by Adam Croft
Muscling in on murder investigations was one thing, but Hardwick trying to convince him that a cut-and-dried suicide was actually a murder was something else entirely.
‘The pathologist’s report was pretty clear, Hardwick,’ Warner said, getting straight to the point as he always did. ‘Witnesses saw Elliot Carr speaking about the argument he’d had with his wife and an hour or two later he topped himself. It’s a straightforward suicide.’
‘A little too straightforward,’ Hardwick replied.
DI Warner sat back in his chair, interlocked his fingers across his stomach and exhaled deeply. ‘Go on,’ he said, having by now realised that he would have to at least humour Hardwick if he was ever going to get home tonight.
‘Am I right in thinking that Elliot Carr went down to the hotel bar and had a couple of drinks between the argument and his death?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Who told you that?’ Warner asked, his eyes narrowing. ‘You do realise that this is a police case and that certain details are confidential, don’t you?’
‘What’s confidential?’ Hardwick replied. ‘I know Elliot Carr was in the bar that night because a number of people saw him. He was staying over at the hotel and I assumed he would have been drinking alcohol. Especially if he was in the frame of mind which might have driven him towards killing himself, which you suspect.’
‘Yes. It seems as though the alcohol might have pushed him over the edge,’ Warner said.
‘And am I also right in thinking that the witnesses in the bar that night said that he seemed to be in brighter spirits when he left the bar than when he arrived?’
Warner started to ask Hardwick where he was getting this information from, then thought better of it. ‘Yes, you often find that with suicides. The final acceptance, the moment of clarity.’
‘Indeed. And rather than walking two hundred yards to the mainline railway or heading for the river that runs behind the hotel, or indeed even for any one of the number of wooded copses, he went upstairs to the top floor of the hotel — a floor he’d never set foot on in a hotel he’d never been to, went into a room he knew would not only have exposed rafters and corded dressing gowns stored there but also be unoccupied, and ended his life there?’
‘Hardwick, I’m not sure what you’re getting at here but I think I can guess. You can’t just go around seeing murder mysteries everywhere. Life doesn’t work like that,’ Warner said, crossing his arms.
‘Would it not be a little more prudent to investigate the possibilities instead of the alternative option of potentially letting a killer run free?’
Warner sighed and dropped his chin against his chest. ‘Listen to me. There is no killer because there was no murder. Elliot Carr committed suicide. The scenes of crime officers said it, the pathologist said it and, more importantly, I said it. Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he added, standing and ushering Hardwick towards the door, ‘I’ve got more important business to be getting on with.’
‘More important than murder? Tell me, is it the pen pushing or doughnut eating?’
DI Warner looked daggers at Hardwick. ‘You’re pushing your luck now. Leave.’
6
Kit Daniels drummed frantically on his desk as the pen bounced up and down, pivoting between his index and middle fingers, sighing as the fingernails on his other hand scratched at the stubble which had begun to grow on his chin.
It was always the same. The Tollinghill Echo was run almost solely on the basis that it needed sensationalist stories in order to make money by selling up to the nationals, yet his editor, Sally Marsh, seemed to be less than enthusiastic about yet another one of his stories.
Apparently a mysterious and rather suspicious suicide just wasn’t enough for Sally, despite the fact that this one looked particularly dodgy and could well turn out to be something other than suicide. That’s if the local fuzz ever pulled their fingers out and actually looked at the facts, of course.
He sighed again and decided that he’d give it one last go. Picking up his notebook, he pushed his chair back on its casters and walked over towards Sally’s office. Peering through the window between the venetian blinds he could see that she wasn’t on the phone but was instead passively engaged in something on her computer. Probably another game of Solitaire, he thought. He knocked, waited for an answer and entered.
‘Sally, I just wanted to speak to you again about this death at the Manor Hotel,’ Kit said, as pleasantly as he could manage.
‘The suicide, you mean?’ Sally replied, raising an eyebrow as she did so.
