by Adam Croft
Since then, Cassandra had led a meek existence, rarely going out and socialising, never mind having the opportunity to fall out with people. She had only gone to the party in Shafford as it was a friend’s birthday and she thought it prudent to show up for an hour and a single glass of wine. She certainly hadn’t had the opportunity to fall out with anyone to the point where they’d want to kill her.
Then there was the burning down of her house. The only explanation that the police had settled on was that the fire had been a case of local kids randomly targeting a house. The problem with that theory was that there had been practically no cases of arson locally in a long time, and Cassandra’s small house was not easily accessible from the road, with far more suitable targets being much easier to get to. Still, the police had to accept that with no enemies or anyone who’d want to do this to her, they had to put it down to a random attack. They’d put out an appeal for witnesses and looked at CCTV footage from a few streets away, but seen nothing.
Things didn’t quite add up, though, in Hardwick’s mind. This had all the hallmarks of someone deliberately trying to kill her, but the only problem was that there was no suspect. He had, reluctantly, to accept that Cassandra must have been deliberately targeted — both with the poisoned wine at the party and with the fire at her house. That, then, left one logical train of thought: that one of the people at the party must be the person who was trying to kill her. The issue with that was that she barely knew anyone at the party. The host, Alice, was a colleague of hers with whom she’d never fallen out or had a bad word, and she generally kept out of everyone else’s way at work. Besides which, not a single person at the party knew where Cassandra lived.
Later that day, having sat in his study in complete silence in order to try and think through the logic of the case, Hardwick got up and headed out into the hallway, intending to fetch a cup of coffee from the kitchen. It was then that he noticed the envelope on his doormat. He considered this to be rather odd, seeing as the post had already been that morning.
Looking more closely, he could see that the envelope was handwritten and had only Kempston Hardwick written on the front. It had been hand-delivered.
He bent down and picked the envelope up, ripping open the seal with his finger. He removed and unfolded the sheet of A4 paper from inside and read it.
CASSANDRA HARBINGER MUST DIE. YOU ARE IN DANGER TOO.
* * *
Cassandra was visibly shaking as Hardwick showed her the letter. To his mind, it was clear from her face that she had realised just what this meant: that whoever was trying to kill her had found out where she was. He knew this could have serious consequences.
‘But... How did they find out?’ she said, holding her hand to her mouth as she let go of a small sob.
‘I don’t know. I know you said you weren’t followed, but I don’t see how else anyone could have known. You don’t have a mobile phone with you, do you?’ he asked.
‘No. I left it at the hotel. I just upped and left without taking anything. Why?’
‘Just a thought. Your whereabouts can be tracked using your mobile phone. But if yours is in the hotel, anyone trying to locate you using that method would be led there.’
Cassandra narrowed her eyes. ’Perhaps they just knew I’d come to you. That you’re the only one who could help me.’
‘But you haven’t left the house,’ Hardwick said. ‘There’s no way they’d know you were here. Unless... Are you completely sure no-one saw you walking here?’
‘Well, obviously I can’t be completely sure, but I was as careful as I could be. I looked around, took a few wrong turns... What more could I do?’
‘Not much, unfortunately. These days, if someone wants to find you, they will. Look, I’m not one to give in to people like this,’ he said, ‘but I think it would be best if you didn’t stay here. Whoever is trying to kill you obviously knows you’re here and that puts us both in danger.’
‘But I can’t just leave! Then I’ll be on my own and I’ll be a sitting duck!’ she said, pleading.
‘Don’t worry,’ Hardwick said. ‘No-one will know where you are. Not this time. No- one except for me. I’ve got a plan.’
Later that night, under cover of darkness, Hardwick lifted the roll of carpet onto the back seat of Ellis Flint’s car and closed the door. He’d asked Ellis to bring his car over earlier, knowing that it would be a far more anonymous way of travelling. As he pulled away from the Old Rectory and headed east, he did two complete circuits of the village to make sure he wasn’t being followed, before heading south on the bypass.
‘Are you sure no-one’s following us?’ Cassandra asked, her head now poking out of the end of the roll of carpet.
‘Yes. There aren’t any cars about at all,’ Hardwick said.
‘And no-one knows where this place is?’
‘Absolutely,’ Hardwick replied. ‘It’s a small house I’ve owned for a few years. It’s handy as somewhere to go when I want to be alone. Completely alone. No-one knows I own it, so you’ll be safe there. Most people don’t even know it exists.’
Once they’d reached the house, Hardwick again opened the back door of the car, satisfied that there were no cars or people around, and lifted the roll of carpet out. He knew they’d be safe as it’d been at least three miles since they’d seen another car and there was no way anyone could have followed them that far on foot.
Just to be absolutely certain, he put his key in the lock of the front door, opened it and pulled the carpet inside, at which point he unrolled it and helped Cassandra to her feet, watching her blink as her eyes adjusted to the light, stretching out her legs and arms after the journey.
‘Right. Whatever you do, don’t leave this place. Don’t even open a window. There are blackout curtains on all the windows, so as long as you keep the curtains closed you can have a small light on. Keep the noise down, though. There’s no other houses for miles, but we can’t take any risks. Wait for me to contact you. We need to make sure you can’t be found by whoever’s trying to kill you.’
