was a tap on the door; it opened. A purple-haired girl in T-shirt and jeans pointed to her watch. Rick Hendry nodded. The door closed.

  Jude got in first. ‘Better move on to what you wanted to say.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s still about that night you talked to Suze about.’

  ‘Tuesday last week.’

  ‘Right. Gather you know I was there.’

  ‘Max Townley the chef told me.’

  Rick gave a little nod, as if that confirmed his conjecture. ‘Listen, Jude, it’s very important no one else knows about that.’

  ‘Why? There doesn’t seem to have been any publicity about that solicitor’s death. So you can’t use your previous line about protecting Suzy and the hotel.’

  ‘I’m not so sure that—’


  ‘So is it maybe you who needs protection, Rick?’

  ‘Not protection. I just don’t need publicity at the minute.’

  ‘Because of these allegations about you and underage girls?’

  He was angry, but contained himself. ‘That was a load of baseless tabloid garbage!’

  ‘Anyway, how does Suzy have anything to do with that? She’s hardly an underage girl. In fact, I’d have thought the news that you’d spent a night under the same roof as your ex-wife could do your image a lot of good at the moment.’

  ‘Jude, just take my word for it – my presence at the hotel has to be kept a secret.’

  ‘OK, I’m not about to rush to the press with the news. That’s not the sort of thing I do.’

  ‘And you’re not about to rush to the press with news about that boy’s death?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not.’

  ‘And you’re going to stop snooping round trying to find out how he died?’

  He’d gone too far there. Firmly, Jude shook her head. ‘I’m going to find out everything I can about that.’

  ‘But you mustn’t! You can’t!’ For the first time in their conversation Rick Hendry lost his cool.

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so worried,’ said Jude evenly. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. I never even met the guy. Or any of the other Pillocks of Sussex or whatever they’re called.’ It was the same name Max Townley had used for them. Jude wondered whether it was more than coincidence. ‘Except Bob Hartson, of course.’

  ‘Oh, you know Bob Hartson?’

  ‘Not know well. I’ve met him at the odd charity do.’