‘Thank you, I’m sure everything will be fine.’
James went into the baby’s room and began to set up the cot, while Sarah, depositing various bundles on the bed, unrolled the mattress. Susie turned to her son. ‘Now, my darling, you’re going to be a good boy for Auntie Dilly, aren’t you? And Mummy and Daddy will be back before you know it.’
Sudden tears filled her eyes and she hid them by burying her face in the baby’s neck and kissing him.
‘Have you time for coffee?’ Dilys asked, to distract her.
‘No thank you, we must be going. The car’s coming for us at eleven. Now don’t worry,’ she added, intercepting Dilys’s cautious glance at the baby. ‘Sarah’s very experienced — she’ll take good care of him.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Dilys said, unsure whether it was herself or the baby’s mother she was reassuring. James and Sarah emerged from the bedroom, where the cot now stood in the centre of the floor.
‘We’d better be going, darling.’
‘I know.’
Susie thrust her son into Sarah’s arms and turned blindly to the stairs. James, with a wry little smile, said goodbye to the nanny and followed Dilys downstairs. Moments later the car had driven away.
Dilys went through to the kitchen, where Peggy had been keeping a low profile. ‘All right, Peggy, you can relax. She either goes out in the evenings or spends them in her room.’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’ The woman paused. ‘What’s she like?’
‘Not what I’d expected.’ She’d imagined a fresh-faced girl with a ready smile. ‘In her mid-thirties, I’d say, and rather severe-looking. Still, if she’s as devoted and efficient as Susie says, that’s all that matters.’
So the invasion had taken place. Dilys devoutly hoped it would have no inhibiting effect on her thought processes. ‘I’m going to the study,’ she said.
*
‘Ken?’
Sergeant Jackson straightened in his chair. ‘Yes, Guv?’
‘That sudden death at the King’s Head: Pringle’s not happy with it. I’ll meet you at the gate in five minutes. No point in taking the car.’
‘Right, Guv.’
Jackson dropped the phone back on its stand and glanced out of the window. The sun was shining — a great day to be out of the office, even if it meant dealing with some poor stiff at the King’s Head.
He was whistling as he strolled past the pond in the station forecourt. It was Vicky’s birthday at the end of the week — unbelievable to think she’d be eight. She’d set her heart on a video game, Millie said, but there was no way she was getting one. Jackson didn’t hold with them on various counts, not the least being cost. In any case he’d rather she played outdoors like kids always used to, instead of being cooped up all day in front of the telly.
Quick footsteps behind him announced Webb’s arrival, and Jackson prepared to adjust his shorter stride to his chief’s long lope as they set off down Carrington Street.
‘So what have we got, Guv?’
‘The chambermaid found him when she went to do the bed. In his chair, apparently without a mark on him, but Pringle smells a rat, not least because they don’t know who he is. No identification at all: money in his wallet, but no credit cards, cheque-book, driving licence or diary and no clues in his overnight bag.’
‘He must have registered, surely?’
‘I’d have thought so. We’ll sort it out when we get there.’
They had turned the corner into the busier thoroughfare of Duke Street and had to raise their voices to be heard over the heavy traffic.
‘And there’s no obvious cause of death?’ Jackson asked.
‘Seems not, but I’d back Pringle’s suspicions any day.’
They walked on in silence until they reached Gloucester Circus, the busy centre of the town where, like spokes from a wheel, no fewer than five main roads radiated in all directions. Waiting for the lights to change, Webb eyed the hotel directly opposite them. It had been a landmark of the town for as long as he could remember, but had been closed for a year or so while major refurbishment took place. No different from the outside anyway; probably a preservation order on it, he reflected.
The lights changed and they crossed to the other side and pushed their way through the swing doors.
‘Fair smartened the old place up, haven’t they?’ Jackson commented, noting with approval the pale wood panelling and thick carpet. ‘Don’t think they’d welcome us for a pie and a pint these days, Guv!’
