by Carol Wyer
‘How much did you all know about Miles Ashbrook?’
‘No one really knew him well. Other than meetings and work-related conversations, we had little contact with him. We’re too busy down here to bother with the Hall minions. As long as they don’t interfere with what we’re doing, we all get along. It’s like there are four separate parts to this place. We’re the kitchen team, and there’s also the beauty department team, the gym staff and the Hall staff. We don’t tend to fraternise with each other. Many of the employees are part-time, and so we don’t see them very often, what with shift patterns varying and so on.’
She noticed the back door was open. The sous-chef was returning, and work would begin. She couldn’t keep Bruno for much longer.
‘I imagine times were different when the Hall was owned by the Bishtons.’
‘Totally different. We were like one big family. It’s diluted now. I don’t know many of the staff who now work in the Hall, apart from Charlie the porter.’
‘Did you know Rory Wallis?’
Bruno sighed. ‘Yes, I knew Rory. I heard he’d died. He was murdered, wasn’t he? What a horrible thing to happen. Poor bugger.’ Bruno shook his head.
‘I understand he worked here a few years ago.’
‘He managed the Champagne Bar. He was an ace cocktail maker. He left to run a pub. I haven’t spoken to him in years. Why do you ask?’
‘We’re currently investigating his murder and would appreciate any help you can give us.’
Bruno continued to shake his head. ‘I can’t be of much help. He left here early in July 2013 about the same time the Bishtons decided to revamp the place. I guess he saw the writing on the wall before the rest of us did.’ He stared into space for a second. ‘Rory was okay really. Kept himself to himself, but he was a decent guy.’
Robyn gave him an understanding smile. ‘I heard the Bishtons decided to improve the place and sell it after the unfortunate incident with Harriet Worth.’
Bruno let out a long sigh. ‘That’s right. I didn’t get to hear all the ins and outs of it. Harriet was one of our guests who accidentally drowned in the old spa pool. The place was shut for over a month while they hammered out the implications and legalities, and we closed again a few months later so the pool could be drained and the spa closed down. We were assured our jobs were safe and we kept the restaurant and Hall open, but we lost many of our regular customers. They didn’t like the disruption and found other places that offered similar facilities.
‘The new extension was finished quickly and it all looked promising. The Bishtons sold up almost immediately after it opened. The new owners live in Hong Kong. We’re part of their global empire. Periodically, one of the bosses turns up and we put on a spread for them. Ashbrook was merely their puppet.’
‘Did you have any contact with Harriet when she stayed here?’
‘No. I had a week off and was travelling around Turkey.’
The sous-chef, a grouchy-looking individual, called out and signalled for Bruno to get back to work. Bruno stood up. ‘Is that everything?’
‘For now.’
‘You won’t need to talk to a certain guest?’
‘No. I think I have everything I need, Mr Miguel.’
There was more activity in the kitchen now, an orchestrated dance that they clearly practised on a daily basis. She wouldn’t be able to find out any more from Bruno Miguel. Besides, it was half past four, almost time to meet up with Mitz and interview Scott Dawson. Dawson ought to be returning soon if he had a class at five.
She wandered along the dark corridors, trying to imagine what the Hall was like in its heyday. At the moment it was a mishmash of old and contemporary and had lost its way. She didn’t hold out much hope for its future.
Upstairs again, she reached for her mobile. She had a message from David Marker. Peter Bullock had had a pang of conscience, probably hoping Anna wouldn’t press charges against him. He had phoned the station with some new information. He remembered seeing a small sign in the back window of the Fiat 500 that read ‘I Love Westies’.
Thirty-Seven
The alarm on his mobile beeped loudly. It took three attempts to locate it with the palm of his hand. He wanted nothing more than to turn over on the settee and go back to her. He groaned. He’d been dozing for an hour but now he had to get up. There was yet another debt to settle. He wriggled his toes, numb from being cramped up against the arm of the settee, and tried to recall some of his dream.