‘How long will you be?’ Cassandra asked.
‘I don’t know. All I do know is that it’ll be much easier for me to work it all out with a clear mind.’
‘What about food? How will I get by in the meantime?’
‘There’s plenty in the fridge and larder. Non-perishables. There’s enough to last one person three months, so you’ll be fine for a day or two. It shouldn’t take much longer than that. I just need to sit and think it all over. It’ll come to me soon. It always does.’
Cassandra smiled and placed her hand on Hardwick’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, Kempston. I mean it. Thank you.’
* * *
The silence was what Hardwick liked most about the Old Rectory. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway, and the occasional grumble from the ancient central heating system. No road noise, no televisions, no ringing telephones. Just silence and the turning cogs of his own mind.
The silence also meant that sounds which might otherwise go unnoticed would now be heard, such as the rustling in the bushes outside his front window which had alerted him an hour earlier. He knew what this meant. He was being watched. With Cassandra safely ensconced elsewhere, though, he knew that he would not be a target.
He’d purposely left the curtains open in the Old Rectory so that anyone watching would see that Cassandra was not there. He needed to throw them off the scent and keep them guessing. He knew he was being watched, but he also knew that if the person watching him thought Cassandra wasn’t around, he wouldn’t be in any danger. It was her they wanted; not him.
He sat in his study, leaning back in his large leather armchair bathed in the yellowing glow of the room’s solitary lightbulb, his hands clasped in his lap as he leant back with his eyes closed, allowing his mind to wander and sift through the facts and different elements of Cassandra’s story. His thought process was helped by the fact that Cassandra was away from the house and not i
n any immediate danger. Neither, he assumed, was he.
The soft click and the sudden darkness startled Hardwick into opening his eyes. A power cut? No. The electric radio on his desk was still showing the time. 01:45. A blown bulb? No. He’d heard the light switch. It was as he realised this that he also heard the cocking of the gun.
Someone was in the room. As he opened his mouth to speak, the crack of the gunshot rang out through the room, echoing off the walls as his ears began to ring.
Realising he hadn’t been hit, Hardwick launched himself from his chair towards the far wall and jabbed his finger at the light switch. Spinning around, he turned to look at the crumpled heap on the floor. Ellis Flint was pinning Cassandra to the ground, the gun having skidded across the study floor and nestled safely beside the foot of a bookcase.
‘Get off! Get off me!’ Cassandra shouted, trying to writhe free of Ellis’s grip.
The pair lifted her up and sat her in Hardwick’s chair, before tying her to it with copious amounts of parcel tape from his desk drawer. She writhed in near silence like a trout in a fisherman’s net, pure malice streaming from her eyes.
‘I knew something wasn’t right, Kempston,’ Ellis said. I thought it was a bit weird you wanting to borrow my car, so I came by on foot earlier and saw you putting a roll of carpet into the back of it. I realised what was going on. I knew that you knew the killer was around. That’s when I decided to hide in the bushes. I must admit, though, I wasn’t expecting this.’
‘I do wish you wouldn’t keep interfering, Ellis,’ Hardwick said, pointedly.
‘Do you?’ Ellis said, gesturing towards Cassandra. ‘Do you really?’
Hardwick just grunted his acceptance.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw her let herself in. She had a key. God knows where she got it. Then I saw the gun, and... Well, I should have got to it earlier, but luckily she missed and...’
‘Yes, yes. I should have known as much,’ Hardwick said, catching his breath, speaking to Cassandra. ‘It was you all along. No-one was trying to kill you at all, were they?’
Cassandra said nothing. She continued to stare off into the distance, seemingly in another world altogether.
‘You just wanted the attention, didn’t you? The attention which I gave you. Until I took you to the other house, that is. Until you were being hidden away again, like you had been hidden away your whole life. All along, you just wanted to be noticed. But why like this? Why?’
A solitary tear ran from Cassandra’s eye. ‘I never had the attention I deserved. Always playing second fiddle to my older sister. She was always the golden girl. Nothing I ever did could ever match up. Even at school I was Little Miss Average. Do you have any idea what it feels like to want — need — to be something extra special? To be noticed?’
‘That doesn’t excuse what you did,’ Hardwick said. ‘We all feel like that sometimes.’
‘But I feel like that all the time! People have no idea — no idea — what they’re missing by ignoring me.’
‘You took one of my spare keys, didn’t you?’ Hardwick asked. Silence.
‘Why did you try to kill me, Cassandra?’
She swallowed and said nothing.
‘Tell me. I at least deserve that much.’
Cassandra made eye contact with Hardwick. Her eyes looked empty and soulless. ‘You think you’re such a good person, don’t you? There are people who rid this world of evil, and you dedicate your life to punishing them. Can you justify that?’
Hardwick nodded slowly. ‘Yes, yes I can.’
‘Oh, no!’ Ellis shrieked suddenly, as if discovering some horrible, brutal scene.
‘What is it, Ellis?’ Hardwick said.
