The Hanging in the Hotel (Fethering Mysteries)

by Brett, Simon

  His new celebrity had brought him all the bonuses attendant of television popularity—appearances on chat shows, at awards ceremonies and in highly paid commercials. The words “I wish I’d been born deaf” with which he greeted the worst of the aspirants on the talent show had become a recent national catch-phrase. He had even reached the giddy heights of being caricatured by cartoonists and lampooned by satirical television impressionists. The old rocker had certainly reinvented himself for the new millennium.

  The photograph of Rick with Suzy was one of a sequence evoking his previous career. There were also shots of him leaving for international tours with his band, squiring other forgotten women, looking beat-up and past it in the early nineties. These framed the main picture, which showed Rick, with his arms around nineteen-year-old twin girls who had survived the rigours of the talent show to become over-hyped one-hit Number Ones. His famously large teeth were revealed in a lascivious grin, which deepened the engraving of lines on his long thin face. His hair was short and grey. The caption read: “As young as the women he feels.”

  Jude had met Rick Hendry a few times while he had been married to Suzy. He had always worked hard on his image. The “wild man of rock” was a cunning self-marketer, shrewd about business, tight with his money, ruthless in getting what he wanted. The new incarnation—poison-tongued, ageing enfant terrible—was, Jude felt sure, quite as carefully manufactured as any of the previous ones.

  And whoever wrote the text which accompanied the magazine’s photo spread had clearly bought into Rick Hendry’s self-image.

  TV’s Mr. Nasty has never made any secret of the fact that he likes beautiful women. “And when beauty and talent come together,” says Rick, “the combination is a total knockout.” Currently single, “the Black Mamba of the Box” isn’t sure where he’s going to strike next. “I’m having such a good time playing the field, why should I ever go back to an exclusive relationship? There’s life in the old dog yet.” And for an old dog who’s made a career out of bitchiness, who can doubt that what he says is true?

  Good luck, Rick—and I think we can put that prescription of Viagra on hold for a while yet!

  Carole didn’t notice that her friend had had her hair done. Jude never emerged with that crisp salon-fresh look. Her hair was just piled up again on top of her head, secured by whatever clips or combs were her current favourites. Only the very observant would have detected a change in its degree of blondness. And that Saturday afternoon as she came rushing round to Woodside Cottage, Carole was far too preoccupied to take in that kind of detail. “I’ve just had a call from Barry Stilwell,” she announced.

  “Oh?”

  “From his golf club . . .”

  She sounded so bewildered that Jude giggled. “I see. Not wanting to ring his mistress from home.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” But there had been something conspiratorial in Barry’s tone, which might suggest they were sharing an illicit secret.

  Jude scratched her newly blond hair thoughtfully. “I’m surprised men bother with that these days. Ringing from the golf club. You can use a mobile to ring from anywhere. You know, mobile phones have really changed the whole complexion of adultery.”

  She sounded almost wistfully regretful of the fact, as though some of the fun had been taken out of the game. In other circumstances, Carole might have pressed her for amplification, but she was currently too shocked by her recent phone conversation with Barry.

  “But he does want to meet me again,” she admitted.

  “Go for it.”

  “Jude, I can’t. For one thing, he’s repulsive. And for another, he’s married.”

  “Can’t let details like that stand in your way.”

  “I am not the kind of woman who has affairs with married men.” She knew she sounded terribly pompous, so added, “Or with anyone else, come to that.” Which somehow didn’t sound right either.

  “Carole . . .” Jude’s brown eyes fixed hers in an expression of mock seriousness. “There are times when you mustn’t think about yourself. You must set aside your own feelings and prioritise the greater cause.”

  “I don’t think having affairs with married men you can’t stand could ever be defined as a greater cause.”

  “It could if it brings a benefit with it.”

  “What benefit could an affair with Barry Stilwell possibly bring?”

