by Adam Croft
He hung up the phone and held down the button to switch it off. Regardless of how important any incoming calls might be, he knew that his focus now had to be on the guests at Elliot Carr’s funeral.
48
The atmosphere on the train carriage on the way to Brighton was subdued yet tense, with Hardwick fidgeting and looking generally quite agitated between periods of confusion and quietude.
‘I just don’t understand it, Ellis. What does Owen Bartlett have to hide? I mean, on the face of it he looks like a suspect because he disappears into thin air on the night a man dies at his place of work. Then we find out he couldn’t have been responsible because Elliot Carr died well after Owen had left. But it’s possible, isn’t it, that he could have been involved. If Elliot Carr had taken longer than expected to die, that is. If it had been particularly slow, there’s no reason why he couldn’t have done it. But why would he? And anyway, he can’t have killed Kimberly Gray or Rosie Blackburn because he was in Brighton at the time. So unless we’re looking at two or more killers with the exact same methods, it rules him out again. So why go to the trouble of throwing in a decoy when we came down to speak to him before?’
‘I dunno,’ Ellis said. ‘Maybe it was the decoy’s idea. Might not be Owen’s fault at all.’
‘That’s a good point,’ Hardwick said. ‘What did you say the man you spoke to looked like again?’
‘Much lighter hair, cut very short if not shaved. Can’t really remember much otherwise,’ Ellis said. ‘I’d had a bit to drink afterwards.’
‘How tall would you say he was? Compared to you, I mean,’ Hardwick asked.
‘Uh, probably about the same. Why?’
‘Because the man I spoke to was about three inches taller.’ Hardwick thought back to the time he spent in Owen Bartlett’s mother’s living room. That was it! The photographs. There were photographs of the man he’d believed to be Owen, his mother and another young man with short, light hair. His brother.
Now that Hardwick had discovered this, Ellis had expected him to leap off the train and march towards Owen Bartlett’s house at an even faster pace than usual. On the contrary, he stepped slowly onto the platform and shuffled along the platform, his brow furrowed.
‘Something the matter, Kempston?’ Ellis asked, a little confused.
‘Yes, but I don’t know what,’ Hardwick replied. ‘I mean, why would he do that? If he was more than willing to speak to me himself, with my reputation, then why would he send his brother just to speak to you, Ellis? No offence meant, of course.’
‘None taken,’ Ellis said, not quite sure he understood where the offence was anyway. ’Unless, of course, it was the other way round. And you spoke to the brother and I spoke to the real Owen?’ he suggested.
‘Possible, Ellis. Possible. There’s only one way to find out, really, isn’t there?’
The pair headed to the Evening Star, a small, traditional pub within spitting distance of Brighton station. Ellis, of course, had already been here before but Hardwick was pleasantly surprised at the gentle atmosphere and the impressive range of beers on offer.
‘No Campari, I’m afraid,’ Ellis said.
‘Oh, not to worry, Ellis. I think there’s more than enough choice on the beer front for me.’
Ellis ordered a pint of local bitter and Hardwick opted for a glass of Norwegian stout — a light tipple at 10.4% — and the pair sat down at a table by the window.
‘Now,’ Hardwick said, before taking a sip of his beer. ‘According to his Facebook profile, Owen Bartlett has been working at the Strawberry Fields hotel on New Steine.’
‘On what?’ Ellis asked, settling his pint down on a damp beer mat.
‘It’s a road, Ellis. Give me your phone.’
Ellis did as he was told.
‘Now, look at this,’ Hardwick said, pointing to Owen Bartlett’s Facebook profile, which he’d pulled up on the screen. ‘He posted earlier this morning that he’s got a rare day off so was going to sit at home catching up on some DVD box sets. That means he’ll be at home right now.’
‘Ah, but so might his brother,’ Ellis said. ‘We can’t just go marching round there.’
