The Thirteenth Room (Kempston Hardwick Mysteries Book 4)

by Adam Croft

  ‘Ellis, can I have the address please.’

  ‘Will you ask him?’

  Hardwick sighed audibly again. ‘Yes, Ellis. I’ll ask him.’

  With the address written down, Hardwick left the phone box and headed down the steps to the station platform. This amount of travelling on trains was starting to get to him. The operator on the line that ran through South Heath was less than reliable, to say the least, but up until now his journeys had been fairly smooth and delay-free. He crossed his fingers that it’d continue in that vein today as he had a four-hour round trip to Brighton to deal with.

  Sat in his seat on the train, he leant his head back and allowed himself to drift into a light sleep as the train pulled away from the station and headed south towards London and the coastal town of Brighton.

  A thousand and one thoughts swirled through his head. He was not one to give up easily, but even he was now starting to doubt himself. Was he chasing a lost cause? Was there really anything suspicious behind the deaths of Elliot Carr and Kimberly Gray? Or was he potentially causing more harm than good? He knew that theoretically there was no reason for either of them to have been killed but also that neither of them were the type of people to want to kill themselves. Yet both were dead.

  Above all, he knew something wasn’t right. There was an injustice somewhere along the line and injustices were things Hardwick could not abide. He had experienced enough injustices in his life to convince him that he would make sure he did everything he could to prevent more. Every time there was someone thinking they could get away with taking away people’s lives and ruining the lives of others for their own personal gain, so too would he be there to stop them.

  35

  Hardwick knocked on the door at St George’s Terrace in Brighton and waited for an answer. He could hear the seagulls cawing in the distance and the chatter of excited children crowding towards the seafront, even a couple of blocks away from the front as he was now.

  That was just one of the many things Hardwick had always liked about Brighton: it was constantly moving. They say that New York is the city that never sleeps, but Brighton is quite possibly England’s closest equivalent. Even the centre of London goes eerily quiet in the early hours, but there’s always life somewhere in Brighton.

  After a few seconds, the door opened and Hardwick was greeted by a young, meek looking man. He looked unassuming and lamblike as he stood here before Hardwick, almost a good foot shorter than the detective and with eyes which showed absolutely no confidence whatsoever.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, having not expected Hardwick’s visit.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Kempston Hardwick. Are you Owen Bartlett?’

  ‘Yes, why?’ Owen answered, seeming highly suspicious.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Hardwick said, trying to put the lad at ease. ‘I just need to speak to you to find out some information about an incident at the Manor Hotel in South Heath. You’re not in any trouble; I just need some information. May I come in?’

  Owen said nothing, but nodded and stepped aside to let Hardwick into the hallway before gesturing towards the living room. Hardwick walked through and noticed the decor was a little less than conventional, which Owen clearly noticed.

  ‘It’s my mum. She’s into all the new-age hippy stuff. It’s all harmless, but I guess some people find it a bit weird,’ Owen said. He didn’t exactly have an air of convention about himself either, Hardwick thought. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely, thanks,’ Hardwick said. ‘I shan’t keep you long.’

  As Owen scurried off to the kitchen to make tea, Hardwick took a slow saunter around the living room, inspecting the photographs on display. There were a couple of Owen, some of another young man and some of them both together with a lady who Hardwick assumed to be their mother.

  On the walls hung hessian designs and a variety of dreamcatchers. The room smelt heavily of joss sticks and something which Hardwick faintly recognised as cannabis. He smiled as he realised just how strangely comfortable he felt here.

  His own parents had been unconventional creatures, two of the earliest mainstream climate change scientists who had tried to change public opinion towards accepting the facts surrounding climate change. His father had, for a while, been involved in revolutionary politics in South America whilst working in Chile. The smell of joss sticks in Owen Bartlett’s living room brought back many memories, some happy and some far less so.

  The tea made, Owen appeared back in the living room.

  ‘We don’t have any sugar, I’m afraid. And the milk’s almond. Hope that’s okay.’

  ‘Not a problem at all,’ Hardwick said. ‘In fact, I prefer it. Mammals aren’t designed to ingest milk after they’ve been weaned. Everyone who puts milk in their tea is abusing their digestive system, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Well, I think she just prefers the taste,’ Owen said, handing Hardwick his cup.

  They sat down in silence for a few moments before Hardwick started speaking.

  ‘How long were you working at the Manor Hotel?’

  ‘Probably just getting on for a year,’ Owen replied.

  ‘It’s a long way to go, though, isn’t it?’ Hardwick asked, having long wondered why a young man from Brighton would choose to work in South Heath.

  ‘Well yeah, it is. I was working at Markham Grange, just up the road, which is owned by the Belvedere group, same as who own the Manor in South Heath. I’d kinda had enough of Brighton and wanted to see a bit more of Britain so I asked if they could transfer me to another hotel. A friend of mine did something similar a few months before so I knew that they’d usually put you up in one of the rooms, too, so you get your accommodation thrown in. If they give you the transfer, that is. Luckily they said they could move me to South Heath, but couldn’t guarantee a room would be available all the time. I went anyway, and ended up lodging nearby.’