‘The suspicious suicide, yes.’
‘Suspicious according to you, Kit.’
‘With respect, Sally, it’s my job to investigate stories and find the truth. And I think there’s a whole other truth underneath this one. If there’s something big here we could sell it up to the nationals and make some decent money.’
‘And if there isn’t?’ Sally replied, barely taking her eyes off the computer screen.
‘Then what have we lost, Sally? A few column inches?’
‘If only it were that simple. Column inches cost money. Not only that, but if you engage on some sort of personal mission to uncover secrets which don’t exist you’ll end up upsetting the family and the police, which’ll not only jeopardise our chances of getting decent information in the future but it could end up costing us money in court cases.’
‘Only if we say something which isn’t true,’ Kit replied. ‘Anyway, that’s never stopped us before.’
‘I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at, Kit,’ Sally said, taking her attention off the screen and making eye contact with him for the first time that day. ‘Every story we publish goes through me. Every word is scrutinised and if I don’t believe it’ll stand up then I won’t publish it.’
‘Every word?’
‘Every word.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Kit asked.
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go throwing accusations around. This is a carefully constructed business model and it’s one which works.’
‘Business model?’ Kit barked, almost exploding with rage. ‘This is meant to be a newspaper!’
‘Newspapers have to make money, Kit,’ Sally replied, keeping a calm and level head as she always did. Often she was far too calm and laid-back for situations and this tended to enrage people even more. ‘Listen, I know you’re stressed out at the moment and the changes coming from on high aren’t helping anybody. But the best thing we can do is to function as a unit. Yes, we need sensational stories. But there’s nothing sensational about a suicide in a hotel.’
‘Even if the deceased happened to be perfectly happy and had no reason to kill themselves?’
‘You never know what’s going through a person’s mind. It’s often the seemingly happiest and cheeriest people who are actually at their lowest ebb. The tears of the clown, Kit. So to answer your question, no, I don’t think this story’s big enough to run. If there were to be another death, of course, then we’d be talking serious money.’
Thursday 19th March
7
‘I knew you’d find it a bit weird,’ Ellis said as he tried to keep up with Hardwick’s fast pace. ‘I mean, it must’ve made you realise something was up when I mentioned how odd it was.’
‘My suspicions were confirmed when I spoke to DI Warner, Ellis. My general rule in life is to do the complete opposite of what he does. It usually works.’
‘What was all that stuff about the witnesses, though? I didn’t think you’d spoken to anyone at the hotel that night.’
‘I haven’t. But if I was wrong then DI Warner would have corrected me. Which he didn’t. Which means I was right.’
‘That’ll make a nice change,’ Ellis muttered to himself as he stumbled to keep up.
‘Which is why I want to get down there and speak to the witnesses while I still can,’ Hardwick called over his shoulder as he strode forward.
‘Do we really need to walk it, though?’ Ellis asked,
occasionally breaking into a jog. The walk to the Manor Hotel in South Heath was around three miles from Hardwick’s home at the Old Rectory in Tollinghill. Although Tollinghill and South Heath were divided only by a roundabout and a dual carriageway, both the Old Rectory and the Manor Hotel were on the far sides of each town, which had only become conjoined owing to fairly modern housing developments.
‘Walking clears the mind, Ellis. It helps me think freely. Besides, you could do with a bit of exercise.’
‘Oh, charming, that is. Could we not have just got a bus?’
‘We can walk it in around forty-five minutes if we’re brisk. We’d have to wait half an hour for a bus as it is, then another half an hour while it drives around all the housing estates one by one, only to be dropped off half an hour’s walk from the Manor anyway. So no.’
‘Do you always have to get your own way?’ Ellis asked in between pants and gasps.
Hardwick’s reply was brief. ’Yes.’
As they approached the southern outskirts of South Heath, Hardwick marched up the long, sweeping drive that led to the Manor Hotel, Ellis limping and mumbling behind him.
