Leonard Pearson appeared from along the ground floor corridor, and took his station behind the reception desk. He looked every bit as unkempt as his hotel. An inch or two taller than Sam’s 5’6”, his shirt had been tailored for someone with a thicker neck, and his tie hung loosely at the collar. His pale grey suit bagged at the shoulders, and his pants fitted him no better than the jacket and shirt.
Sam judged him to be somewhere in his mid to late 50s. His curly hair was a mosaic of dark brown and grey, thinning on top. His brow was creased, his skin pale, and his eyes were little better than empty sockets; a man who had lost all interest in life and work many years previously.
He looked Sam up and down with relish, but when he turned his attention to Drake and Czarniak, he was more concerned. “Sergeant Czarniak. Not often that we see you down here.”
Czarniak did not rise to the prompt. “Allow me to introduce Chief Inspector Feyer, and this is Mr Drake, a civilian consultant who’s helping us out. Would you like to explain to them why your door is always locked?”
Pearson shrugged. “I keep it locked when, er, when I have no guests.”
Sam smiled sweetly at him. “As in always, sir?”
Drake guessed that Pearson’s leering had irritated her, but he refrained from speaking and allowed Sam to go on.
“I’m the senior officer in Landshaven CID, sir, and I want to talk to you about Barbara Shawforth.”
There was no mistaking the alarm which crossed the hotelier’s features. “I, er…” He fell silent, obviously lost for words. Sam elected not to prompt him. Neither did Drake, who understood the rules of silence: the first to speak would lose. She was pleased to see that Czarniak also understood, and he, too, remained silent.
“I, er… It’s – it’s a long time ago. I don’t know what you want.”
“Is there somewhere a little more comfortable we can talk, Mr Pearson?” Sam asked. “I’ll explain everything there.”
“My, er, my living room. If you’d…you’d like to follow me.”
He led the way along the dimly lit corridor, and through the pass door at the far end, which opened out into spacious, but untidy quarters.
The rainy September day, visible through the single, large sash window, cast shallow light into the place, making it appear more dismal than it was. A single armchair stood by an old-fashioned, tiled fireplace, in which the two bars of an electric fire glowed. Beneath the window, an ageing television set, the sound muted, showed a trivial, daytime game show. There was a roll-top bureau at the rear of the room, and a two-seater settee at right angles to the chair, and between it and the fire, was a chipped and faded coffee table, upon which stood a small plate and a beaker, the plate showing signs of crumbs from toast, the beaker still half full of milky tea or coffee which appeared to have gone cold.
In the far corner was another door, leading (Sam presumed) to the kitchen and/or bathroom. From the little she could see, it appeared no tidier, no cleaner, and no better illuminated than the living room.
And it wasn’t just the furnishings. The vertical-striped wallpaper looked as if it had not been changed in years, and the magnolia paintwork of the door and window frames and the skirting board, had faded to a dirty cream. One or two photographs decorated the wall, most of them portraits of a married couple at various times in their lives. Pearson’s parents, Sam would bet.
The hotelier took the armchair by the fire, the two police officers and Drake squeezed themselves onto the settee, and as Sam took her seat, she noticed the entry call response panel attached to the chimney breast, slightly above and ahead of Pearson, but within arm’s reach.
Sitting uncomfortably on the edge of the settee, she launched into her explanation. “Now, Mr Pearson, you must be aware that Rachel Jenner, the woman convicted of murdering Mrs Shawforth, was released from prison last Friday, after her sentence was quashed.”
“I, er, yes. I read it in the, in the, er, the Chronicle, and there was a piece on local radio too.”
“Yes, well, I don’t want to go into the reasons why she was released, but I’m now charged with reopening the investigation, and we’re starting from scratch. I’ll be re-interviewing all those people who were closest to the original investigation, and that includes you.”
The worry which had haunted Pearson since their arrival, intensified. “I don’t know, er, know how much I can remember. It was a long time ago.”
“That’s not a problem, sir.” Sam reached into her pocket and pulled out a photocopied sheet. “This is a copy of your original statement. I’ll run through those areas I want to cover, and hopefully that will prompt your memory. You don’t have to worry. All I need to query are certain aspects of that day, things which were not made clear in the statement. Okay?”
Pearson obviously could not bring himself to answer, and confined his response to a nervy nod of his head.
Sam skimmed over the early parts of the statement, and formulating her thoughts, concentrated on the hotelier. “Now, I’m not criticising, but according to Chief Inspector Barker, you are happy to rent out your rooms on an hourly basis. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” For the first time, Pearson appeared at pains to elucidate. “Trade isn’t good, and I have to make a living. So I rent rooms out on an hourly basis to those people who want them.”
“Even though it’s obvious that, in Mrs Shawforth’s case for example, she was meeting a lover. A man to whom she was not married.”
Pearson screwed up his face. “I don’t, er, I don’t see that that’s any of my business, Inspector.”
“It’s Chief Inspector, sir. Another rung up the ladder from an inspector.” Sam paused to let her level of authority sink in. “You don’t object, then, to people like Mrs Shawforth and her lover meeting in your hotel for no other reason than sex?”
