by Adam Croft
‘But have you heard anything... out of the ordinary?’ Ellis asked, wanting to get some juicy ghost stories far more than he wanted to hear Barbara’s life story.
‘I quite often hear what sounds like someone walking around in the room above.’
‘Would that be room thirteen by any chance?’ Hardwick asked, by now quite keen on the idea of a coffee.
‘Yes. Yes, it is. It’s very rarely booked in, to be honest. It used to be used as an overflow room but we tend to find that guests aren’t very keen on it for some reason. Something to do with an oppressive atmosphere. As a general rule, it’s just used as a storage room now.’
‘And this was the room Elliot Carr committed suicide in, wasn’t it?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Yes. How did you know that?’ Barbara replied.
‘The newspaper report said something about him hanging himself from the exposed rafters. I supposed that could only be the case on the top floor.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Barbara said. ‘Terrible thing, that. He seemed like such a nice chap.’
‘You met him?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Oh yes, of course. He was down here in the bar earlier that evening.’
‘Did he say much?’
‘Not really,’ Barbara said. ‘To be honest, I was darting about sorting out lots of different things, as usual. One minute on the bar, the next helping move stuff in the store cupboard, then seeing to new arrivals, making coffee... Oh, coffee!’ she exclaimed as she darted an index finger upwards.
Hardwick gave her a few moments to actually head in the direction of the coffee machine before he started talking again. ’Did you hear what he was talking about at all?’
‘Not really, no. Something about an argument with his wife. Didn’t seem too serious, but you never know, do you?’
‘Indeed not,’ Hardwick replied, noting that she had once again moved away from the coffee machine without even pressing a button. ‘And did you see Mrs Carr at all?’
‘No, I didn’t, actually. I saw them both when they arrived, and then after the police had been I assumed she had gone with them, or back home or wherever. I don’t know. I wasn’t always around. As I said, Owen Bartlett was on the bar all night. That’s the lad who used to work here. He’d know more. He was speaking to him for quite a long time.’
‘And that’s the chap who disappeared later that night?’ Hardwick asked.
’Yes,’ Barbara replied, her voice now much more serious. ‘That’s him.’
As Hardwick and Flint left the lounge and bar area and headed back through to the reception and front entrance, Mandy was stood by the antique reception table, ready to offer more of her fawning, false yes-sir-thankyou-sir hospitality.
‘Everything okay for you, gentlemen?’ she asked with a plastered grin.
‘Yes, absolutely lovely. Thank you,’ Hardwick said, before stopping in his tracks and putting his hand to his head. ‘Damn!’ he said. ‘I’ve only gone and left my wallet on the bar.’
‘No worries, sir,’ Mandy said, already on her way. ‘I’ll just go and fetch it for you. Won’t be a moment.’
Before Ellis could even fathom what was going on, Hardwick had shot round to the other side of the table and was thumbing furiously through the bookings book. Fortunately for him, the Manor Hotel was sufficiently keen on maintaining its style to have stuck with the traditional pen and paper arrangements instead of investing in a computer system.
’72 Trinity Crescent, Bellingham,’ Hardwick said, committing the address to memory. ‘Come on Ellis, let’s go.’
‘What? Whose address is that?’ Ellis asked as Hardwick marched past him and through the front door.
‘Elliot and Scarlett Carr’s, Ellis. Do keep up.’
8
The pair had barely walked half a mile up the main road in South Heath before Ellis insisted they stop at the Dove, a pub which sat alongside the railway bridge which connected east and west sides of South Heath, which were otherwise split by the mainline railway into London.
The pub was a traditional two-bar affair, with a hard-floored saloon bar containing a pool table and darts board as well as a spacious carpeted lounge room. Ellis, never one to worry about the social niceties of whether it was too early to drink, ordered a pint of the local beer from up the road in Shafford. Hardwick, having been quite looking forward to his ultimately elusive cup of coffee in the Manor Hotel, opted for a caffeine fix.