  ‘And after you left the Manor Hotel you came back here to stay with your mother?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Is she in at the moment?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘No, she’s out shopping,’ Owen replied.

  ‘Oh, feeling better is she?’ Hardwick noticed that Owen’s face had a look of confusion. ‘Only I was told that you left South Heath because you had to come back and look after your mother because she was ill.’

  ‘Ah. Well, yes, she—‘

  ‘It’s fine. Trust me, it’s much easier if you just tell the truth. Most things are entirely innocent if you let them be,’ Hardwick said, interrupting him.

  ‘What’s innocent about running off just after someone dies?’ Owen said, almost laughing.

  ‘You tell me. Why did you leave? Honestly.’

  ‘Because I couldn’t bear to be there any more. I just had to go. I’d not enjoyed working there for a while and that was just the final straw for me. Do you know what it’s like when something like that happens? It’s horrible. I just didn’t want to be there any more. I wanted to be here, back home, and start again.’

  ‘You must be able to see how that looks to other people, though?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Well yeah, obviously.’

  ‘You’re quite lucky the coroner agreed it was suicide. Otherwise you’d have absconded from the scene of a crime and would be arrested.’

  ‘Yeah... I know,’ Owen said. ‘Sorry.’

  ’No need to apologise,’ Hardwick said. ‘I just need to get the facts in order. Do you remember which train you got back to Brighton?’

  ‘Uh... I can’t remember what time it left South Heath. Is it important?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ Hardwick said. ‘Although I am a little confused as the couple you lived with in South Heath said that you came back to the house just after eleven o’clock in the evening, packed your bags and left for the station.’

  ‘Oh right. Must be just after then, then,’ Owen said.

  ‘That wouldn’t quite be right, though,
would it? Because I’ve also seen the reports which say that Elliot Carr died between eleven thirty and eleven forty-five that night. That means that when you left the Manor Hotel, Elliot Carr was still alive. So why did you really leave?’

  Hardwick sat and observed Owen as he absorbed the impact of this bombshell.

  ‘I just had to go, all right?’ he said. Hardwick said nothing, but just raised his eyebrow. ‘Look, if you must know, I didn’t resign. I was asked to leave.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By Barbara. She was technically my boss, I suppose. I hadn’t been happy there for ages, she wasn’t happy with me either so it was a kinda mutual thing. All right? That’s why I was upset and that’s why I couldn’t stay in South Heath and had to come back to Brighton. You do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Strangely enough, I do,’ said Hardwick.

  36

  Scarlett Carr swallowed hard as she sat in the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery. She didn’t want to seem suspicious by constantly asking the lady on reception if the appointment could be kept completely confidential, but she had to be sure.

  The receptionist saying ‘Yes, appointments are generally confidential’ hadn’t exactly been overly helpful, as Scarlett couldn’t exactly reply with ‘Well, I mean if the police come sniffing around you won’t give them my medical records, will you?’

  She took a sharp intake of breath as the electronic sign bleeped and her name flashed up, telling her to go to consultation room 3. Picking up her handbag from the seat next to her, she jumped up and did as the sign instructed.

  The smile of the doctor did nothing to put her at ease as she closed the door of consultation room 3 and sat down on the cream-coloured chair.

  ‘So, what can I do for you today?’ the doctor asked, not letting his grin slip.

  ‘I... Uh…’ Come on, out with it, Scarlett willed herself. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m pregnant. I’ve done a few tests, different brands, and it’s a definite. It’ll be my first child so I’m not quite sure what to do next.’

  ‘I see,’ the doctor said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Have you thought about what you want to do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, do you intend to keep the baby?’

  ‘God, yes!’ Scarlett said, a little too sharply. ‘I’d never even consider... God, no. Yes, I want to keep it.’

  ‘That’s fine. I just needed to ask. Generally we tend to refer you on to the hospital in Shafford for your prenatal scans. They’ll be regular throughout the pregnancy, just to keep an eye on the baby and make sure everything’s all right. Do you know how far gone you are?’

  ‘I’m not sure. About a month and a half, I think. Maybe two months.’

  ‘No problem. We can get a better idea on the first scan, or I can arrange for a more in-depth pregnancy test if you’d like. That’ll give us a much clearer indication of the date of conception. Would you like that?’

  Scarlett froze. She knew this was something she was going to have to face, but she didn’t quite know how. Deep down, she knew what the result would be. She knew who the father was. Based on the dates, it could only be one person.

  ‘Uh, possibly. I’d need to have a think. It’s all a bit sudden.’

  ‘I totally understand. I’ve got a couple of leaflets here which might help,’ the doctor replied, thumbing through a ring binder. ‘Have you discussed the pregnancy with the father?’ he asked, without looking up at her. Might as well be honest for once in your life, Scarlett told herself before taking a deep breath.

  ‘Yes. Yes I have.’

  37

  Hardwick felt like he was going round and round in circles. Most of the circles, though, were broken, never quite meeting up where they were expected to. There seemed to be nothing to connect the two deaths and not even a motive for that of Kimberly Gray. He was reminded of the maxim of all great detectives, coined by the very greatest himself: Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.