‘I’m not suggesting that, Ellis,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Do let me finish. What I’m suggesting is that one of us calls Owen Bartlett on the mobile number he has listed on his Facebook profile, withholding our number, and pretends to be someone from the Strawberry Fields hotel, asking him to pop in for half an hour to help with something. We’ll say he’ll get paid double or something, make it worth his while. We’ll wait at the end of his street, between his house and Strawberry Fields. That way we’ll find out who the real Owen Bartlett is. He wouldn’t be able to send a brother who looks nothing like him into work for him.’
‘That’s pure genius, Kempston,’ Ellis said, before downing his pint in one go. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go!’
‘Not just yet, Ellis,’ Hardwick said, settling back into his chair. ‘There’s no rush.’
‘Oh,’ Ellis said, blinking rapidly and looking a little disappointed. ‘Well, I’ll go and get another one then.’
49
Jez Cook had a face like thunder as the door to the interview room opened and Detective Inspector Rob Warner walked in and sat down.
‘Jeremy, lovely to meet you again,’ Warner said, extending his hand.
‘My friends call me Jez,’ came the terse reply.
‘I know they do, Jeremy. How have you been recently? It’s been a little while since we’ve crossed paths.’
‘That’s because I’ve been keeping my nose clean. So I dunno why you dragged me in here. No, scrap that. I don’t know why you got your little lapdog to drag me in here,’ he said, gesturing towards Detective Constable Sam Kerrigan, who was sat next to Warner, closest to the sound recorder, which wasn’t turned on.
‘Making sure you don’t get caught isn’t the same as keeping your nose clean, Jeremy,’ Warner said, smiling. ‘And no-one dragged you in here. You were asked to voluntarily attend an interview.’
‘Voluntarily?’ Jez said, snorting. ‘Not much bloody voluntary about that, was there?’
‘Were you arrested?’ Warner asked, casually glancing at his notepad.
‘Well, no.’
‘Then it was voluntary. You’re free to go at any time.’ Jez looked at the two detectives and then at the door. ‘But then you wouldn’t have your next little bit of gossip for your mates on the street, would you? Let me do you a deal, Jeremy. We can do a little bit of an information swap. What do you say?’
‘I ain’t no grass,’ Jez replied, folding his arms.
‘I’m not asking you to grass. It’s an information swap. You might not even have any information which can help me. And to make it even more attractive, I’m going to give you my information first.’
Jez sat silently for a few moments before speaking. ‘What information?’
‘About the deaths at the Manor Hotel in South Heath. I know you’ve shown an interest because you’ve been asking about it at the Freemason’s Arms in Tollinghill.’ Warner raised his hand as Jez opened his mouth to speak. ‘And I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s only natural to show an interest. Now, do you know anything about what happened there?’
‘No. I don’t. And I’m entitled to a brief so can I have one please?’
‘That’s only if you’re arrested, Jeremy. And you’ve not been arrested. Should you be arrested?’
Jez said nothing.
‘Good. As I said, I’ll give you my information first. Call it a gesture of goodwill. Between you and me and these four walls, there’s been a third death at the Manor Hotel.’ Warner saw Jez’s eyes light up. ‘Now, all I want you to do is keep your ear to the ground for me. If you hear anything about what’s gone on down there, I want you to call me, all right?’
‘What, so you think there’s a serial killer around? You’re actually taking it seriously now?’ Jez asked, leaning forward.
Warner leaned forward to m
irror his body language. ‘I’m saying it’s a distinct possibility. But that is not public knowledge, nor do I want it to be. Is that clear? If that gets out, I’ll know exactly who it’s down to and believe me I’ve got a filing cabinet as tall as you full of unsolved crimes which only need a suspect. Still on a suspended sentence, aren’t you?’ Jez said nothing, clearly understanding the situation. ‘Trust me. If someone around here is killing people for whatever reason — some sick, twisted game or whatever it is, I’m going to make sure they’re caught. All I’m asking is that you hug on tightly to that grapevine, all right? And if it starts to rustle, call me straight away.’
Jez swallowed hard and nodded. ’Right you are.’