‘So what are you saying? You’re just going to march down to see the grieving widow and interrogate her?’ Ellis asked. ‘What good will that do?’
‘We need to find out more about her husband, Ellis. The first step of any murder investigation is to find out about the victim. You should know this by now.’
‘But we don’t know that there has been a murder or a victim. Shouldn’t we be a bit more careful?’ Ellis asked, by now having already downed half his pint.
‘Ellis, it might have escaped your notice that it was you who tried to convince me that something wasn’t quite right about Elliot Carr’s suicide,’ Hardwick said, stressing the word with invisible speech marks. ‘You can’t go backing down now. What if he was killed? Now, we have to consider all possibilities, don’t we?’
‘I didn’t mean that it had to be a murder, though, did I? I was looking more at the paranormal side of things. There’s a lot of weird things gone on at that place over the years, you know.’
Hardwick ignored this comment and blew across his mug of coffee as Ellis downed another mouthful of beer.
‘As I see it, there are quite a few possibilities,’ Hardwick continued. ‘Yes, Elliot Carr may well have killed himself. That’s the official line and it’s one we must consider. However, we also have a few complications. Aside from the practicalities that you brought to my attention, there’s also an upset and angry wife.’
‘How do you know she was upset and angry?’ Ellis asked. ‘We’ve not even spoken to her yet.’
‘Elliot Carr said to the barman himself they’d just had an argument, Ellis. Even though he had cheered up somewhat by the end of the evening, no doubt Mrs Carr would’ve stayed angry and upset.’ Because she’s a woman, Ellis knew Hardwick was thinking but wouldn’t dare say. ‘Besides, it’s difficult to ignore the fact that Owen Bartlett, who had been working behind the bar and had got to know Mr Carr that night, disappeared without trace on the night Mr Carr died. Does that not strike you as a bit odd?’
‘Well, yes. But he might have just got spooked. You know what young lads can be like,’ Ellis replied.
‘Oh yes, I do. And we need to speak to him.’
‘How?’ Ellis asked. ‘I mean, there must be a record of his address somewhere, but God knows how we’d get it. Not the sort of thing that’d just be written down at the reception desk like the Carrs’ address, is it?’
‘No, it certainly isn’t. I might need to have a think on that one,’ Hardwick said. ‘In the meantime, we should head down to Bellingham and speak to Mrs Carr.’
‘When?’ Ellis asked.
‘No time like the present, Ellis,’ came the reply.
‘Well, I can’t go back and get the car. I’ve just downed a pint.’
‘Good job we’re right next to the train station, then, isn’t it?’
Before Ellis had a chance to reply, Hardwick had drunk his mug of coffee in one go, stood up and headed for the door.
9
The train journey to Bellingham had been a fairly straightforward one, being only twenty minutes or so further down the line towards London. Bellingham was firmly in the commuter belt, being far enough outside London to not be considered London but close enough for the house prices to be immorally high.
It was a fifteen minute walk from the train station to 72 Trinity Crescent. The area was pleasant enough, but had a certain air of stuffiness about it. Hardwick was sure he knew the types who lived here: soulless career-oriented commuters and their stay-at-home wives, sipping skinny lattes in the town’s boutique coffee houses
before hopping into the Range Rover to pick up little Tarquin and Polly from school.
Hardwick had never been one for pretension, as much as people thought they detected it in him. Ellis, however, was in his element.
‘Cor, wouldn’t you just love to live in a place like this, Kempston?’
‘I’m quite happy where I am, Ellis, thank you.’
‘No, but I mean, these people are really going places.’
‘They’re going to work, Ellis. They go to work, they come home. They’re trapped in a life of soulless drudgery. So to answer your question, no, I would not like to live in a place like this.’
As they rounded the corner onto Trinity Crescent, Hardwick glanced at the house numbers, trying to ascertain where number 72 would be.
‘What are they? Four bedrooms? Five?’ Ellis asked.
