The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  “She works up at Hopwicke Country House Hotel as well.”

  “Does she?” The idea seemed to surprise Wendy. “I can’t imagine her working anywhere.”

  “Why not? Most people have to.”

  “Yes, but I thought, with Daddy’s money . . .” She couldn’t disguise the envy in her voice. “I heard he’d even set her up in a flat in Brighton—and she can’t be much more than sixteen. Not even that, actually. I remember, it’s her birthday quite soon. She’s still only fifteen—and got her own flat. No mortgage, nothing—lucky little bugger. Surprised to hear she’s working. I suppose I’d always seen Kerry as a kind of trust fund kid.”

  “She’s doing work experience up at Hopwicke House, with a view to learning hotel management.”

  A short, cynical chuckle. “And then no doubt Daddy’ll buy her her own hotel to play with.”

  “Maybe. Do you still see her?”

  “Might bump into her in the street, say hello, that’s it.”

  “And what was she like as a child?”

  “Spoilt little madam. Only had to ask for something and she got it. I think her new Daddy was buying her affection in the old traditional manner.” Again, undisguised resentment.

  “How did Nigel come to know Bob Hartson?”

  “Through work. Renton & Chew handle all Bob Hartson’s legal stuff. He’s very in with the Senior Partner there, Donald Chew. Nigel was very impressed that Bob Hartson seemed to be, sort of, taking him under his wing as well.”

  “Yes.” Jude was thoughtful for a moment. What was it the property developer had hoped to get from the young solicitor? Why had he bolstered the young man, even suggested he might become a member of the Pillars—which, from what Barry Stilwell had told Carole, was an extraordinarily unlikely thing to happen? Oh well, worth asking. “Apparently, Wendy, Hartson was even suggesting that he might put Nigel up for membership of the Pillars of Sussex.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “No, well, he only told me on the night . . .” Jude wished she hadn’t embarked on that sentence, and quickly changed direction. “So you don’t know why Bob Hartson might have wanted to cultivate Nigel?”

  A quick shake of the head, then a silence. The girl took the first sip of her water, and looked at her watch. Jude hadn’t got long.

  “Thank you very much for seeing me, Wendy.” She scribbled a number on a paper napkin. “That’s my mobile. Do give me a call if—”

  “If what?”

  “If you find out anything else about how Nigel died.”

  The girl looked blank. “That’s not very likely, is it?”

  Jude had to admit that it probably wasn’t. “No. I know this must be a difficult time for you.”

  After a moment of bemusement, the girl said, “Oh, you mean because of Nigel . . .” She considered the idea, as if it hadn’t occurred to her before. “Yes . . . I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. I’m afraid my first reaction was, like, relief. Awful, but maybe that’s what he wanted. He won’t be unhappy anymore.”

  “No.”

  “And . . . well, it has, like, made certain decisions for me. Our relationship wasn’t going anywhere, it had to end at some point and . . .”

  She looked at her watch again. Jude wondered what further information she could get before this particular window closed.

  But Wendy had already slipped off her stool and was saying, “I’d better be getting back. End of the week, things to tidy up.”

  “Yes. Once again, thank you very much for making the time to see me.”

  The girl lingered, though. There was something else she wanted to say, but she wasn’t finding it easy to get the words out.

  “Jude . . . you mentioned . . . on the phone . . . that Nigel said something about me . . . you know, when he was drunk . . .”

  Of course. Jude had completely forgotten the pretext on which she had arranged their meeting.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry. He did.”

  “What did he say?” The question tried to sound casual, but failed.

  “He said he was going to ask you to marry him . . .”

  Wendy Fullerton winced, as though she had just been stabbed.

  “And he said he felt pretty confident that you’d say yes.”

  The façade of insouciance cracked. Tears welled and spilled, making rivulets in the girl’s thick armour of makeup.

  13

  “I’VE FIXED TO go up to the hotel tomorrow morning,” Carole announced. “To have a look around. So any thoughts as to what I should look out for would be welcomed.”