He had been sitting with her in front of a log fire. She had fitted snugly into his lap and he had an arm curled around her. He could smell lilies as he pushed his nose into her hair to kiss her on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and murmured pleasurably.
His feet were still cold and his body was awakening. The dream receded, and in its place he felt anger – anger that the scene could never take place. It had been snatched from him.
He dragged back the curtains and surveyed the ring road, empty of traffic for once. November was drawing to a close and December would be arriving with all its glitz, glamour and commercialism. In a few hours, the road would be jammed again as people, eager to purchase Christmas paraphernalia, flooded into the city.
A few days earlier he had crossed the road, via the passageway, to buy some cigarettes and booze, and found the Intu shopping centre brimming with people. There were crowds of shoppers wherever he turned, milling about, knocking into him with plastic bags filled with purchases. It had all been too much for him and he had jostled his way back home, stopping at the petrol station near his flat instead, his eyes stinging from the bright Christmas lights and a whopper of a headache.
He hated this time of year. What was there to celebrate when you lived alone? Most of his Christmases had been miserable. He and Stacey had been passed from one foster family to another. Stacey had fared better and settled with a couple in Nottingham, but he had been a sullen, ugly child and an even more sullen teenager, who had got into trouble more often than not. He had one or two pleasant memories of Christmas. When he was ten years old, his foster parents at the time, Mr and Mrs Dobson, had tried to give him and the other foster children they were looking after a happy Christmas. There had been a large real pine tree decorated with glittering handcrafted balls and a large gold star on the top. Underneath were neatly wrapped presents for all four of them. The house had been infused with delicious smells. Mr Dobson played the piano and they all sang Christmas carols.
He had been given a Game Boy. It was the best present he’d ever had. They’d had turkey and a Christmas pudding, which they’d set alight. It had all been fun until Gregory, an older boy, had tried to steal his Game Boy and they’d got into a fight. Gregory was much bigger and stronger than him, but he was the more streetwise, and knew how to fight dirty. He’d yanked on Gregory’s hair and bitten his earlobe hard. Gregory had screamed like a terrified pig. Deaf to the noise, he’d held fast. It was only after Mr Dobson had separated the pair of them that they’d discovered part of Gregory’s ear still in his mouth. He had bitten it clean through it. He spat the flesh out on the carpet and wiped blood smugly from his mouth; Gregory would never steal from him again. That turned out to be true: he was sent back to the home in the New Year.
He checked his calendar. The large X was only four days away. He lit another cigarette and dropped down onto the couch. He didn’t fancy any breakfast. He’d smoke this and get off. He allowed himself five minutes to think about the last time he had seen her. It would help prepare him. He was going to kill again…
He had been waiting for Harriet all morning again. This was the fourth day on the trot she had not appeared at her usual time. He had walked past her road and her car had been on the drive so he knew she was around. She must have had other business to attend to and had to change her routine. He hoped fervently that she was not ill, injured or had given up running. If Harriet did not appear today, he would have to knock on her door. The anxiety was making him very twitchy. He hadn’t slept th
e night before. It had been noisy at the sheltered accommodation and a drunk had come in late at night, waking him. The man had snored so loudly he’d kept him awake for the rest of the night.
He had planned this day so well and now it was going wrong. This was his fourth attempt and he was fast losing patience. A drumming began in his head. He had spent a great deal of time copying out the perfect passage to read to her. He’d taken it from an online writing forum and copied it word for word into his notepad. Writing wasn’t his forte, so it had taken him several exasperating attempts to get it right. Now he was wondering if he’d ever get to read it to her.
It was two o’clock when he finally spotted her. By which time he had spent most of the day walking from one entrance at the end of the reservoir to town and back, and was feeling hugely irritated. She was using the leg press machine, oblivious to everything except counting repetitions as her legs pushed and her thigh muscles tightened. Her mouth opened in a small ‘o’ as his shadow loomed over her.