‘It was never my scene,’ Webb returned shortly. He approached the reception desk. ‘DC Webb, Shillingham CID.’
‘Yes, sir, Mr Diccon is expecting you. He’ll show you up, if you’d like to come this way.’
They were whisked smartly into an elaborately appointed office. A tall, thin man with over-long dark hair and a pale face rose from behind a desk.
‘Ah, good morning, gentlemen. This is terrible — terrible. And coming so soon on our reopening, too.’ He was almost wringing his hands.
‘If you could take us straight up, sir,’ Webb interposed smoothly, ‘we’d be glad of a word later.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Diccon led them down a short corridor to what was obviously the service lift, no doubt to protect the sensibilities of the other guests.
‘I understand there’s some question about the deceased’s identity?’ Webb said, as they waited for it to arrive. ‘Surely he checked in on arrival?’
‘Alas, no,’ Diccon replied. ‘He arrived yesterday around lunch-time, our busiest period. We have two conferences in progress and as you can imagine, the staff were under considerable pressure.’
The lift arrived, and they stepped into it, Diccon pressing the button for the second floor. ‘And as luck would have it,’ he continued, ‘what with lunch breaks and so on, for just those few crucial minutes there was only one receptionist on the desk, and she was run off her feet. She scribbled down his name — which unfortunately she now can’t decipher — and he took the key and said he’d check in later.’
The lift had stopped and they got out. ‘I shall want to see the receptionist and the note she made.’
‘Yes, of course.’
They were led along another corridor to a door, outside which PC Joe Kenworthy stood impassively on guard. Webb nodded to him. ‘Dr Pringle still here?’
‘Yes, sir, he’s waiting for you.’
Webb opened the door and went in, pushing it shut behind him. The bedroom was the standard layout. Immediately to the left was a fitted wardrobe, to the right a door leading presumably to the bathroom. Twin beds protruded from the right-hand wall, while a luggage rack, dressing-table and mini-bar took up that on the left. At the far end, beneath the windows, stood a table and two easy chairs, and slumped in one of them was an inert body. Beside it, looking out of the window with his hands in his pockets, was the spare figure of Dr Pringle. He turned as Webb came in.
‘Ah, Dave. Thought you’d like a wee look at this joker. No obvious cause of death but it smells a mite fishy to me.’
Webb had great respect for Pringle’s nose. He walked over and stood looking down at the body.
The deceased was — or had been — a good-looking man in his forties. He had plentiful curly hair, dark brown in colour, and straight dark brows. His suit was fairly lightweight and the cut, from what Webb could see of it, didn’t look entirely English.
‘No ID, I gather.’
‘No, that’s what aroused my suspicions in the first place.’
Webb surveyed the position of the body, comfortably relaxed in its chair. ‘If it was natural causes, wouldn’t he have tried to reach the phone?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘If it was heart, he mightn’t have had time. But I don’t think it was natural causes, Dave. Don’t ask me why; apart from the ID business — which could have an innocent explanation — there’s nothing I can put my finger on. It’s more a hunch than anything, but I’d lay money on our having a suspicious death on our hands.’
‘That’s good enough for me. We’ll get on to the Coroner’s Officer and Scenes of Crime.’
Pringle nodded, satisfied.
‘Care to stick your neck out on approximate time of death?’
The doctor grinned. ‘Better leave that to friend Stapleton. Personally, I’d say around twenty-four hours.’ He picked up his black bag. ‘OK if I go just now? I’ve a full surgery waiting.’
‘Yes, of course. Many thanks, Alec.’
Alone with the dead man, Webb stood for several minutes trying to soak up such atmosphere as there was in that sterile room. He believed firmly that a corpse had a lot to tell an investigator, and valued a space of time alone with the victim, always hoping some mysterious osmosis might occur.