‘Number 72 has four bedrooms,’ Hardwick replied, having already done his research using Ellis’s smartphone while they waited for their train.
‘Blimey. Must be worth half a million quid around here.’
‘It sold for 1.2 million, two and a half years ago,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Worth around 1.4 now.’
‘Jesus! For four bedrooms? Your place must be worth at least that, then,’ Ellis said.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care, Ellis,’ Hardwick said. ‘Because I have no intention of moving. And anyway, I live in Tollinghill, not Bellingham. Thankfully.’
As they reached number 72, Hardwick strolled purposefully up the short driveway, a BMW parked in front of the bay window, hidden from the road by the hedge that separated the front garden from the road. Before Ellis had even set foot on the driveway, Hardwick had pressed his finger on the doorbell.
A few moments later, a man aged around sixty opened the door, his glasses perched on the end of his nose.
‘Ah, sorry,’ Ellis said, as he arrived at the door. ‘I think we’ve got the wrong house.’
‘Hello. Is this where Mrs Scarlett Carr lives?’ Hardwick asked, ignoring Ellis.
‘Yes, it is,’ the man replied. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, we’d just like to have a quick chat with Mrs Carr, if we may. Regarding the death of her husband.’
‘Ah, I see. Come in then,’ the man said, ushering them through into the hallway. ‘Scarlett? The police want a word again,’ he said as he put his head through into the living room.
Ellis was quick to respond. ’Oh, we’re not—‘
‘Not going to take up much of your time,’ Hardwick interrupted, treading on Ellis’s foot. ‘Just a few things the coroner’s court want us to clarify before they can proceed.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Sorry about the mess,’ Scarlett said, gesturing to the papers and documents strewn across the coffee table. ‘Dad and I have been going through all the paperwork. Bank accounts and things. It’s never-ending. Helps with the grieving process, I suppose. Keeps my mind occupied.’ Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke.
‘Well we won’t take up much of your time,’ Hardwick said, sitting down on the leather sofa as Scarlett’s father hovered by the doorway. ‘First of all, you and your husband had an argument on the night of his death. Is that right?’
‘Uh, yes,’ Scarlett said, blinking. ‘But I’ve already told the other officers this a number of times.’
‘We just need to make sure we have everything noted down for ourselves,’ Hardwick replied with a smile. ‘I’m sure you can understand.’
‘Well, yes. And yes, we did. Just another silly thing, really. The car broke down on the way there. Again. And there’d been a mix-up with the hotel rooms. We were both stressed and it turned into an argument, but nothing serious.’
‘Did your husband handle stressful situations well, Mrs Carr?’ Ellis asked.
‘Well, yes. I think so. He tended to keep things bottled up. He didn’t really talk about what was upsetting him, if things were. That probably makes it worse, doesn’t it? You always hear about people who soak up stress like a sponge, but all that energy and tension has to go somewhere. It just coils up like a spring, until one day...' She trailed off and wiped an eye.
‘It uncoils,’ Hardwick said. ‘And did you have any inkling that your husband might be the type to take his own life?’
‘No. Not really. I mean, you never really know, do you? They say it’s always the ones you least suspect. But you’d think a wife would know her husband, wouldn’t you? That I’d’ve been able to spot the signs? I sometimes wonder if it was my fault.’ Scarlett’s father handed her a box of tissues from the sideboard as she sobbed into her hands.
‘If you don’t mind me being intrusive, Mrs Carr, what had your husband’s state of mind been like up until his death?’ Hardwick asked.
‘He’d been stressed with work, but aren’t most people?’ she said. Seeing Hardwick’s raised eyebrow, she elaborated. ‘He works in London, as a purchasing director at an art gallery. I think the recession’s been tough for them. People are tightening their belts, even in the city. Plus there are new galleries, new competition, popping up all the time.’
‘Yes, the recession has caused a lot of problems in the past few years,’ Hardwick said, seeming to sympathise. ‘When did you buy this house, Mrs Carr?’
