‘Listen, if you think I was up to something illegit, forget it. I was right here, all night long, minding my own business.’
‘Is there anyone who could confirm that?’
‘Sure there is. I had someone here with me.’
‘His name?’
‘You can’t expect me to tell you that.’
‘I can and I do.’
‘But where would my business go, if it got around that I’d blab about who’d been with me?’
‘I’ve no doubt that you’d find ways to counteract the bad publicity. Come on now, I haven’t got all day.’
Again she pondered, then said with a shrug. ‘He’s not going to like it, but what the hell? I can’t afford any trouble with you people. His name is Knox. Sebastian Knox. You’ll find his number in the book, if you really have to check with him. He’s a solicitor in Wynchford.’
‘What time did Mr Knox arrive here last night?’ Boulter asked, notebook poised.
‘Let’s see ... it was gone eight. Nearer half-past, probably.’
‘And when did he leave.’
‘That’s easy. He woke me getting up. Before seven in the morning, would you believe!’
‘He was with you for the whole of that time?’ Kate queried.
‘That’s right. Any objection?’
‘You had no one else visit you last night?’
‘Here, what d’you take me for? I’m straight, and no one can tell you different.’
‘Is Mr Knox a regular - friend?’
‘I’ve known him quite some time, yes. A couple of years, at least.’
A good client, then!
‘Thank you, Ms Grainger. That’s all.’
‘Aren’t you going to tell me what all this is about?’
‘No, I’m not. Goodbye.’
Outside, Boulter asked, ‘Well, guv, d’you think she was lying?’
‘I wish I could be sure, Tim. If so, she didn’t make the mistake of spilling out her story too fast. She put on a good performance.’
‘So the question is still open. Is Knox our man?’
Kate took a moment to answer. ‘I’d say that nothing we’ve learned from her or from Knox himself puts him in the clear. I reckon he has to remain a strong candidate.’
Boulter looked pleased as he unlocked the car. ‘I just can’t understand what a lovely girl like Jillian ever saw in that arrogant bastard. Having him for a fiancé, it’s small wonder she went off the rails with Slater.’
Kate was amused by his blinkered loyalty to Jillian Murdoch. As she got into the passenger seat and clipped on her seat belt, she said, ‘You’re a great big softy at heart, aren’t you, Cuthbert?’
Boulter turned pale at her use of his detested middle name.
Chapter Seven
The date carved in the keystone above the central archway of the Lythgate Arms read 1640. But this, Kate knew, represented the year in which the restoration work had been completed after a disastrous fire. An inn had stood on this same spot for many decades before then.
Boulter turned off the wide main street of Wynchford and into the courtyard. A luxuriant wisteria rioted over the ancient walls, and polyanthus planted in wooden tubs made a colourful display. Kate had eaten meals at the Lythgate Arms a couple of times, with Richard. The food served was traditional English, first-class, yeoman-type grub.
Kate and the sergeant went inside. At the small reception desk a thin woman with blue-tinted spectacles regarded them suspiciously. Her natural expression, Kate surmised.
‘Good evening,’ Boulter said affably. ‘We’d like to speak to the manager, please.’
‘Im not sure if he’s . . .’
‘Tell him it’s Detective Chief Inspector Maddox and Detective Sergeant Boulter,’ said Kate.
‘Oh! If you’ll just wait, please, I’ll inform him.’
She walked off. In the quiet, a handsome eighteenth-century grandfather clock ticked ponderously. From the bar came an occasional burst of laughter.
The woman returned. Less severe, more respectful. Also, very plainly, curious.
‘Mr Handcross will see you in his office, Chief Inspector,’ she said, addressing Boulter.
She led the way through the lounge-bar past a scattering of early drinkers. It was a low-ceilinged room with oak tables and padded settles. Horse brasses and copper warming pans hung on the panelled walls. Boulter nearly cracked his head on the low lintel as they passed through the far doorway.
