The Hanging in the Hotel (32 page)

‘It was an accident. He fell down the cellar steps.’ Suzy sounded weary now. ‘All right. Maybe I should have checked that the door was locked. But I can’t do
everything.’

‘No.’ There was a silence between them. ‘Suzy, I can’t deny it’s very convincing. Suicide and an accident. Certainly a much more appealing explanation than two
murders.’

‘Then, for heaven’s sake,’ demanded Suzy, her weariness now turning to exasperation, ‘why can’t you believe it?’

‘I just can’t.’ Feeble, she knew, but the only answer Jude could come up with. ‘Maybe I could if I hadn’t heard what Nigel Ackford said the night he died. They
weren’t the words of someone about to kill himself.’

‘And that’s all? If you had a reason why he should have done it, then you’d believe the death was suicide?’

‘Yes,’ said Jude. ‘Yes, I would.’

‘Right,’ said Suzy. She lifted herself out of her chair and crossed to a small cupboard set into the old beams for the barn. ‘I’m not meant to show you this, but I think
the moment has come when I’ve got to.’

The young man at the end of the phone sounded wary. Yes, his name was Karl Floyd and he did work for the
Fethering Observer
.

‘And you’re there as an investigative reporter?’ asked Carole.

It had been the right thing to say. Whether or not her description was rather overstating his role, there was a note of pride in his admission that yes, he was an investigative reporter.

Now she had to take a risk. The minute Jude had mentioned Nigel Ackford’s name to Karl Floyd, their conversation had been ended very abruptly. But then the young man had been on his
mobile. Now he was at work. If she just phrased it right . . .

‘I might have some information relevant to one of your enquiries.’

‘Oh yes?’ He was interested, but still cautious. ‘Can you tell me who I’m talking to, please?’

‘That doesn’t matter for the time being.’ Another calculated risk. But Carole reckoned she’d got him hooked, and didn’t want to give him any excuse to put the phone
down. The fact that his informant was a middle-aged retired woman from Fethering High Street might do just that.

Now the biggest risk. She was guessing, and if her conjecture was wrong, she could look forward to a very quick end to their conversation. ‘The enquiry I’m referring to is the one
you had been talking about to Nigel Ackford and Donald Chew.’

Total silence from the other end of the line. Carole raised the stakes of her risks further. ‘About Renton and Chew?’

Still silence, and she started to worry she’d made a conjecture too far.

Then Karl Floyd spoke. ‘What do you know about them?’

Carole felt herself relax. She’d been right. He’d admitted he had been investigating Renton and Chew.

‘I’d rather not talk on the phone. Would it be possible for us to meet?’

‘I’m not in the habit of meeting people whose names I don’t know.’

‘Very well. My name’s Carole Seddon.’

‘Oh.’

His intonation was blank, could have been approving, could have been disapproving. In case he was about to put the phone down, Carole said quickly, ‘I am a client of Renton and
Chew.’

Thank God, that did it. ‘OK, let’s meet. I’d better tell you, though, that even if I do get all the facts for this investigation together, there’s a strong likelihood
that the
Fethering Observer
won’t run it.’

No, it’ll be spiked by the editor, thought Carole, while he counts down the days to full-time sea fishing. The Pillars of Sussex would close ranks, as ever – particularly now they
had a cosmetic presentation job to do on the death of Donald Chew.

‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘There are other newspapers.’

Again she’d hit the right note. Every young journalist still dreamed of the huge international scoop.
All the President’s Men
must have been obligatory viewing during their
training.

Karl Floyd’s flat turned out to be in Fethering, within walking distance from High Tor. He’d certainly be back from work by seven. Carole arranged to go round and see him then.

She put the phone down with a huge glow of satisfaction. This was a breakthrough. There was no question now about her contributing her fair share to the investigation. Immediately she dialled
Jude’s mobile number.

‘Who was that?’ asked Suzy as soon as Jude ended the call. ‘Sorry, am I being nosy?’

Her friend grinned. ‘Well, you are, but that’s nothing new. It was Carole.’

‘Ah.’

‘She’s tracked down another link in the chain.’

‘Sorry?’

‘There was someone Nigel had been in touch with a lot in the weeks before he died called Karl Floyd. I spoke to him once on the phone, then he vanished. But good old Carole’s tracked
him down.’

‘Of course,’ said Suzy. ‘I keep forgetting it’s not just you.’ She giggled, ‘We’ve got two matronly supersleuths on this case, haven’t
we?’

‘Less of the “matronly”, thank you very much.’ Jude’s large bosom swelled in mock affront. ‘Just because some of us haven’t spent our entire lives
staying young and beautiful, it’s very mean of you to snipe.’

Suzy held up her hands in a gesture of submission. ‘Sorry. Take it all back.’

‘Anyway, we’re wasting time. Show me what you were going to show me.’

‘All right.’ Suzy removed a sheet of white copier paper from the Hopwicke House envelope she’d taken out of the cupboard.

‘And this is going to convince me that Nigel committed suicide?’

‘I think it will, yes.’

‘Don’t forget you’ve got to convince Carole too. After an entirely characteristic moment of doubt, she’s now back fully committed to the investigation.’

‘This’ll convince her too.’ Still Suzy did not hand the piece of paper across. ‘I’d better explain how I come to have this. You remember, when you found Nigel
Ackford’s body in the four-poster room, you came straight down and told me.’

‘Yes.’

‘And I went up to have a look. I found a letter under the pillow. Before the police arrived’ – she waved the sheet of white paper – ‘I took a photocopy.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I was confused and shocked, and I suddenly saw all my hard work building up the hotel being threatened, so I just thought, the more information I had . . .’