  “Well . . .” Jude buried her fingers in her bird’s nest of blond hair as she concentrated. “Certainly ask to see the four-poster room on the top floor. The murder scene.”

  “We don’t know that it was murder,” Carole reprimanded puritanically.

  “Don’t nitpick.”

  “But the girlfriend wasn’t surprised by the idea that he’d committed suicide.”

  “No, I know that. He was depressive, he had threatened to kill himself. I’m just convinced that he didn’t.”

  “I agree with you completely.” Behind the rimless glasses, there was a rare twinkle in Carole’s pale blue eyes. “But we mustn’t get carried away.”

  “Why not?” asked Jude pugnaciously. “Why is everyone in this bloody country always so terrified of getting carried away?”

  Carole looked across the cluttered sitting room at her friend. Jude didn’t usually behave like this. Normally she was very grounded, secure in her own space.

  Reading her thoughts, Jude explained, “I’m sorry. I’m letting this get to me. It must be because I saw the boy so soon before his death. I can’t stop thinking of the waste. And that’s sort of mixed in with my distaste for all-male organisations like the Pillars of Sussex. I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” Tears glistened in the large brown eyes.

  Carole found herself in a rare role reversal. She was calming Jude, rather than the other way round. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what really happened to Nigel Ackford. That’s the only thing that’s going to make you feel better.”

  Jude nodded gratefully.

  That Saturday morning the South Downs glowed in the spring sunshine, as Carole’s Renault made its sedate way up to Hopwicke Country House Hotel. There were no other buildings nearby, no other cars on the road. Nothing to betray the passage of the centuries. The perfectly proportioned square mansion must have looked like this, Carole thought, when George Hopwicke first took possession of it.

  She left the car in the guests’ car park, and walked round to the main entrance. As ever, the set-dressing of the hall was perfect, transporting her back into a BBC costume drama. The props placed her in the eternal afternoon of the Edwardian period, innocent of the coming horrors of the Great War.

  The only discordant note was the soundtrack. From the bar, the latest ersatz girl group squeaked away on Radio One. Carole rang the small silver bell on the antique reception desk.

  Nothing happened. The music continued.

  She moved across the hall toward the open door of the bar. A small portable radio on the counter was revealed as the source of the noise. In front of it, side-on to Carole’s view, a slight blond teenage girl in blue skirt and white smock overall was gyrating in time to the music. Her right hand held a feather duster in lieu of a microphone, into which she lustily sang along with the radio.

  “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Seddon. Excuse me.”

  Carole hadn’t heard Suzy Longthorne’s entrance. She watched as the slender hotelier crossed to the bar. “Could you switch that off, please, Kerry?”

  The words weren’t said with much emphasis, but there was no doubt they represented an order rather than a request. The music vanished in mid-squeak.

  No one could have lived through the years Carole had without seeing images of Suzy Longthorne. Even someone as resistant to trendiness as she was could not have avoided that iconic figure. On many occasions Suzy had progressed from the fashio
n sections of the press to the news pages.

  And, despite her innate resistance to the person who Carole thought of as “Jude’s friend Suzy,” she could not help being impressed seeing her in the flesh. The auburn hair gleamed, the hazel eyes sparkled. And it cost a lot to get a black wool trouser suit that looked that casual.

  “Yes. I hope you don’t mind my coming. My son’s thinking of staying here and asked me to have a look round.”

  Whatever Suzy Longthorne may really have thought about having her premises vetted, she was far too well-bred and professional to let any negative feelings show. Maybe in better times she would not have agreed to guided tours. When Hopwicke Country House Hotel was the sought-after destination of the glitterati, perhaps its qualities could be taken as read. In the current, American-free, chillier climate, Suzy Longthorne could not risk losing a single booking.