‘Hello, Harriet. I didn’t expect to see you here at this time of the day.’
She gave a tight smile. ‘I had to wait in for a parcel earlier.’
‘I’ve been at the café writing. It’s such a beautiful day. I got quite a lot done.’
‘It is a super day. I’m glad you’re feeling better.’
‘I miss Alfie. It’s worse when I get up in the morning and he’s not there to greet me. The house feels empty.’
‘Maybe you should get another dog.’
‘In time. I can’t face it at the moment. I don’t suppose you could do me a favour? Could you listen to a little of what I’ve written to see if it sounds okay? I’m not sure I’ve got the romantic element right, being a bloke and all,’ he laughed. She shifted uncomfortably on the seat. ‘Would you like to hear some of what I’ve written? It won’t take long.’
She hesitated too long for his liking and he could feel heat rising in his veins. Her eyes darted around the field and, spotting several other people, her shoulders relaxed. ‘Okay. Why not?’
She wiped down the handles of the equipment she’d been using with a facecloth, tucked it into her tracksuit pocket and followed him to a bench near the outside gym. The afternoon sunshine afforded them some warmth and cast sparkles across the reservoir. He heaved a sigh. The red mist that was threatening to descend had lifted.
He opened his notebook and began reading, ‘John searched her large blue eyes and felt a powerful surge. Tessa was everything he could ever desire; her honey-coloured hair, soft and feminine, was pinned on top of her head and perfectly coiffed in small curls that shone in the sunlight. She wore a green spotted dress with a nipped-in waist, an A-line skirt to the knee and a white collar that showed off her swan-like neck. The guard blew his whistle and in that instant his world sped up. “I love you. Will you marry me?” His heart stopped as he waited for her response. She threw her arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, yes. Of course I will.”
‘They had little time to embrace. He felt her warm soft mouth on his and for the longest minute, he held her to him. The train let out an angry belch of steam, and reluctantly he hauled his kitbag from the platform and hurled it into the train, leaping up to join it as it pulled away. He waved at her. She kept pace with the train, shouting that she loved him. He blew her a kiss. The train picked up speed and he watched the small figure on the platform, waving madly, recede. He collected his bag and shuffled into the compartment. Now he had a reason to fight and a reason to live.’
He stopped reading. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘It’s lovely. I think I’d want to read the whole book.’
‘You don’t think it’s too soppy?’
‘Not at all.’
The ducks on the reservoir swam contentedly in the water, occasionally bobbing for food. Two swans glided up to the edge of the water and hesitated in front of the bench. He felt like part of a couple. He wanted to stay with her like this forever. He caught the scent of honeysuckle perfume and decided to be bold.
‘You are Tessa in the book. Whenever I write about Tessa, I see you. You’re the inspiration.’
‘Well, that’s very nice and flattering. Thank you.’ She shifted on the bench.
‘How’s the training going?’
‘Okay, thanks. I’m running the Race for Life tomorrow, and afterwards I’m going to relax – take a few days off exercising. I’ve been invited on a posh spa break.’ She bit her lip. She ought not to be sharing any personal information with this strange man, yet she was burbling, saying anything that came to mind and all the while, thinking of ways to escape from him. The words tumbled out. ‘My friend Linda suggested it. She got a special deal or we’d never have been able to afford it. Linda’s my running partner. I do longer runs with her. I just do little warm-ups here to work my muscles. I usually run on an evening or weekends with her. We try and complete ten miles.’
‘That’s a fair distance.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘Is that Linda Cheshire? She’s a runner. I know her husband.’ He wanted to sound as normal as possible. Harriet had seemed skittish today and he worried she might be going off him.
She shook her head. ‘No, she’s Linda Upton. I don’t know anyone called Linda Cheshire.’