‘You know, I’ve never actually been here,’ Hardwick said, stopping suddenly, his feet scuffing to a halt on the gravel. ‘In all the time I’ve lived in Tollinghill, I’ve never actually walked up here.’
‘Me neither,’ Ellis said. ‘Nice, though.’
‘Such a way with words, Ellis.’
The gravel drive was around two hundred metres long, itself a spur off the very quiet and secluded Manor Drive, which swept up the side of the old manor grounds that now formed twenty-two hectares of public space and was home to all manner of wildlife.
‘I’ve been doing a bit of research, actually,’ Ellis said. Despite his regular intellectual shortcomings, Ellis had a habit of being a keen researcher.
‘Let me guess,’ Kempston said, pre-empting him. ‘Ghosts and ghoulies?’
‘No, actually,’ Ellis replied. ‘When the manor was bought and turned into a hotel, they had some renovation work done. Something to do with the roof. Apparently, when the builders took the tiles off the roof, they discovered an attic room which wasn’t visible from inside the manor. They reckon it would’ve once been one of the servants’ rooms. Why it was then walled up is anyone’s guess. Anyway, that’s when strange things started happening.’
‘It was only a matter of time,’ Hardwick said, sighing.
‘What?’
‘Before you started talking about ghosts and paranormal activity. You’re utterly predictable, Ellis.’
‘I’m just telling you what I’ve read, Kempston. Now, may I continue?’ Hardwick said nothing, so he did. ‘A couple of nights later, the receptionist, who was staying in one of the hotel rooms, woke up and saw an old woman in her room. She jumped out of bed screaming and left the room. When she came back, the lights were on, even though she hadn’t turned them on.’
‘Cowboy electricians for you,’ Hardwick remarked. Ellis ignored him.
‘She said the old woman was crying and she was obviously extremely upset. Not long after that, a guest at the hotel woke up when he heard a shuffling sound at the bottom of his bed. When he switched his light on, there was an old woman stood there, looking out of the window. He spoke to her but she didn’t reply. Then she just faded away.’
‘And who, pray tell, is this woman supposed to be?’ Hardwick asked, humouring him.
‘Well, that’s the interesting thing. Back in Victorian times, there was a bit of a scandal at the manor. The live-in nanny was an older woman who was accused of trying to poison one of the children. The family sacked her, despite her protesting her innocence. The child died a few weeks later. As it happens, they reckon that the room the builders uncovered would’ve probably been the nanny’s room.’
‘So what,’ Kempston said. ‘They’ve just “unlocked” her ghost?’
‘Yes. Exactly. What other explanations are there?’ Ellis asked.
‘Many, Ellis. Many.’
The inside of the Manor Hotel was just as magnificent as the outside. An antique writing desk sat jauntily adjacent to the edge of the reception area, an ornate Edwardian chair behind it and a reading lamp on top of it. A large, sweeping staircase, bedecked with a deep red carpet, beckoned visitors from the parquet-floored reception to the higher levels of the manor. It looked more like the hallway of a mansion than a hotel.
A woman, Mandy according to her name badge, greeted Hardwick and Flint as they entered.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Can I help?’
‘Yes, we were just wondering if we might be able to try your famous afternoon teas,’ Hardwick said, getting in quickly before Ellis opened his mouth with questions about ghosts and spectres.
‘Of course. The lounge room is just through that door on your left. If you carry on through, there’ll be someone there to greet you.’
Hardwick and Flint did as they were told and walked through to the lounge room. A collection of ornate paintings hung on the walls, with display cabinets showing off all manner of ornaments. To one side, a bar area presented an impressive array of malt whiskies and other spirits.
The lounge area was devoid of people other than the woman working behind the bar, who was at that moment busy trying to get to grips with the coffee machine. Hardwick waited a few moments before clearing his throat.
‘Oh, sorry!’ the woman said, startled at having only just realised she had company. ‘Trying to get this bloody thing to work. Can I help you at all?’