What emotions had been experienced here during the last twenty-four hours? Despair? Suicide was still a possibility, though again, no discernible means. Fear? And if so, of what? A sudden pain in the chest? Or, even more threatening, someone standing over him as Webb did now? He was directly in front of the window, as the murderer — if murderer there were — would also have been. But could anyone have seen him or her? Webb doubted it. No windows gave directly on this one, and anyone standing in the car park below would have to crane his head back in order to see him.
He turned again to the suit. The jacket seemed baggier than usual, the trousers narrower. The shoes especially, now that he looked at them, had a decidedly continental look to them, with their supple leather and fringed tongues. But if he was a foreigner, then his passport and flight tickets were also missing.
Webb turned his attention to the case on the luggage rack. It was open, but its owner had not had time to unpack; pyjamas, shaving gear and toiletries were still inside, together with a change of underwear. A label on one of the garments was in French, which seemed to back his hunch, but there was an English paperback stuffed down the side of the case.
Webb looked round for a briefcase. If the victim was a businessman, which seemed likely, he would surely have had something of the kind. But a quick search proved futile, a fact which could be significant.
There was a macintosh hanging in the wardrobe, but its pockets revealed only a soiled handkerchief and half a tube of Polo mints. The bathroom contained nothing personal. It seemed the man had simply come to his room, dumped his mac and his case — and then what? It had been lunchtime: perhaps he’d gone straight down to the bar or restaurant and met someone there — but by chance or design? Or had he arranged a meeting in his room? With a woman, perhaps? That thought opened further possibilities. In any event, it seemed likely he’d died within an hour or so of arriving at the hotel. In heaven’s name, why?
Webb sighed and rejoined Jackson, who’d been chatting to Joe Kenworthy at the door. ‘Right, Joe, I want the room sealing till Dr Stapleton and the SOCOs get here. Bleep me when they arrive — I’ll be in the hotel.’
And, nodding to Jackson to accompany him, Webb strode down the corridor towards the lift.
The manager was nervously awaiting them in his office.
‘Now, sir,’ Webb said briskly, ‘I’ve given orders that in their own interests no one is to leave or enter the hotel until further notice. And as a matter of urgency, I shall need names and addresses of everyone who was here during the relevant time yesterday, together with a note of anyone who has since left, especially if it was earlier than anticipated.’
The manager was gazing at him in horror. ‘But Chief Inspector, I can’t have my guests treated as though they were criminals! I —’
‘Mr Diccon,’ Webb interrupted forcefully, ‘one of your guests is dead, and it is possible he did not die from natural causes.’
‘You mean — someone might have killed him? Here?’
‘It’s possible,’ Webb repeated, biting back the acid comment that murderers were no respecters of refurbished hotels and their reputations. ‘Everyone, staff and guests, will have to be interviewed as soon as possible. Someone might have seen something suspicious.’
With a shrug of resignation, Diccon lifted his phone and gave the necessary orders. The support group would be here any minute, Webb thought, but they’d already wasted twenty-four hours. The murderer was probably long gone. In the meantime he resumed the interview.
‘Now, sir, you say the deceased didn’t register on arrival. But surely he’d confirmed his booking in writing?’
‘He hadn’t booked in advance,’ Diccon said, making an obvious effort to control himself. ‘Arrived on spec. As I told you, he did give his name, but the girl was doing half a dozen things at once and can’t decipher her scrawl. A two-syllabled name beginning with K is the best she can come up with.’
‘You have it here?’
‘Yes, as you asked.’ He pushed across the reservations book. On the page for the previous day, the entry against room 251 was indeed all but illegible. An initial K was the only recognizable character, though an upper loop halfway along could, Webb supposed, be a b, d, h, 1 or even another k. Not a lot of help.
‘Any idea how he arrived? Car in the car park, for instance?’
Diccon shrugged helplessly. ‘We’ve no way of knowing. The ambulance man said he had car keys — I called them first, of course, and they were trying to discover who he was. But short of going round all the cars —’
‘Our plain-clothes officers will see to that.’ Diccon opened his mouth to protest once more, but catching Webb’s eye, thought better of it. ‘And now,’ Webb continued smoothly, ‘I’d like to see the receptionist, please, and after that the young lady who found the deceased.’