  She led her potential customer through into the bar. Kerry was now assiduously dusting the racked bottles behind the counter, but Carole got the impression her industry was solely for her employer’s benefit. The moment Suzy was out of sight, the movements would become more lethargic. And the moment she was out of earshot, Radio One would probably reassert itself.

  Carole tried to think of a pretext for speaking to the girl, but none came to her. Jude would have thought of something. But then of course Jude knew Kerry, anyway, so she wouldn’t have needed a pretext.

  Carole was duly appreciative of the bar and adjacent dining room. She cooed at the conservatory where she was told breakfast and afternoon tea were served, and admired the wonderful views up over the Downs. She was suitably impressed by the residents’ lounge and the library. Though she was fairly certain that her son wouldn’t need to take advantage of the conference suite, she thought that too was very well appointed.

  Next came the test. “And could I see some of the bedrooms too?”

  Suzy Longthorne made no demur. There was apparently no part of her hotel which was closed to scrutiny. As she pointed out the various facilities, she let drop a few well-practised gobbets of information. But they all concerned the early history of Hopwicke House; she was not so indiscreet as to mention any of its more recent—and more newsworthy—guests.

  A front bedroom and a back bedroom on the first floor had been inspected, and Suzy stood on the landing looking quizzically at her visitor. The moment had come.

  “I understand,” said Carole, “that there is a room with a four-poster as well?”

  Suzy Longthorne did not blench. “Yes, there is. It is rather more expensive than the others. Popular for honeymoons and that kind of thing. Special celebrations.”

  “I don’t think money’s a problem for my son.” As she said the words, Carole realised she had no idea whether or not they were true. Stephen had never shown any particular signs of extravagance. He had always managed his finances carefully. But maybe being engaged to Gaby had raised his aspirations. Maybe it was her money he was budgeting with. There were certainly any number of cheaper options in the area than Hopwicke Country House Hotel.

  Suzy Longthorne pointed out the wonderful view from the top landing. “If I had a telescope, I could probably see my house,” said Carole.

  “Oh. Where do you live, Mrs. Seddon?”

  “Fethering.”

  “Well, you can certainly see the route of the Fether as it reaches the sea.”

  Carole looked at the thin ribbon of water that threaded down through the coastal plain. The river shone in reflected sunlight with a duller gleam than the surrounding rectangles, glasshouses of local nurseries.

  “Come and have a look at the four-poster.” Suzy Longthorne pushed through the fire door into the corridor where Jude had found the drunken Nigel Ackford. She unlocked the bedroom door.

  Inside, everything was immaculate. The curtains around the bed were neatly roped back. Sunlight beamed cheerfully through the tall windows. Nothing betrayed the room as a scene of death.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Carole. “I’m sure my son and his fiancée would like this.”

  “Getting married, are they?” Ever the businesswoman, Suzy Longthorne picked up the cue. “We’ve had some wonderful weddings at Hopwicke House. If they were looking for somewhere for the reception . . . If your prospective daughter-in-law’s local . . .”

  “No, I’m afraid she isn’t,” said Carole, realising that she hadn’t a clue where Gaby lived. She’d assumed London, but she didn’t actually know. Nor did she know where her prospective daughter-in-law might want to get married. Hopefully, such details would become clearer once she had lunched with the happy couple on the Sunday week.

  Carole was now faced with a dilemma. The hotel tour having ended, it was clearly her cue to leave, and she could do that. On the other hand, she felt she should take something back for Jude. So, resorting to bad acting, she announced, “I’ve suddenly remembered. This must be the room where that poor young man died.”

  Suzy Longthorne was far too controlled to react violently, but her beautiful face hardened as she said, “I’m sorry?”

  “I should explain. I’m a friend of Jude’s.”

  “Ah.”

  “She’s my next-door neighbour.”

  “Of course. Fethering. I’ve been to her house. What did she tell you?”

  “Just that there had been this . . . sad incident . . . up here. I’d forgotten about it until . . . actually being in this room . . .”