  “Information.” The lightness had dropped from Jude’s tone; she was completely serious. “Barry Stilwell is the only link we have to the Pillars of Sussex. We need to keep in touch with him if we’re going to find out what really happened to Nigel Ackford.”

  “But—”

  “Whether you have to go to bed with him to get that information is up to you . . .” Jude grinned. “Mata Hari.”

  15

  THE EMERGENCY CALL came through at four. Four on a Saturday—Jude had a pretty good idea that it would be Suzy Longthorne.

  “I’ve been let down again.”

  “What is it?”

  “Wedding Reception.”

  “Who’ve you got?”

  “Max, obviously. And the boy who insists on calling himself the sous-chef. Stella. It’s one of the other girls who’s let me down. Well, not really let me down. Her mother’s ill.”

  “And have you got Kerry?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve got Kerry. For what it’s worth.”

  “Okay. I’ll get a cab.”

  Suzy Longthorne’s own chequered marital history did not stop her from putting on a good reception at Hopwicke Country House Hotel. In keeping with the new fashion for four o’clock weddings, the guests would not arrive from the church before five-thirty, and by then Jude was neatly packaged in her Edwardian waitress kit, standing in the hallway with trays of champagne to greet the arrivals.

  In this instance, the Edwardian theme had been picked up for the wedding itself. The men were dressed in frock-coats and the women in high-waisted long dresses with lots of buttons. This was quite flattering to most of them, though not to the bride, who didn’t have a waist. Nor could a frock-coat be said to have done much for the groom, accentuating his shortness and making him look like a cross between Groucho Marx and Toulouse-Lautrec.

  But it was not the place of Jude or any of the other hotel staff to comment on such things. The whispered bitchiness of the assembled guests was quite sufficient.

  Jude was surprised to find that she recognised two of those guests. The father of the bride, it turned out, was none other than the president of the Pillars of Sussex, James Baxter. And her godfather was Donald Chew. He was there with his wife, a small thin woman, who exuded disapproval of everything, particularly her husband.

  Jude wondered whether the presence of the two men, and the family’s unwillingness to spoil the day’s celebrations, had anything to do with the perfunctory investigation of Nigel Ackford’s death. Or indeed its hushing-up. An unnatural death in a hotel the week before a wedding reception might not be seen as the best omen for the future of a marriage.

  She was determined to exploit the opportunity of her unexpected presence at Hopwicke House and speak to Kerry. There were a lot of questions she wanted to put to the girl about the night of Nigel Ackford’s death. But the interrogation would have to wait. At the moment they were all too busy refilling champagne glasses and circulating the delicately delicious nibbles that Max Townley and his sous-chef had produced.

  The format for the reception was a merciful one, in that a decision had been made to have the speeches before the meal rather than after. This was welcomed by the groom and the best man, who were amongst that large section of the community for whom public speaking ranks as a horror above noticing that the passenger in the seat next to you on a plane has plastic explosives strapped to his body.

  James Baxter, of course, with his wide experience of chairing Pillars of Sussex meetings, had no such inhibitions. He thought of himself as a natural public speaker.

  In this opinion he was misguided. He also believed himse
lf to be such a natural public speaker that he did not require the support of notes. In this he was even more misguided. Notes might at least have imposed some structure on his maunderings.

  He started, safely enough, by welcoming the guests, but immediately blotted his copybook by repeating one of the jokes which had been delivered by the rugby club speaker earlier in the week. It had been a bit iffy at the Pillars of Sussex Dinner; in mixed company it could not have been less appropriate. His wife flashed him a look of iced venom, and when the groom laughed loudly, the bride shot him a look of iced venom, suggesting he had a long, hard marriage ahead.

  Fortunately, Jude’s waitressing duties meant she didn’t have to listen to all of the speeches, but as she slipped in and out of the kitchen she heard enough to suggest she wasn’t missing much.