“It’s not for me to teach them morals, is it? After all, it’s not illegal, and if they don’t choose my hotel, there are others in this town they can use. Someone is, er, someone is going to make money off them, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t be me.”
Sam gave a throwaway shrug. “Fair comment, I suppose.” She made a point of consulting the statement yet again, although she had no need to. She had already mentally rehearsed her next question. “On the day in question, September ninth, you say that Mrs Shawforth arrived alone at about half past two. You were very sure of that.”
“She rang, er, rang in advance. She always did, and she was never late.”
The news took Sam by surprise. “This wasn’t the first time she’d used your hotel?”
“No. She was a regular, er, customer.”
“Always with Alex Walston?”
“No. The day that she was… she was killed, was the first time she’d been here with him. She’d been with other men in the past, and she always got here ahead of them, and paid for the room, and took the key.”
Sam nodded at Czarniak, indicating that he should be making notes. As the sergeant began to write, Pearson appeared even more concerned.
“It’s nothing to worry about, sir,” Sam said. “Sergeant Czarniak will be taking notes, and when we’re through, he’ll run through them with you, ask you to sign his pocket book. We’ll get it typed up, and ask you to sign a new statement. It’s just a formality.”
The news did nothing to relax Pearson.
“If we can get back to the day in question, you say that Alex Walston arrived at a few minutes to three, and yet later, you say you did not see him. How is that possible?”
Pearson gestured up at the entry call responder. “When… When Mrs Shawforth signed in and took the key, she told me she was expecting a, er, a gentleman friend. I knew exactly what she meant. She went up to the room, and I came back in here. As I said, there’s not much point hanging around in Reception because I’m never busy. When he turned up, he pressed the buzzer, I asked who it was, and he said he was here for Mrs Shawforth. And I… I recognised his voice. I knew Alex Walston. He’d been here before as well, but wit
h other women.”
“But never Rachel Jenner or Barbara Shawforth?”
“No. I’d not seen Mrs Jenner before, other than, er, other than as a policewoman, that is, and as I say, this… this was the first time he’d been here with Mrs Shawforth.”
“All right, Mr Pearson, let’s move on. Walston arrived at a few minutes to three, but you later insist that, although he said he left at half past three, you couldn’t confirm that because you never saw him.”
“That’s correct.” Once more, Pearson gestured to the entry call responder above him. “The front door locks automatically when it closes, but it can be opened from here or actually at the inside of the door. If Alex Walston left at half past three, then he must have opened the door, because I didn’t let him out. I didn’t need to.”
“But you have CCTV covering the lobby, Mr Pearson.”
The hotelier shook his head. “It’s a… a fake. A dummy camera. It doesn’t record anything, and I only put it there to persuade, er, persuade troublemakers that I had the… the area covered.”
“Okay.” Sam took a moment to consider her next question carefully. “You said you eventually went to the room just after half past four, and that’s when you found Mrs Shawforth beaten to death.”
“That… That’s right. I probably fell asleep, although I don’t really remember. But I went up there at about twenty-five to five, and that’s when I found her.”
“Why did you go up?”
“The key.” Pearson paused, and when Sam did not interrupt, went on. “You see, whenever she left, Mrs Shawforth would leave the key on Reception, and I’d hang it back up later. I wandered out of here just turned half past four, and I couldn’t see the key on the desk. I thought she’d forgotten, so I went up there, tried the door, and it was open. I walked in and…”
He trailed off and shuddered at the memory.
In direct contravention of Sam’s instructions, Drake spoke for the first time. “How did you react, sir?”
The hotelier’s colour seemed to pale even further. “It was awful. I was sick. Physically sick. Luckily, I got out of the room, and threw up over the carpet on the landing. I didn’t want, er, want to contaminate the scene any more than I had done by going in there. Then I came back downstairs, and rang the police station. And then Sergeant Larne came with a couple of uniformed people, and not long after that, it was Mr Trentham, with Mr Jenner and Mr Barker.”
Casting a reproving glance at Drake, Sam gave Pearson a moment or two to calm down. “This next question is important. At any time, were you aware of Rachel Jenner entering the hotel?”
Pearson’s response was rambling but definite. “Well, she must have done, or she couldn’t have killed Mrs Shawforth, but I said... I said at the time, and I said in court, I did not see her.”
Sam pointed to the entry call. “Bearing in mind that you have to let people in, how could she possibly get into the building, without you being aware of it?”
Pearson took his time replying, and when he spoke it was with a wary eye on Czarniak. “The door is slow, er, slow to close and lock. She could have sneaked in right behind Alex Walston, and hidden on, say, the second floor while he went into the room on the first floor. Other than that, she must have had a key.”
The first scenario was just about believable in Sam’s opinion, although it begged the question as to whether Rachel could remain invisible to Walston as he made his way up the stairs. The second of Pearson’s ideas was stretching credibility a little too far.
“How many keys are there for the front door, sir?”
“Two. I have both of them here.”
Sam’s next question was obvious, but it was Drake who posed it. “In that case, where did Rachel Jenner get her hypothetical key?”