‘Uh, about two and a half years ago. Why?’
‘Well, that was a good three or so years into the recession, wasn’t it? Wasn’t money already tight at that point?’
‘I don’t know,’ Scarlett replied, breaking Hardwick’s gaze. ‘It was always Elliot who dealt with the money side of things. As you can see,’ she said, gesturing again to the paperwork. ‘It’s a nightmare trying to get it all sorted out now. We’d been talking about moving for a while and one day I saw this place advertised in the window of an estate agent’s in town. I fell in love with it straight away and knew we had to buy it.’
I bet you did, thought Hardwick. She struck him as the sort of woman who not only knew exactly what she wanted, but made sure she got it too. ’I see,’ he said. ‘Going back to the night Mr Carr died, could you talk me through what happened? You mentioned an argument, but what happened after?’
Scarlett put her hands together and interlocked her fingers. ‘He did what he always did. He wouldn’t do confrontation, so he went down to the bar. I stayed in the room and put the TV on.’
‘What did you watch?’ Hardwick asked.
‘I don’t know. Lots of things. I think there were a couple of quiz shows on. I just flicked through the channels trying to keep myself occupied.’
‘Did you not think to go down after him?’ Ellis said.
‘No, there’s no point. It was always best just to let things calm down. It’s happened plenty of times before. Sooner or later he’d come back and apologise and everything was fine. I just sat in the room and waited.’
‘And your room was on the middle floor, is that right?’
‘Yes, room seven.’
‘At what point did you go down to find him?’ Ellis asked.
‘I didn’t. I think I must have fallen asleep in front of the TV. The next thing I knew, a policeman was knocking on the door of our room. That was when I... When he...’
Hardwick put her out of her misery. ‘Yes, I see. And who found your husband?’
‘Uh, one of the staff at the hotel, apparently. They were using the room for storage, they said. Towels and linen and things. Someone went in to get something and...’ Scarlett trailed off and began to sob.
10
Kit Daniels was looking forward to getting home and kicking off his shoes to settle down in front of the TV. His parents would be out tonight so he’d at least be spared their nagging about him moving out and getting his own place.
They just didn’t seem to understand that the world of journalism wasn’t all about the big scoops and the huge payoffs. Most of it was dull, boring drudgery with absolutely no money in it at all. Constantly chasing the big story was all he could do, and it’d been a while since he’d hit a big scoop.
He’d had
his big stories in the past, but they’d come quite quickly and regularly so he hadn’t spent his bonuses all that wisely. A new car in the form of an Audi TT had waved goodbye to his first major bonus and taxing and insuring it had used up most of his salary since then.
Meeting Becky hadn’t helped, either. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t love her — of course he loved her — but her constant nagging at him to settle down and get a place together hadn’t helped. He was getting flak from all sides.
He wanted to settle down and move out but the money just wasn’t there. His basic salary was keeping him going from month to month but not much else. His parents had suggested he sell the TT, but there wouldn’t be a lot of point. It wasn’t worth a whole lot any more — especially considering he’d have to buy another car anyway just to get to work — and he’d only be saving a fairly small amount each month, which’d be hardly worth it. No, he was far better off having his small luxuries and keeping his head high so he could work towards the next big scoop which would see him home and dry.
The heavy front door to the offices of the Tollinghill Echo seemed heavier than usual as he pushed it open and walked out into the chilly evening air.
‘Kit!’ came the familiar voice from the other side of the road. Becky. ‘I thought I might see you. I was just on my way home myself.’
Sure you were, he thought. She knew damn well he had the house to himself and had planned to spend the evening alone. Just one night of peace and quiet. That’s all he wanted.
‘You don’t usually come home this way, do you?’ Kit asked, knowing full well that the walk home from the hair salon she worked in wouldn’t take her anywhere near the Echo’s offices.
‘I walked Yvonne home. Her car broke down and, well, you know what she’s like.’