His mouth turned downwards and he shrugged. ‘Oh well, I’m sure there are lots of ladies who are called Linda who run.’ He was rambling nervously. She clearly wanted to get off and he didn’t want her to leave him. Sure enough her next words were, ‘I have to go now. I’ll no doubt see you around.’
He felt sick. It might be ages before they had another moment like this. ‘I’ll keep you up to date with my book.’
‘Yes. Super.’
‘Enjoy the spa break with Linda and good luck for the run.’
‘Cheers. I’m looking forward to it.’
They both rose. He suddenly panicked. He wouldn’t see her for a few days. Worse still, after her spa break and with no more fun runs planned, she might not keep to her running schedule and he wouldn’t see her again, ever. He wanted more than just a few minutes on the bench with her. As she moved away words tumbled from his mouth. ‘Harriet, you know I’ve based the character of Tessa on you? Well, I’m John.’
She stopped in her tracks.
He carried on, emboldened. He had to tell her. ‘I’m John in the book. And… and I love you. Harriet, I love you.’
Her face turned red and she looked at her feet. ‘Oh, okay,’ was all she could say.
‘I know it’s all sudden, yet I’ve known from the first time I set eyes on you. You don’t need to say anything. I just wanted to tell you.’ He grabbed her hands and clumsily enveloped them in his own, feeling the soft skin and delicate bones of her slim fingers as he tightened his grip, knowing they could be crushed too easily.
Confusion and surprise flickered across her face – that, and something else he didn’t recognise. Harriet nodded. ‘Okay. Well, it’s a bit of a surprise—’
He shushed her. ‘Don’t say anything. Don’t spoil it. Tell me you feel the same way when you’re ready to.’
A man on a bicycle rode towards them and dinged his bell for them to move off the pathway around the pool. Still he held her hands and gazed into her eyes, willing her to see the love in them. The bicycle bell rang several times. ‘Out of the way, please,’ shouted the man. Harriet broke contact with him and pulled her hands away, moving off the path. The mist descended. The man had ruined the moment. He stood his ground. The man on the bike yelled at him to move, but he stayed firm and the man was forced to jam on his brakes at the last minute. He skidded and fell off onto the grassed area.
‘You bloody idiot,’ he shouted, trying to untangle himself from his bike. ‘You could have killed me.’
‘Yes, I could,’ he replied, eyes glittering dangerously. He was so tempted to squeeze the very life out of this stranger who had interrupted his love declaration and ruined the special moment. He turned to speak to Harriet again. It was to
o late. She had disappeared.
He opened his eyes. He had never seen Harriet again. And he knew who to blame for that. Today, someone else would pay their due debt.
Thirty-Eight
‘The list of people who own silver Fiat 500s is ridiculously long. I hadn’t realised it was such a popular car.’ David Marker scrolled through the list, brow furrowed, and complained, ‘It could take forever.’
Robyn made a noise in the back of her throat: no. She would get the breakthrough they needed. ‘Stick at it, David. We’ve got to try and locate it.’
‘At least we can narrow it down to a car purchased in 2014.’
‘Keep at it until we find it.’
She’d called the office from the Hall, to see if there was any more news. With Bullock’s latest recollection, they had something to go on. Mitz was standing by the gym entrance. Inside the gym, someone was working out on the indoor rowing machine, exhaling noisily with every pull.
‘I have a list,’ said Mitz. ‘There are quite a few names on it – seventeen, to be exact – and that includes Bruno Miguel, Scott Dawson, Lorna Davidson who’s in charge of the beauty side of things, and Else Goodman who deals with all the bookings and the guests.’
‘We can rule out Bruno Miguel. He was on holiday at the time of Harriet Worth’s accident. Jakub Woźniak clocked off earlier so I couldn’t speak to him.’
She turned at the sound of soft voices. Scott Dawson in conversation with a tall, bald-headed man. He spotted Robyn and Mitz and said something to the man who disappeared towards the changing rooms, leaving Scott looking perplexed.