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,’ Ellis said, before Hardwick had a chance to speak. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not ghosts.’
The woman raised one eyebrow as Hardwick cut in. ‘Yes, we were just wondering if we might have a coffee, actually,’ Hardwick said, sensing that this might keep her occupied for a little longer, allowing him to ask more questions.
‘Well, I’ll try,’ she said. Hardwick noted her name — Barbara — from her name badge. ‘Fact is, we’re a little short staffed at the moment. The lad who usually works behind the bar just upped and left last Thursday.’
‘Thursday?’ Hardwick asked, his ears pricking up.
‘Yeah, just disappeared. Can’t trust these young lads. They don’t like hard work, see.’
‘Wasn’t there an incident here last Thursday?’ Hardwick asked. ‘I think I saw something in the newspaper.’
‘Ah, yes. The suicide,’ Barbara said, whispering the word in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Nasty business. Happens in hotels more often than you’d think, though.’
‘So I hear,’ Hardwick said. ‘Were you working that night?’
‘Oh yes, I’m always working. Glutton for punishment, me,’ Barbara replied, allowing herself a small chuckle.
‘What’s your job title?’ Ellis asked.
‘Job title? Heh. I don’t have a job title, love. Well, I suppose I’m technically a housekeeper. I do all sorts. Sometimes the bar, sometimes a bit on reception. Generally making sure the place runs smoothly, really. On paper I’m a nobody, but everyone in the hotel trade knows who keeps these places running and it isn’t the directors or the managers, you know,’ she said, with cheeky smile, a wink and a tap on her nose.
‘I’m sure you do a marvellous job,’ Hardwick said. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘Shortly after it opened as a hotel, about seventeen years ago. Doesn’t give me much time off, but then again I never married and I’m perfectly happy spending my time here. Certainly better than having a mortgage.’
‘Must be busy work,’ Ellis said, looking around the room.
‘Oh yes, it certainly is. I get some time off in the evenings sometimes and on Sundays I go and help out at the church. Volunteering, you know.’
‘Lovely,’ Ellis replied. ‘Have you always done this sort of thing then?’
‘Oh no. I used to be a lawyer, actually. Back when there weren’t many female lawyers. Working in the hotel business might seem like hard work, but it’
s nothing compared to that.’
‘Glad you got out of it?’ Ellis asked.
‘Oh, yes. I’d say so. It might have been an achievement to get that far but it was pretty clear that a lot of the old boys’ club didn’t want a woman knocking around and ruining things for them. I took early retirement after a few years and decided to do something totally different. And you don’t get much more different than this. Ooh!’ she said, suddenly remembering. ‘You wanted coffee, didn’t you?’
‘Please, if it’s not too much trouble,’ Hardwick said, before adding, to fill the silence, ‘It’s a lovely place, isn’t it. The manor.’
‘Oh yes. Beautiful.’
‘Any ghosts?’ Ellis said. Hardwick looked daggers at him. Barbara chuckled to herself.
‘Well, many people would say so. I don’t know how much I believe it myself, but there are a few stories, yes.’
‘Do you know anything about them?’ Ellis asked.
‘Not in detail, no. A few of the locals could probably tell you. I try to avoid that sort of thing, if I’m honest. Although there are sometimes some odd things that happen.’
‘Oh?’ Ellis asked, leaning forward on the bar.
‘Well, just noises and things really. Sometimes I hear footsteps at night. My room is on the middle floor, see. Not all the rooms are guest rooms. As we’re a bit remote there are some rooms set aside for staff, particularly the full-time ones. Someone mentioned something about insurance and health and safety things if you’ve got more than a certain number of guest rooms. Not exactly that easy to stick a disabled lift in a building of this age, you know. I suppose by having some of the full-time staff living in, they’re able to pay them less too. Living allowance, or whatever. As I say, the money’s not really a concern for me. I’ve always lived frugally and earned more than my keep when I was in the law game.’