‘It’s ruined!’ he replied, removing the bludgeoned remains of the mechanical fish from the hook on the wall. He pressed the button and the fish emitted a noise which sounded like a gurgling sink.
Hardwick smiled.
Hardwick and Flint return in
THE THIRTEENTH ROOM
OUT NOW
Over two weeks, three guests enter Room 13 at the Manor Hotel, but none comes out alive...
When a married man seemingly kills himself at a local hotel, Kempston Hardwick is not so sure the death was suicide.
As he tries to convince the police to investigate, Kempston yet again throws himself into an investigation where all is not as it seems, but not before the Manor Hotel is home to more suspicious deaths...
Turn the page to read the first chapter…
The Thirteenth Room
Elliot Carr closed his eyes and turned his head upwards as he tried to blot out the inevitable argument which had ensued. They could never go anywhere — anywhere — without some sort of drama from Scarlett.
He’d known she was a drama queen when he’d first met her, but that was one of things that had first attracted him to her. It was certainly far less irritating than that erroneous extra ’t’ at the end of her name, which her parents had added in order to make her name ‘unique’ and ‘different’. Everything her parents had ever done had been unique and different, so why would they stop at naming their child?
If the truth be told, it was Scarlett’s parents he disliked. Sure, Scarlett had her pretensions, her airs and graces, but she couldn’t be blamed for them. It was purely down to her parents, who’d led her to believe that she had some sort of divine right over other people just because her father was a banker and her mother had delusions of being a successful novelist. Elliot had always tried to stifle the laughter when Irma told people she was a full-time writer. Sure, she spent all of her time writing, but she’d never earned a penny from it. That didn’t bother her. She didn’t need to, what with Robert raking home in a week what most people could only hope to earn in a year.
Where Elliot came from, money didn’t make someone a better person. In fact, he found that the opposite was usually true. His more modest upbringing though, had brought with it a certain talent for tact and tongue-biting, which was serving him well now as Scarlett launched into another tirade.
‘This is meant to be our anniversary, Elliot!’ she yelled, emphasising the occasion as if he could have somehow forgotten.
‘Yes, I know it is. But you can hardly blame me for the traffic problems, Scarlett. Or the car breaking down. Or the mix-up with the hotel room.’
‘How am I supposed to know it wasn’t you who mixed up the rooms?’ she asked, wrenching a phone charger from her suitcase and throwing it down on the bed. ‘After all, it was you who booked it.’
Yes, because I’m the one who always does these things, Elliot thought. Maybe if you got off your privileged backside and— ‘The receptionist said it was to do with their new computer system. Just one of those things.’
‘Just one of those things,’ Scarlett repeated, with mock laughter. ‘Just like the car breaking down. Again.’
‘And what do you want me to do about it now?’ Elliot asked, trying desperately to keep a lid on his temper. ‘It’s been back in to the dealership three times now and they’ve said they can’t find a fault.’
‘Well maybe if we’d gone for the Mercedes instead, like I wanted, then we wouldn’t have to keep taking it back to the bloody dealership, would we?’ she replied, tugging her make-up bag loose from under Elliot’s neatly folded shirts.
Elliot sighed. There was no point. They’d been over this a hundred times before. How, in fact, it was he who’d wanted the Mercedes but Scarlett had twisted his arm into buying the BMW. How he’d pointed out that the Mercedes would be more reliable but that Scarlett had preferred the interior on the BMW. How she was always bloody right, even when she was wrong.
‘Is that it?’ she said, thrusting her hands on her hips. ‘A sigh?’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Elliot asked, hoping for some sort of tip as to how he could end this daft charade. After five years of marriage, though, he knew there was only one way.
‘Nothing. There’s nothing you can say.’
‘
Right. Well I’m going to the bar, then.’
* * *
‘Large scotch, please,’ Elliot said, the barman’s permanent smile putting him on edge. He was never sure how to react when people were overly nice. Should he drop his defences and smile back, no matter how upset or annoyed he was, or should he allow it to infuriate him even more to the point where he wanted to punch him in the face? Rise above it, he told himself. He wasn’t angry at the barman; he was angry at Scarlett.
He was amazed at how often he had to tell himself that. As far as he was concerned, it just went to show that Scarlett’s attitude and behaviour had permeated every fibre of his being and was starting to affect so many different areas of his life. He wasn’t one for confrontation, though, and preferred to keep things bottled up. That wasn’t a problem, as he never stayed angry for long. At some point tonight he’d have calmed down, Scarlett would have just pretended the whole thing never happened, she’d flounce down to dinner, they’d have a bottle or two of wine, head back upstairs and... Well, she had her uses.
Right now, though, his attention was fixed firmly on the glass of scotch, for no other reason than to take his mind of the fact that he’d just paid twelve pounds for it. Way to calm a man down, he thought.
He sloshed the amber liquid around in his glass, clinking the ice off the side of the glass as it slowly melted, releasing the potent fumes of the whisky.
‘Long day?’ the barman asked as he wiped between the beer pumps with a cloth.
‘Hmm? Oh. No, sorry,’ Elliot said, waking himself from his stupor. ‘Silly argument with my wife. Just one of those things.’