  The sensible theory would be that both were suicides. That seemed like the logical and most possible solution in many ways, but it still didn’t quite sit right with Hardwick. All he had to go on was the fact that both suicides were so close together time-wise and were almost identical in their execution. That, then, opened up the theory of Kimberly Gray’s death being a copycat suicide. But why? She had no reason to want to end her life and by all accounts was in good spirits on the night of her death.

  That also implied that Elliot Carr’s death had been a suicide, which Hardwick was convinced was not the case. There seemed to be two distinct motives there: financial difficulties (granted, also a motive for suicide) and the relationship his wife was having with Kevin McGready, which again could also be construed as a reason for killing himself. It just didn’t seem to fit in with what he knew of Elliot Carr as a person from speaking to friends and relatives, though. But if he had been murdered, that meant the same person must have killed Kimberly Gray, didn’t it?

  Unless, of course, Elliot Carr had been killed by someone else, Kimberly Gray had read about it as it had been reported as a suicide and had decided to copy it. But the same question came back: why?

  He knew the answer lay right at the beginning and that there was no point in trying to fill in missing links halfway through the narrative. On the way back from Brighton, his train stopped at a number of stations between London and South Heath. One such station was Bellingham, so Hardwick once again found himself knocking on the door of Scarlett Carr’s house, armed with fresh information on the financial difficulties her and Elliot had been facing.

  Scarlett looked the picture of perfection as usual as she answered the door to her home and welcomed Hardwick in. Once he was settled in the living room with a cup of tea in his hand, he got straight to the point, as was his wont.

  ‘Mrs Carr, can I ask: did you know anything about a large amount of credit card debt in yours and your husband’s name?’

  Scarlett shifted noticeable in her seat. ‘I knew we had some debt, yes. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘That all depends on what you mean by “some”, doesn’t it?’ Hardwick asked, before taking a sip of his tea, not once taking his eyes off of Scarlett Carr.

  ‘Well, I don’t know the exact amount. Elliot was always the one who took control of the financial stuff.’

  ‘Yes, but Elliot’s not here any more, is he? Surely you’ll have to take over all of that now, and presumably you’ve got in contact with your creditors and discussed everything? Unless, of course, Kevin McGready is going to be the one who looks after the finances now.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that exactly?’ Scarlett asked, a sudden flash of anger in her eyes.

  Hardwick smiled amiably. ‘Nothing at all. Just that you said you weren’t very good with financial things and I thought that as you were in a relationship with Mr McGready and now your husband is off the scene, perhaps he might be the one to take on that responsibility for you.’

  Scarlett sat silently for a few moments, not breaking eye contact with Hardwick. He could see exactly what was going through her mind: she was trying to work out whether he was insinuating something or just asking innocent questions. Either way, she had to play the innocent to avoid incriminating herself by getting too defensive.

  ‘I doubt it. I’ll have to get on top of it all myself. I think I’d rather get the funeral and everything out of the way first, though.’

  ‘It’ll be quite difficult to manage the debts and pay them all back, though, won’t it? Without a job, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Scarlett replied. ‘I haven’t looked at the details yet.’

  ‘I have,’ Hardwick said, pulling a scrap of paper from his inside jacket pocket. ‘£36,340 on a credit card, nearly forty thousand on car finance for the BMW and almost thirty thousand for the Range Rover.’

  ‘Where did you get all this from?’ Scarlett asked, looking visibly shocked.

  ‘Whe
n someone dies in suspicious circumstances, it becomes a police matter, Mrs Carr. These sorts of things are investigated and looked at.’ Hardwick was very careful to choose his words and not make out that he was a police officer.

  ‘Suspicious circumstances?’ Scarlett asked.

  ‘Well, yes. Suicides by their very nature are suspicious circumstances as far as the police are concerned. It’s an unexpected death. Why, what did you think I meant?’ Hardwick asked innocently.

  ‘Nothing,’ Scarlett said, shifting again in her seat. ‘I just wondered what you meant, that’s all.’

  Hardwick smiled and nodded. ‘Can I ask, do you think Elliot would have killed himself to spite you? Perhaps he found out about your relationship with Kevin McGready and thought that he’d drop you in it at the same time.’ He knew he was feeding her this theory rather than allowing her to dig her own holes, but he had his own very good reasons.

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. I don’t think he was the type. And what do you mean drop me in it?’ Scarlett asked.

  ‘Well, by killing himself he would have not only escaped from his situation in terms of the debt and his wife being about to leave him, but he would have also invalidated his life insurance policy, ensuring that you were personally left liable for every penny of the debt upon his death.’

  Hardwick watched Scarlett’s face as her jaw fell. It seemed he had correctly predicted that she probably would not have worked that out for herself beforehand. ‘I presume you didn’t realise that already. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ he said, taking great pleasure in acting as sympathetically as he could. There was something — many things — about Scarlett Carr that he didn’t like.

  ‘No, it’s fine. Not as if I haven’t had enough shocks recently,’ Scarlett said, trying to regain her composure. ‘I’ll have to sell the house. I can’t stay here now anyway, not after... Well, not after all that’s happened. It doesn’t seem right.’