  The explanation sounded implausible even to Carole’s own ears, but Suzy did not pick up on it. Calmly, she said, “Yes, it was very unfortunate. I’m afraid that’s one of the hazards of the hotel trade. Apart from the cases they’re carrying, you don’t know what other baggage your guests bring with them. Maybe the anonymity of a hotel room appeals to people in that condition. Certainly doesn’t show much concern for others, but then I suppose suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness. Just as people who throw themselves under buses don’t think of the effect of their actions on the driver and passengers, so the reactions of the staff are not uppermost in the mind of someone who chooses to end his life in a hotel room.”

  An expression of concern crossed Suzy’s face. “Jude is all right, is she? It must have been a terrible shock for her.”

  “She was a bit shaken, but she’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  As she was escorted down the splendid staircase, Carole plucked up her courage and asked baldly, “There is no doubt that the death was suicide, is there?”

  “No,” Suzy replied firmly. “No doubt at all. And, incidentally, Mrs. Seddon . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I would be most grateful if you didn’t say anything about the young man’s death to your son . . . or indeed to anyone else. Word of mouth is so important in a profession like mine. It would be very damaging for me if news of this unfortunate occurrence were to get around.”

  As she nosed the Renault gently over the gravel of the Hopwicke House drive, Carole mulled over her recent conversation. Suzy Longthorne had certainly closed her mind to the possibility that Nigel Ackford’s death had been anything other than suicide. And it looked as though the police shared that opinion. Surely, if they had any doubts on the matter, the four-poster room would still be under forensic examination, not open to receive the next guest.

  For a moment, Carole’s own conviction wavered. She had seen nothing untoward, she only had Jude’s suspicions to animate her own. And even Jude’s customary serenity had been shaken by the shock of what she’d found. Maybe at such a time her responses weren’t entirely reliable.

  These thoughts were interrupted by the blare of a hooter, suggesting that the Renault was nearer the crown of the road than it should have been. As she steered closer to the hedge that lined the lane, Carole was overtaken by a throatily roaring motorcycle, driven by a man in black leathers.

  Clinging round his waist, a helmet crammed down over her blond hair, was the unmistakable figure of Kerry Hartson.

  14

  JUDE WAS NOT one
of those women for whom the visit was an essential weekly ritual, but she did enjoy going to the hairdresser. She had been blond for so long that she’d almost forgotten her original hair colour, though she was relieved to observe that her roots were not yet showing white. For her the signal to go to the hairdresser was not the blondness creeping away, but a sudden sensation one morning that there was too much hair to pile on top of her head. That was when she’d book in, or more often just appear without an appointment.

  She wasn’t particularly bothered with who did the cutting, able to find subjects for conversation with most people. As usual, she did more listening than volunteering information. She found the process restful, the washing, the application of the colour, the cutting.

  But the most enjoyable part was waiting for her hair to dry after the colour had been applied. Jude enjoyed lying back in a chair, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing else she could be doing at that point. The drying process would take as long as it took, at such times the hairdresser would be busy with another client so conversation would not be required. And Jude could either let her thoughts wander, or idly skim through a variety of magazines which did not impinge on the normal course of her life.

  The Saturday after Nigel Ackford’s death, she was in the hairdresser’s enjoying one of those weeklies that have redefined—and considerably lowered the qualifications for—the status of “celebrity.” In the inevitable synchronistic way that relevant events have a habit of bubbling to the surface at the right moment, she found herself looking at a picture of Suzy Longthorne.

  The photograph dated back to the prime of Suzy’s marriage to Rick Hendry, and the accompanying text was all about him rather than her. She was mentioned as “former model,” too old to ring many bells amongst the youthful demographics of the magazine’s target audience. Rick Hendry would have suffered the same fate, had his career not been revived by new television fame. Famous for his acerbic dismissals of the talents of teenage pop wannabes, he had now reached the coveted status of “the man the public love to hate.”