The manager’s office overlooked the rear of the building. All very spick and span. A neatly dressed man of around fifty rose to his feet from behind a knee-hole desk. For an instant he glanced from Boulter to Kate and back again, then addressed Kate with confidence. He would be accustomed in his job to picking up the subtlest of nuances.
‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’
‘You had a guest in the hotel, Mr Handcross, named Barry Slater.’
The manager frowned. You said had.’
‘I’m afraid that Mr Slater is dead.’
‘Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear! Poor man! Was it a heart attack? He was rather young for that. An accident?’
‘Neither, sir,’ said Boulter. ‘He was shot.’
‘Shot? You can’t mean suicide?’
‘No, sir, not suicide. Murder,’
The manager’s suavity vanished as he sank back into his chair. He gestured for them to be seated also. Standing, he’d made an impressive figure. Now he was just an overweight, middle-aged man who’d received a nasty shock. He was already calculating, Kate guessed, the effect this news would have on his hotel. Good publicity, or unwelcome notoriety? And then, of course, there’d be the matter of Slater’s bill. . .
‘When did this happen?’ he asked. ‘Where?’
‘Some time last night, at a disused airfield near Marlingford.’
‘I heard about a murder on the local radio, but I didn’t dream for a minute that it was our Mr Slater. Oh, dear, dear, dear!’
‘Presumably,’ said Boulter, ‘your staff noticed that Mr Slater didn’t spend last night in his room?’
‘Naturally. But . . .’
But a good hotel is discreet and doesn’t question what its guests get up to!
‘Has that happened before, sir?’
‘With Mr Slater, you mean? Well, yes, I believe so. Once or twice.’
‘We shall need to interview various members of your staff,’ Kate said, ‘to gather all the information we can about Mr Slater. But for now we’ll see how far you yourself can help us. When did Mr Slater first arrive here, Mr Handcross?’
‘It must have been . . . about a month ago.’ His hand hovered over the phone. ‘Would you like me to check?’
‘Please.’
He spoke into the phone, and got the answer immediately.
‘Ah, good. Thank you.’ He hung up. ‘Mr Slater arrived here on May the twenty-ninth, three weeks ago today.’
‘And he’s been staying here ever since? Apart from the occasional night away that you mentioned?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘He hails from London, we understand. Have you his address there?’
‘Only if he entered his full address in the register when he arrived. Many people don’t bother to.’
‘We’ll check later. Now, Mr Handcross, did you have any conversations with Mr Slater? Did he tell you anything about himself?’
He gave Kate a sideways look. ‘In this business, it doesn’t pay to be too inquisitive about one’s guests, Chief Inspector. I chatted with him in the bar once or twice. . .just generalities, you know the sort of thing.’
‘Did he mention why he was in this area?’
‘Only that he was mixing business with pleasure. He said he found the Cotswolds very attractive, but . . .’
‘But what, Mr Handcross?’
‘Well, I must admit that it surprised me a little. He didn’t seem quite the type to enjoy the quiet beauty of the countryside.’
‘More a townie?’
‘Yes, that was my impression. On the other hand, he was a keen follower of the turf. Very knowledgeable on that subject. He gave me the odd tip from time to time.’
‘And did they come up?’
He smiled a rueful smile. ‘Alas, not always.’
‘Tell me, did Mr Slater have a car?’
‘He did. A Ford, I seem to remember. Blue, I think it was.’
‘Would you have the registration number?’
He shook his head. Kate had the feeling that the manager was guarding his tongue, with the good name of his hotel in mind. Some of the staff might be freer in what they said.
‘Is Mr Slater’s car in the hotel car park now?’ she asked.
Handcross stood and went to the window, glancing around. ‘No, I can’t see it.’
‘Very well. May we see the room Mr Slater occupied?’
‘If you wish. I’ll take you up.’
Back at the reception desk he collected a room key, muttering something to the thin woman about it being a sad business, poor Mr Slater had been murdered. The news would be all over the hotel in a matter of seconds.