Sam glowered at him once more, and Pearson clearly did not want to answer. He stared pointedly at Czarniak whose pen was poised, ready to begin writing again.
Putting aside her irritation with Drake, Sam hastened to reassure the hotelier. “I’m not John Jenner or Frank Barker, sir. You have my assurance that if you have something to say regarding the police, there will be no consequences. Now what is it you’re suggesting?”
“The police come here regular, usually looking for the girls who work on the harbour. It’s always… always possible that one or more of your, your, er, officers has taken a mould of the key at some point, and had one made.” He hurried on, and Sam noted that his hesitancy was suddenly gone. “I’m not saying that’s what happened, or even that anyone really did have a key, I’m just saying it’s possible.”
Sam had all the information she needed but Drake had others things on his mind. “Would it be possible for Chief Inspector Feyer and me to check the room, sir?”
Pearson was clearly alarmed. “It was… It was four years ago. I don’t know what you expect to find.”
Sam picked up on Drake’s idea. “I wouldn’t expect to find anything, Mr Pearson. But we do need to look at the scene of the crime, so we can mentally reconstruct what happened. If you could get the key, we’ll leave you with Sergeant Czarniak, who’ll run through what you’ve told us, and ask you to sign it. Is that all right?”
“If you wish. You can pick up the key in Reception. It’s room sixteen. It’s on the first floor, and it’s the first door on the right, as you turn off the staircase.”
Chapter Twenty-One
When they reached the dowdy lobby, Sam rounded on Drake. “What is it about keep your mouth shut that you don’t understand?”
“They were questions which needed to be asked, and you hadn’t asked them.”
“Because I hadn’t got to them. Wes, you’re making it very difficult for us to work together.”
“Probably because we have different briefs. Shall we take a look at this room?”
“And that’s another thing. What do you think we’ll learn there?”
“You’d be surprised.” Drake took out his phone and rang Czarniak. When the connection was made, he kept his voice down and announced himself. “Don’t say anything, Sergeant. Just confirm that you understand the instructions I give you. Sam and are about to make our way upstairs. Keep your ears tuned for any sound at all, and if you hear anything, make a note of it in the back of your pocketbook. Don’t let Pearson see what you’re writing. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Drake killed the call and dropped the phone back in his pocket.
Behind the counter, Sam had opened the register, and was checking the entries on the final page. When she had finished, she closed the book.
“He’s not had anyone staying here for a long time. Most are one-nighters. Reps and the like, judging from the entries, and he hasn’t seen any of those for months.”
There was no comment from Drake. She collected the key from the rack and they began to make their way slowly up the stairs.
On every step, Drake paused, and listened. On only one step did he hear a creak. At the first floor landing, he motioned for Sam to stay where she was while he turned along the landing and took the next flight of stairs up to the second floor, where he repeated the process. For the second experiment, there were no creaking boards.
While he was on the second floor, he noted inconsequentially, that it was a clone of the first floor, with the same carpeting, the same doors punctuating walls at either side, but to his left, where he would expect the next flight of steps up to the third and top floor, was a stout wooden door which, when he tried it, was locked.
He returned to the first floor to join Sam again. She was about to query his curious behaviour, but he put a finger to his lips and shushed her.
The first floor landing was short, three doors on either side, and to their left, a further two doors, beyond which was the staircase he had just taken up to the second floor. He took the key from Sam, unlocked the door to Room 16, and they stepped in.
It was clean, but that was all Drake could say in its favour. The single window looked out over the rooftops of adjacent buildin
gs, and beyond them, he could see the upper reaches of South Cliff, the wooded promontory marking the extent of Landshaven South Bay. He could see nothing of the sea, or the promenade, and only the peaked roof of the harbour buildings with the glass canopy of the control room prominent. It was an uninspiring view, but then most couples did not come here to take in the scenery.
The double divan bed was pushed back to the wall, where the scruffy, padded headboard was a permanent fixture. When he nudged the divan base, it moved freely, and his lively imagination could visualise difficulties for copulating couples in keeping the bed still and silent. But again, considering the lack of custom enjoyed by the Bellevue, he would not imagine it to be a great problem.
A wardrobe stood alongside the bed, and a small, four-drawer dresser at the foot. Both items of furniture were old, badly in need of renewal, and left little space for movement between them and the broad spread of the bed. To further cramp the available space, where he might have expected bedside cabinets, wooden chairs stood either side of the bed.
In the far corner was an open doorway, which when he checked, led to the en suite bathroom; no more than a toilet, wash basin and shower crammed into an impossibly small space, more in line with a caravan than a hotel room.
With Sam looking on, a puzzled frown crossing her clear brow, he crouched on his haunches by the dresser, and looked towards the bed from the level of the top drawer. Having satisfied himself on the elevation, he straightened up, opened the drawer, and spent several minutes examining the empty interior. Then he took out his smartphone, and photographed the twist fittings which anchored the drawer front to its sides.
“You thinking of taking up DIY or buying flatpack furniture?”
The Frame - from the author of the Sanford Third Age Club (STAC) series (A Feyer and Drake Mystery Book 2) Page 12