‘So you never told anyone else about the letter? Like the police?’

‘Of course I did. I wasn’t in the business of destroying evidence.’

‘You say that, but you didn’t tell the police about the threatening note Kerry found.’

‘No, but that pointed towards a possible murder, which would have been a publicity disaster. This letter pointed towards suicide, which was bad, but not
as
bad. No, as soon as
I’d photocopied the letter, I put it back for the police to find.’

‘Surely your fingerprints would have been on the paper?’

‘I suppose they would. I wasn’t really thinking of that. Anyway, when Inspector Goodchild questioned me, I told him exactly what I’d done, so if they did find my fingerprints,
they’d know why.’

‘But why on earth didn’t this letter come out before?’ Jude wailed. ‘If proof existed that Nigel had a reason to kill himself, then Carole and I could have saved
ourselves a great deal of bother.’

With a rueful nod, Suzy agreed. ‘I know. But Inspector Goodchild told me not to mention it to anyone, and I’ve obeyed him – well, until now.’

‘Why would he do that, though? Because he’s part of the Pillars of Sussex cover-up conspiracy?’

‘Jude . . .’ Suzy shook her elegant head in aggrieved exasperation. ‘There is no cover-up. There’s nothing to cover up. Nigel Ackford died on my premises, which was
extremely unfortunate. The preliminary inquest was adjourned, to give the police time to assemble their evidence. When that evidence is assembled, Nigel Ackford will be adjudged to have committed
suicide. Inspector Goodchild is a professional policeman. He’s not about to show classified information or evidence to two middle-aged women who have fantasies of being
crime-solvers.’

In all their long friendship, Suzy had never before said anything so cruel to Jude, and she regretted it as soon as the words had left her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. That just came out.
I’ve had it up to here over all this business. As you know, the hotel’s been under threat, and this couldn’t have come at a worse time. You and your friend Carole have made it
even worse.’

There was a cold silence. Jude reached out a plump hand. ‘I’d better read it then.’

Suzy handed the photocopy across.

The letterhead was the address and telephone number of a flat in Hove. The contents were handwritten in the elegant italic style favoured by artists, designers and architects. It was dated the
day before the Pillars of Sussex dinner.

There was a long silence, during which Jude avoided her friend’s eyes. Then she looked up, her face as stubborn as a five-year-old’s. ‘It could be a forgery.’

‘Yes, it could,’ Suzy admitted. ‘But the man’s got a phone number. Why don’t you ring him and find out?’

The flat was in the basement of an old white house in Hove. The space had been well designed and renovated, but too long ago. The exposed pine and the low Scandinavian
furniture gave a feeling of the early seventies. So did the white emulsion, which had needed repainting for at least a decade. The grey and white striped curtains, bought from Habitat at its peak
of trendiness, now had new stripes where the sun had faded them.

The man who let Jude in also seemed to be a relic of an earlier age: jeans, a faded denim shirt tight over his swelling belly and hair cut long in a style that had been fashionable before the
hair became white.

‘Edward Dukesbury,’ he said, and gestured to the crammed cardboard boxes in the middle of the room. ‘You were lucky to catch me. As you see, I’m moving out
shortly.’

‘Away from Hove?’

Away from Hove. Away from Sussex. London. I’m afraid this place doesn’t have very happy memories for me.’

Jude did not ask him to elaborate at that point. She was still taking him in, forming her own estimation of the man.

‘Do sit down. Can I offer you anything? Coffee, tea, or I’ve got some wine . . .’ he offered vaguely.

‘No, thank you.’ Jude subsided on to a low sofa, which only seemed to promise comfort to those who lay on it horizontally. She perched on the edge of the cushion.

‘You said you wanted to talk to me about Nigel.’

‘Yes.’

As he lowered himself on to a narrow wooden chair, Jude noticed there was a list on the box in front of him. She saw the words ‘electricity’ and ‘gas’. No doubt things
that had to be done before he left. The handwriting was the same as in the letter she’d seen at Hopwicke House.

‘I heard about you through Suzy Longthorne,’ Jude volunteered.

Edward Dukesbury shrugged and shook his head. ‘Sorry, the name doesn’t mean anything to me.’

‘What about Rick Hendry, or Bob Hartson?’

‘The only Rick Hendry I’ve heard of is the former rock musician, but I’ve never met him. And the other name – sorry, never heard it.’

‘What about Donald Chew?’

‘I know that was the name of Nigel’s boss at work, but we never met.’

‘So you haven’t heard what happened to him?’

‘No.’ The ignorance in the watery blue eyes appeared genuine. But Edward Dukesbury wasn’t interested in the fate of Donald Chew; he was keen to move on. ‘You said you
wanted to talk to me about Nigel. Did you know him?’

‘I met him once. The night before he died.’

‘How come?’

‘I was working at Hopwicke Country House Hotel.’

‘Ah.’ The man looked puzzled. ‘Then I don’t see why . . .’

‘I just wanted to be sure that he committed suicide.’

‘What?’ There was authentic surprise in the voice.

‘That there wasn’t some other explanation for his death.’

Edward Dukesbury let out a bitter laugh. ‘What other explanation could there be? You don’t hang yourself by accident.’

‘No. But I thought . . . You knew him well. Perhaps you could tell me why you think he did it.’

For the first time there was wariness in the pale eyes. ‘Why did you come to me? How did you get my phone number?’

‘I happened to see a copy of the letter you wrote to Nigel Ackford the day before he died.’

‘Ah.’ Her answer satisfied him, and brought a new resignation into his tone. ‘Are you police? I’ve already talked to Inspector Goodchild. I thought that would be the end
of it.’