A massive oak staircase brought them to an upstairs hall with a polished floor of ancient oak boards. Three doors along, the manager halted and opened up.
‘Er . . . what should I do about Mr Slater’s things?’ he asked.
‘Leave them just as they are,’ Kate told him. ‘In fact, I don’t want this room touched from now on. For the time being, it will be sealed. You’ll be informed when you can use it again.’
Handcross sighed. ‘Such a waste. It’s one of our better rooms, and we’ll soon be at the busiest time of the year.’
‘Tough luck,’ said Boulter sarcastically, and received a ‘down-boy’ look from Kate.
‘Who among your staff, Mr Handcross, would have had most contact with Mr Slater?’ she asked.
The barman,’ he replied unhesitatingly. ‘Cliff Hoddle.’
‘We’ll talk to him first, then, but not immediately. The sergeant and I want to have a quick look round this room first. Later of course, it will have to be thoroughly examined for forensic evidence. And I shall need somewhere to conduct the interviews.’ She looked at him for a suggestion.
‘I suppose you’d better use my office.’ The words were squeezed out reluctantly. ‘As long as you don’t expect to be too long. And I do hope you won’t upset my guests. Staying at the Lythgate Arms, they have a right to peace and quiet.’
‘Believe me, sir, we shall cause no more disruption at the hotel than is necessary.’
With a nod, the manager left them to it. Kate glanced around, assessing what she saw. It was a comfortable bedroom of a fairly standard three-star country hotel type. One or two decent pieces of furniture supplemented the run-of-the-mill fitments. The casement window overlooked the town’s main street. A small bathroom had been formed by borrowing space from an adjoining room.
‘Get it all fingerprinted, Tim. If the chambermaid is conscientious, there’ll only be hers and the victim’s. But it’s worth trying.’
Carefully, Kate slid open each drawer in the tallboy and checked the contents. Underwear, socks and shirts, obviously laundered by the hotel and neatly put away by the maid. The hanging cupboard revealed two suits, a brown tweed sports jacket and slacks. Nothing but a crumpled chit for petrol from a local filling station and a couple of odd coins in the pockets. There was a bedside table with a telephone, and copies of yesterday’s Daily Mail and Sporting Life. Kate opened its small drawer. Phone directory and Gideon Bible. A few odd papers shoved in there looked more promising.
Boulter emerged from the bathroom. ‘Nothing in there, guv, except the usual toilet articles. Our friend seems to travel light.’
‘Here’s something, Tim.’ Kate unfolded a flimsy pink sheet. ‘A car hire agreement. Crampton Motors, in Marlingford. A Ford Granada Ghia! He didn’t stint himself. Get it followed up. Ah, he gives an address in London, I see. Handy.’
‘Anything else there, guv?’
‘Just notes about his betting activities, from what I can make out.’ The few sheets of notepaper supplied by the hotel were covered in scrawled names and figures.
Kate picked up the direct-dial phone, and stabbed for redial of the last call made, which might give them some sort of lead. She was connected to an answerphone.
‘Cantrill’s, Turf Accountants. We’re closed just now, but if you’ll leave your name and number after the tone, we’ll get back to you as soon as . . .’
Kate hung up. She’d get someone to pop round to have a little chat with the bookies tomorrow. They might pick up something useful about Slater. You never knew.
About to slide the drawer shut, Kate paused. The local phone directory was very new - dated just the previous month, she noted. Marring the pristine cover was a string of figures scribbled on its top corner. A local phone number, she saw from the code.
‘Find out who this number belongs to, Tim.’
They adjourned downstairs, where the manager yielded his office to them.
‘You’re free to use the phone, of course.’
‘Thank you for your co-operation, sir,’ Kate said, as he moved towards the door.
‘Be my guest.’ He didn’t say it very graciously, and she couldn’t blame him.
‘Is the barman you mentioned available at the moment?’
‘He’s busy now, on duty behind the bar.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll arrange for a stand-in while we talk to him.’
‘Oh, very well.’