‘Certainly.’
The receptionist must have been standing by; almost as soon as Diccon put down his phone she tapped on the door. He introduced her to Webb — her name, Samantha, was inscribed on the badge she wore — then tactfully left the room.
She was tall and slim, wore her hair in a ponytail high on her head, and her make-up was immaculate. Looking at her, Webb found it hard to imagine her being flustered or writing anything illegible.
‘Sit down, Miss — er — Samantha. I understand you allocated the room to the guest who died?’
‘That’s right.’ She seated herself gracefully. ‘I feel dreadful that I took so little notice of him, but as I think Mr Diccon explained, I’d been left to hold the fort and quite frankly, it was chaos. Queues of people were waiting at the desk and the phone was ringing non-stop. When he offered to check in later, I was only too grateful.’
‘I want you to think carefully, because this could be important. Had he a foreign accent?’
She looked surprised. ‘No, sir.’
‘Can you be sure, when you were so busy? If —’
‘I should certainly remember if he’d been foreign,’ she said decidedly.
‘Even if he spoke good English?’ Webb persisted, remembering the paperback.
‘I would at least have registered it. We’re trained to speak to guests in their own language if at all possible. And though I can’t remember his name, it was an English one. I’m sure of that.’
‘Ah yes, his name. You’ve not had any more thoughts on that?’
‘I’ve been racking my brains all morning, but it won’t come back. I know it began with K, and I’m pretty sure it had two syllables, but though I’ve gone through every name I can think of, none of them seems right.’
‘He couldn’t have been connected with either of the conferences? A speaker who’d been delayed, for instance?’
‘No, they all arrived the previous evening. They’d have told us if anyone else was expected.’
‘Can you remember exactly what he said?’
She frowned, thinking back. ‘I was on the phone, and the caller had gone to check something so I’d a moment free. I looked up and he was at the front of the queue. He smiled and said, “I’d no idea you’d be so busy. I’d like a room for tonight, if you have one going.”’ She smiled slightly. ‘An English idiom, wouldn’t you say, sir?’
Cheeky monkey! thought Jackson.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I pulled over the reservations book and 251 was vacant so I took the key off the hook and asked his name.’ She paused and Webb waited, not wanting to banish any elusive memory by prompting her. But she sighed and shook her head. ‘I’d just started to write it in when the person on the phone came back and took up the conversation where we’d left off, and I had to switch back to what we’d been discussing. The key was in my hand and he — Mr K — leant forward and took it, mouthing, “I’ll check in later” and that was the last I saw of him.’
‘Did you notice how much luggage he had?’
‘Sorry — though he bent to pick something up as he turned away.’
And that was all she could tell him. Webb had to admit it was a concise account. A pity her normal efficiency had been impaired at the crucial moment.
The chambermaid was a very different case. Pale and red-eyed, she shivered constantly throughout the interview, which at first roused Webb’s pity and later his irritation. She was small, with wispy fair hair, and in response to his question, admitted that her name was Maggie.
‘You didn’t see this gentleman at all the previous evening?’ Webb asked her. She shook her head, clenching her hands in her lap.
‘Not even when you went to turn the bed down?’
‘We don’t do that now, sir,’ she whispered. ‘So as not to disturb the guests.’
To save themselves the trouble, more like. ‘But you knew the room was occupied?’
‘Yes, a twin-bedded, let as a single.’
‘Had he ordered a newspaper or early-morning tea?’
‘No, sir. That’s why I didn’t go in till going on ten, to make the bed, like.’
‘And what was your first impression on entering the room?’
‘The, the stuffiness, sir.’ She put a hand over her mouth and Jackson hoped fervently she was not about to vomit. ‘Then I saw the gentleman sitting by the window, and that neither of the beds had been used. So I said “Sorry!” and started to go out again, but he looked kind of queer, so I went a bit closer, and — and then I could see —’
The Gospel Makers Page 5