50
Hardwick and Flint got into position at the end of St George’s Terrace, where it met Upper Bedford Street, crouched behind a low wall. They knew Owen would have to walk this way, then west up Upper St James’s Street before turning towards the sea front and onto New Steine. Hardwick punched 141 followed by Owen Bartlett’s number into Ellis’s mobile phone.
‘Hello, Owen?’ Hardwick said, speaking in a slightly higher-pitched generic foreign accent. ‘Is Fabio here from Strawberry Fields. I am new here today and I am having trouble booking some guests in their room. Could you help me please?’
‘Uh, is Anna not there?’ Owen asked.
‘No, she had to pop out,’ Hardwick said. ‘She said call Owen if I have any problems. She said you know what to do and are very helpful.’
Hardwick heard Owen sighing at the other end of the line.
‘Right, okay. I’ll come down.’
‘How long will you be?’ Hardwick asked. ‘Is quite urgent.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m coming now. I’ll be five minutes max.’
‘Thank you!’ Hardwick said, hanging up the phone to see Ellis was glaring at him.
‘Bit racist, isn’t it?’ Ellis said.
‘What, doing a foreign accent? Hardly. If you mean the broken English, it was a safeguard just in case he started asking any awkward questions. I could just pretend I didn’t understand or was new here.’
Within thirty seconds, Owen Bartlett was jogging down the steps from his front door and walking towards where Hardwick and Flint were crouched. Hardwick could see that it was the Owen he spoke to, with the longer dark hair and not the blonder one who Ellis now knew to be the brother.
As he reached the end of the street, Hardwick stood up and blocked his path.
‘Ah, Mr Bartlett. How lovely to see you again. I presume you remember me?’ Owen nodded as Hardwick spoke. ‘And my colleague here?’
‘Uh no, I don’t think I do.’
‘Oh no! Of course!’ Hardwick said. ‘Because it wasn’t you who spoke to him, was it? It was your brother.’
‘Sorry?’ Owen said, looking genuinely confused.
‘When my colleague Ellis here came down to speak to you before I did, it wasn’t you he spoke to. Your brother stopped him at the door and spoke to him instead, pretending to be you.’
‘What? Why would he do that?’ Owen said.
‘I think that’s something you’d better tell us, don’t you?’ Hardwick replied.
A flash of realisation broke across Owen’s face.
‘Ah, I see you’ve had an epiphany,’ Hardwick said. ‘Now, why don’t you tell us all about it?’
‘I can’t, I’ve got to get to work and help somebody out. Later, maybe, yeah?’
‘No, is no problem,’ Hardwick said, reverting to the voice he’d used on the phone. ‘Fabio has magically fixed the problem.’
Owen looked at Hardwick, let out a half-laugh and shook his head.
The three walked to the Sidewinder pub in almost complete silence, before ordering drinks and sitting down at a sun-drenched wooden table next to the window.
‘You know, this is where your brother brought me,’ Ellis said to Owen. ‘I think you should probably tell us why, too, because this isn’t looking too good for you right now.’
Owen’s head fell, his chin resting on his chest. ‘If I tell you, will you promise to believe me that I had nothing to do with anyone dying? I promise you, it’s really difficult for me to explain and I feel dreadful about it, but I didn’t do anything.’
‘If you say you had nothing to do with it, and if that’s true, then what you say will be treated in the strictest confidence,’ Hardwick said. ‘We just need to find out who killed Elliot Carr, Kimberly Gray and Rosie Blackburn.’
‘I can’t help with the deaths. I don’t know anything about those. All I know is why I left the Manor Hotel so quickly and suddenly and why my brother decided to pretend to be me the other day. And I promise you, I had nothing to do with that. He never even told me about it. He was probably just trying to protect me,’
‘Protect you from what?’ Ellis said.
‘From myself,’ Owen replied. ‘He knows I’m not good with talking to people and that I get flustered under pressure. He’s so much calmer and better with things like this, so I think he was just protecting me to stop me getting into trouble. God, I really don’t know how to say this. Look, Elliot Carr wasn’t quite the man he made out he was. All right?’
‘And how can you say that based on having only spoken to him for a couple of hours?’ Hardwick asked.