Smarmy was the word for Cliff Hoddle. He’d laugh at his customers’ corny jokes as if hearing them for the first time; harken to their woes as if he really cared; admire their astuteness in business deals as if he envied it; all the while secretly despising them as silly braggarts. In other words he’d be a good barman - assuming that he could mix drinks. Medium height, medium build, medium looks . . . there was nothing about Cliff Hoddle to put anyone’s nose out of joint.
His chosen manner towards a female Detective Chief Inspector was one of modest deference and respect tinged with gallantry . . . plus the tiniest underlying hint that he’d like nothing better than the chance to get her into bed. Only of course he knew his place, didn’t he?
‘No doubt, Cliff, you’ve been told what we want to talk to you about?’ Kate began.
‘Mr Slater. Terrible, isn’t it? And to think I was only talking to him yesterday lunchtime.’
At a nod from Kate, Boulter took over.
‘Tell us about that, please. Did he say what his plans were for the evening?’
‘Well ... I gathered he had a date.’
‘With a woman, you mean? Any idea who she was?’
‘Not a glimmer. Real cagey about this one. He wasn’t always, though. Sometimes he brought a woman back to the hotel. Or met one here, if you get my drift.’
‘A pick up?’
‘Well . . .’ The barman was eager to talk, really. Just didn’t want to appear too eager. ‘There were two women at least that he picked up in here. One, I’d never seen before. The other one ... I suppose it’s okay for me to say. Mr Knox does know about it.’
‘You’re referring to Mr Sebastian Knox’s fiancée? Jillian Murdoch?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard about that.’ Hoddle was clearly disappointed.
‘We have. Who was it told Mr Knox about her and Slater? You?’
He adopted a virtuous look. ‘I thought it was only right and proper to put Mr Knox wise to what was going on behind his back. After all, he’s a regular customer of mine.’
‘When did you tell him? The day after it happened?’
‘No, not straight away. I wasn’t certain if I should. I thought about it a lot first and . . .’
‘When, Cliff?’ the sergeant barked.
‘It was just the other day, actually.’ Reproachful, hurt.
‘Which day, exactly? And what time?’
‘Let me see now... it would have been Sunday lunchtime. Yes, that’
s right.’
Kate nodded, ‘So . . .at lunchtime on Sunday you told Mr Knox that on a certain evening about a month ago his fiancée had dined in the hotel with Barry Slater, and later went up to his room with him. Is that correct?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Was anyone else within hearing?’
‘Oh, no! I was very discreet.’
You bet he was discreet, Kate. Slimy little git!
Boulter continued. ‘How did Mr Knox react when you told him?’
‘He was pretty upset. Only to be expected in the circumstances, wasn’t it?’
‘Didn’t he want to know why you’d not told him before?’
‘Well, I explained how I’d been worrying about it. Trying to make up my mind if I ought to tell him or not.’
‘And what made you to decide to bring it out on that particular occasion?’
A smirk of justification. ‘That Mr Knox, he can be really uppity sometimes. Likes to put you in your place, you know. I’d made some harmless little joke, and he stared at me as if I was dirt. So I thought to myself, all right, matey, if that’s how you feel!’
‘You were getting back at him?’
‘No more than what anyone else would have done, given the chance.’
Kate intervened, and Cliff Hoddle instantly switched to an expression of respectful attention.
‘What did Mr Knox have to say in response to what you told him? Did he utter any threats against Barry Slater in your hearing?’
‘Not what you’d call threats. He went red in the face and stared at me as if it was all my fault. I mean to say, I’d been doing the man a favour, hadn’t I, telling him what sort of woman he’d got himself engaged to? Then he went stalking out of the bar without another word.’
‘I understand there was an encounter between Knox and Slater outside the hotel the following evening?’
‘I heard about it, madam,’ Hoddle said cautiously. ‘Is that all right, calling you madam?’
‘If you want to. What did you hear about the encounter? Who told you about it?’
Deadly Deceit Page 8