  The groom said, without much conviction, that he was very lucky to have captured such a lovely bride, and he knew that all of his friends were envious of him. All of his friends, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and who had started the day’s drinking at noon in the pub, were perhaps injudiciously honest in their assessment of the bride’s charms.

  The best man had bought a book on best man’s speeches, and tried to reproduce some of the jokes he had read there. He interlarded these with stories of a blueness which made the rugby ones sound entirely innocent. But, since he spoke throughout in an inaudible monotone, he caused no offence.

  Finally, the speeches were over, the cake was cut, and the photographer had finished his posings of the bride and groom, praying that the camera might work miracles. The guests went through to the dining room, expertly decorated by Suzy Longthorne to resemble an Edwardian conservatory, and Jude had a chance to pursue her investigation.

  In its pomp, Hopwicke Country House Hotel had had a restaurant manager and maître d’ to oversee dining arrangements, but staffing economies had left Suzy in charge. She controlled the flow of the food delivery and clearing with her customary efficiency, and proved that in the right circumstances it was possible even for a beautiful woman to become invisible. Once the diners got into their stride of eating, drinking and talking, they became completely unaware of the stage management around them.

  During the preliminary seating of the guests, the waitstaff were kept busy. But as soon as the pre-prepared starters had been served, Jude found herself alone in the kitchen with Max Townley, as he plated up the main courses and put them in a heated cupboard to await their summons to the dining room.

  “Did the police talk to you?” asked Jude. “You know, about the boy who died?”

  A flicker of panic crossed his face, but was quickly controlled. “Yes. Had I heard or seen anything unusual during the night? No, I hadn’t. I’d been heavily into the vodka and just passed out . . . not that I told the police that bit.”

  “It’s not like you to drink that much, Max. At least not here. Is it?”

  “No. I’d had some bad news that day, that’s all.”

  “Oh?”

  But he didn’t rise to the bait and specify what the bad news had been. Instead, he went on, “Presumably the police asked you rather more, since you actually found the body?”

  “Yes.” She phrased her next question carefully. “They didn’t say anything, did they . . . about the possibility of the death not being suicide?”

  The chef stopped ladling Cumberland sauce. The blankness in his face showed that he’d never even contemplated the idea.

  “No. What are you suggesting, Jude? Be pretty difficult to do that to yourself by accident. One of these autoerotic sex games that went wrong?”

  She shook her head lightly. “Just a daft thought.”

  Max resumed his ladling. He was still twitchy and ill at ease. “It’s a first for me, you know. Someone topping himself in a hotel where I was working. You hear about it, but . . .”

  “Does it upset you?”

  He shrugged. “Not my problem. Didn’t even meet the bloke.” He moved away from the main courses and picked up a mixing bowl. He held a coated wooden spoon out to Jude. “Have a taste.”

  She did. “Bloody marvellous. What’s the liqueur in it?”

  “Calvados. One of my specials. Goes over the apricot meringues.” He gave a dispirited nod toward the dining room. “Not that they’ll notice what it is. Far too pissed. That’s the trouble with these late weddings.”

  “You ever been married, Max?”

  He laughed at the idea. “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

  “Why does anyone want to do it?”

  “A question, Jude, to which I’ve never found a satisfactory answer.”

  “Max . . .” Her voice lowered. “Tuesday night . . .”

  “Mm?”

  “The night Nigel Ackford—”

  “I know the one you’re talking about.” But he didn’t sound as though he wanted to pursue the subject.

  “Did you see Kerry?”

  “Saw her when she was waitressing.”

  “No. Later. After the Pillars of Sussex had gone to bed?”

  He looked at her with undisguised suspicion. “Why should I have seen her then?”

  “She wasn’t around to help tidying up.”

  “Just gone to bed, I expect. Lazy little cow.”

  “No. She wasn’t in her room. I went in there by mistake.”

  “And are you suggesting she was with me?” He was angry now.

  “No, of course I wasn’t.”