‘Because what sort of man goes away for his wedding anniversary and has a fumble with a male hotel worker while his wife is in their room upstairs?’
Hardwick blinked as he tried to piece everything together. ‘You mean...'
‘Yes. I’m gay. And so was Elliot Carr but he wouldn’t have admitted it. He certainly didn’t seem very happily married when he was trying to get into my pants that night at the hotel.’
‘Uh, if I may ask, could you tell us a little more?’ Hardwick asked. ‘About how it all came about. When and where. Not the details, obviously.’
‘He was going on about his wife and what she was like, more and more as he drank. I’ve got a well developed gaydar, you see. It gets pretty well-honed living in Brighton. I know I was stupid, but I started flirting a bit and things got out of hand. I asked him to help me get something from the store room, and... Well, you said you didn’t want the details.’
‘This store room,’ Hardwick asked. ‘Would that be room thirteen on the top floor?’
‘Yeah, it is. No-one really goes up there much. Only Barbara and sometimes me. People reckon it’s haunted but I don’t believe in all that so I’m happy enough going up there. Otherwise it’s only people we can somehow convince to go.’
‘So why did you have to leave so suddenly?’ Ellis asked. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Because we were caught, weren’t we?’ Owen said. ‘Barbara came in and found us. She dragged me out and told me I had to go. She gets a bit funny like that. I mean, I know it was unprofessional of me and that I’d be sacked from any job for doing that, but she gave different reasons. Like saying it was unnatural and wicked, and all that.’
‘She said that?’ Ellis asked. ‘Has she made comments like that before?’
‘Well, not openly. I think she made some remark about it when I first started working there. When I said I came from Brighton she made some comment about had I moved up here to “get away from the queers” or something. She said it like a joke, and I thought maybe it was just tongue in cheek humour. I was new there so didn’t want to say anything and to be honest I forgot all about it until the incident in the store room, when things started to make a bit more sense.’
‘So when she asked you to leave, what did you do?’
‘I left, obviously. I would’ve been sacked by the big bosses anyway and I was just ashamed at what I’d done. Not like that, I mean. Ashamed that I’d been unprofessional and let my guard down. I really didn’t want to hang around there any longer and wait for Barbara to start telling everyone. She’s a gossip at the best of times.’
‘If it helps,’ Ellis said, ‘as far as we know she didn’t tell anyone. We spoke to a few of your colle
agues about you leaving and none of this was ever mentioned.’
‘Oh. Well maybe she has got a conscience after all,’ Owen said, stopping to take a long drag of his drink. His voice seemed to be getting croakier as he spoke. A sign of stress, Hardwick presumed. ‘But that’s why I had to go. I wasn’t going to hang around a minute longer. I felt embarrassed and abused.’
‘I can understand that,’ Hardwick said. ‘So was that the last time you saw Elliot Carr?’
‘Yes. I went straight downstairs, grabbed my bag and my coat and went. He was still upstairs in room thirteen when I left.’
‘This was just before eleven o’clock, was it?’ Hardwick asked. Owen nodded in response. ‘And at that time, Elliot Carr was left all alone in room thirteen, where he was to die about half an hour later, in the company of one person. Barbara Hills.’
51
The ringing of DI Warner’s office phone told him it was internal call. He picked up the receiver and barked his name.
‘DI Warner, Kit Daniels is at front desk to see you. He says it’s urgent.’
Warner sighed heavily. ’Great. I’ll come down and get him.’
When Warner got to the front desk, Kit Daniels stood up and put out his hand to shake it. After a second, Warner shook his hand quickly and limply.
‘If you’re not here to apologise and give me a written guarantee that you’re dropping your daft story on the Manor Hotel, I’m not interested,’ he said.
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of me saying or doing that, DI Warner. In fact, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
Warner let out a hearty laugh. ‘Have you now? And who do you think you are exactly?’
‘I’m the reporter who’s just found out that you’ve been lying to me and keeping public interest information from the public. Two words: Rosie Blackburn.’