  “I should bloody hope not. All right, I like women, but you’d never catch me going for jailbait like that. Kerry’s trouble, let me tell you. She’s a danger to—”

  But who she was a danger to Jude did not find out. The door from the dining room clattered open, revealing Suzy, cool as ever in a long seamless light grey dress. “Time to clear up the starters.”

  Talking to Kerry proved more difficult. Jude was in the girl’s company all evening, as they bustled back and forth with trays of fresh dishes and dirty plates, as they filled wineglasses and swept up bread crumbs, but they were never just the two of them. And Jude needed to talk to Kerry on her own.

  At last, in the pause before the coffeepots were taken in, they both arrived in the kitchen with armfuls of sweet plates. Max and his sous-chef, having set out dishes of petit fours, reckoned their evening’s work was over and had set off home. Kerry looked anxious when she realised the room was empty but for the two of them.

  As they unloaded the dirty dishes on to a table, she looked at Jude defiantly, the schoolgirl who had been caught smoking. She was aware that this was the first chance they had had to talk since Nigel Ackford’s death.

  Jude plunged straight in. “On Tuesday, Kerry,” she said, “you weren’t around to help clear up after the guests had gone to bed . . .”

  She could have predicted the monosyllabic response. A teenage “So?”

  “I was wondering where you were.”

  “I work for Suzy, not you, Jude. If she asks me where I was, I might tell her. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “No. But I happen to know you weren’t in your bed at about three o’clock in the morning.”

  “How do you know that? You been snooping in my room?”

  “I walked into it by mistake.”

  “Oh yes?” The words dripped adolescent sarcasm.

  “Yes, I did. You weren’t there. So where were you?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Usually that might be true. At a time when someone was dying in the hotel, what everyone was doing becomes important.”

  “What are you, Jude—an undercover policewoman?”

  “No. Since you mention the police, though . . . did they talk to you?”

  The girl nodded.

  “And ask you where you were that night?”

  Another nod.

  “What did you tell them?”

  For the first time, the girl’s defiance gave way to fear. “I told them I went to bed.”

  “What time?”

  “I sa
id twelve o’clock.”

  “That was a lie, Kerry. I saw you still in the bar at twelve o’clock. With your father.”

  “Stepfather,” came the automatic correction.

  “All right. So were you still with him later on? At three o’clock?”

  Fear in the girl’s expression gave way to terror. “No,” she insisted. “No, I wasn’t with him.” She looked very flustered. “Look, I can’t talk about this now. But please don’t tell the police I wasn’t where I said I was. You won’t, will you?”

  Jude had no intention of telling the police, but all she replied was a dubious, “Well . . .”

  “Listen, Jude, please don’t tell the police. I’ll tell you the truth. I promise I will. But not now. Not here.” She picked up a couple of coffeepots. “Better take these through.”

  “When are you going to tell me the truth, Kerry?”

  “Tomorrow. Come to my flat in Brighton.”

  “You really have got a flat in Brighton?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re only fifteen and . . .”

  “My parents have always encouraged me to be independent,” she said sniffily. Then she gave the address. “I promise I’ll tell you everything then.”

  Which was, thought Jude, to put it at its mildest, intriguing.

  Her one-to-one with Suzy Longthorne was in an even less glamorous situation. The gentlemen’s toilet. In which one of the wedding guests had thrown up copiously. So extensive was the mess that the curious could have pieced together all the details of Max Townley’s dinner from what was splattered over the tiled floor and walls. But it wasn’t the food that had reacted with the guest’s stomach; it was the excesses of alcohol that he had been drinking since noon.

  The individual who had caused the chaos had sidled quietly back to his seat and it had been left for the next visitor to the gents to find out and report what had happened. Suzy Longthorne came through into the kitchen, as Jude and Kerry were piling up plates for the student who did the washing up. The hotelier’s face was grim as she collected up mops, buckets and disinfectant.