The Thirteenth Room (Kempston Hardwick Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  Ellis was immensely satisfied and yet still not. To know that there was a perfectly viable psychological explanation behind this phenomenon was reassuring, yet something still didn’t seem quite right. It all seemed rather too theoretical. Yes, this could happen... Sometimes it’s possible that... Theoretically speaking...

  Besides which, for Ellis Flint there was one huge, unshakeable factor which he could not ignore. Hardwick was convinced it was murder. And Hardwick was rarely mistaken.

  44

  DI Warner’s ageing Volvo squealed as it pulled up on the kerb outside Rosie Blackburn’s house. Hardwick noticed a man peering from behind the curtains, and it was this same man who had opened the front door by the time he and Warner had made their way halfway up the path, having dropped Ellis off at home. This was far too sensitive a situation for Hardwick to risk him putting his foot in it.

  ‘Mr Blackburn?’ Warner asked. He’d already made it quite clear to Hardwick in the car on the way over that it was he who would be doing the questioning as it was he who’d spent four months at Hendon for the privilege.

  ‘You can call me Matthew,’ the man said. Hardwick wouldn’t, because he never did.

  After being beckoned inside, Hardwick and Warner sat down on two dining room chairs which were on the floor in the living room amongst a mound of cardboard boxes.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess. We only moved in a few days ago.’

  ‘Oh, did you move far?’ Warner asked.

  ‘No, not really. We only lived round the corner before.’

  ‘Well it can’t be easy for you, especially not with... Well, you know,’ Warner said.

  ‘I know,’ Matthew Blackburn replied. ’To be honest I think I’m just in shock. It’s not sunk in. I just keep expecting her to walk in through the door any minute.’

  ‘Is there anybody who can sit with you?’ Warner asked. ‘A family member or a friend?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, I called my parents and Rosie’s and they’re coming up, but they live down in Cornwall. That’s where we’re both from originally, you see. I just don’t quite know what to do at the moment.’ Matthew brought his hands to his mouth in a steeple and looked for a moment as though he might break down in tears.

  ‘I know it’s difficult and this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, but we need to get to the bottom of what happened. Did you suspect at any point that your wife might want to end her own life?’

  Matthew stood silently for a couple of moments, clearly struggling with his emotions. ‘Well yes, at some points. But not recently. Just after we lost our baby, she was absolutely devastated, of course she was. We both were. And on the anniversary each year she had to get away and escape. That was part of the reason for moving to a new house, so the memories weren’t there.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking what happened?’ Warner asked.

  ‘It was our daughter. She died during childbirth. Rosie blamed herself because she wanted a home birth and had refused a caesarian section. I mean, she didn’t need to blame herself, of course. Home births are totally natural and safe and hospitals are always too quick to go for the c-section these days, aren’t they? But there was no telling her. She blamed herself. The doctors and midwife said there was nothing she could have done and that it would have happened anyway, but she had this bee stuck in her bonnet that it was somehow her fault. I think that’s why she felt she had to get away each year. Not far, as you know. Just away from the house and somewhere she felt comfortable. Just to forget who she was for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘And she didn’t want you there with her?’ Warner asked.

  ‘No, I did offer, but she said it would be the same in terms of being a reminder. She just wanted to forget for one day. That’s not so bad, is it? Because believe me, not an hour goes past when I don’t think about what happened to us and I know it was the same for Rosie, if not worse. We even gave her a name, you know? Isabelle. It’s strange, but it feels like we really knew her. Even though she was technically never born, we still feel as if we had years with her before she was wrenched away. I know that probably sounds really odd, but it’s true. I guess you just can’t really explain it to someone who hasn’t been there.’

  Warner glanced at Hardwick, indicating that he could now speak if he wanted to. Hardwick could sense that Warner felt uncomfortable in the situation and that Hardwick would perhaps be better suited to knowing what to say.

  ‘It sounds like a very stressful and upsetting time,’ Hardwick finally said, choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Yes, it never really goes away. I mean, of course you learn to deal with it and you have to let life carry on. But that doesn’t mean you ever get over it. You never forget and it is always with you. But she would never have killed herself. Not at all,’ Matthew said quickly and decisively. ‘Absolutely not. Even when we were both at our lowest ebb, it was something she would have never done. She thought life was too valuable to be wasted like that. Even a painful life. That’s why she was so distraught when we lost Isabelle. You know, she even lost a friend a couple of years earlier because she thought the friend was inconsiderate for having an abortion when she found out her unborn baby had Down’s Syndrome. Rosie told her she should give the child a life regardless. They fell out over it and didn’t speak after that.’

  ‘Is it possible that the house move might have stirred up some emotions and unbalanced her? Especially at this time of year,’ Hardwick said.

  Matthew Blackburn’s eyes seemed to well up before them as he seemed to consider that he might have had some influence on his wife’s decision to take her own life.

  ‘Oh God, I hadn’t thought about that. But no, surely not. I would have noticed. You don’t think... Oh God.’

  ‘No, Mr Blackburn,’ Warner said. ‘We don’t. In fact, one of the reasons we’re here is because we don’t think Rosie took her own life at all. We think she might have been murdered.’

  Although Warner had meant it to sound reassuring, it was clear to him and Hardwick that it had been the final nail in the coffin for Matthew, who deflated into a sobbing ball. It was a good fifteen minutes before the conversation could be brought back round to the subject of Rosie’s untimely death.

  ‘We have to ask this, I’m afraid,’ Warner said as comfortingly as he could. ‘Did your wife have any enemies? Anyone who might want to do her harm?’

  ‘No, of course not!’ Matthew replied, verging on the angry.

  ‘What about the friend you told us about earlier? The one she fell out with over the abortion?’ Hardwick suggested.

  ‘No, absolutely not. They were both upset, but not in that sort of way. And anyway, they moved out to Australia a year later so you can forget all about that.’

  Before Hardwick or Warner could open their mouths to ask another question, they were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Matthew stood up and went to answer the door as Hardwick and Warner looked at each other without saying a word. A few seconds later, Matthew returned with a very upset-looking man and woman in their sixties.

  ‘This is Sue and Pete, Rosie’s parents,’ Matthew said. ‘Would you mind leaving us to have some time on our own? Please?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Warner said, getting in before Hardwick did. Although Warner knew he was not the most tactful of men, he was quite sure Hardwick would go one further if he were allowed to stay in a room with three grieving people. ‘We will need to speak to you further, though. Perhaps you could make an appointment to come in and see me. Or I could come back to see you if you’d feel more comfortable chatting in your own home.’

  Matthew Blackburn nodded and showed Warner and Hardwick out.

  ‘What did you make of him?’ Warner asked Hardwick as they made their way back to the car. ‘I’m not sure. He seemed genuine enough to me, but then again that doesn’t always mean a lot in my experience. What I would say, though, is next time you speak to him try and make sure it’s not at his house. Either neutral territory or get him in
to see you. That way, he might act differently and we might see a different side to him.’

  ‘Is it not usually at home that people let their guards down?’ Warner asked. ‘Because if you’re about to tell me that everything I’ve learnt on the force is crap again, Hardwick, I—‘

  ‘No no no, not at all, Detective Inspector,’ Hardwick said, interrupting Warner mid-flow. ‘But I think it’s worth a try. Don’t you?’

  Thursday 26th March

  45

  DI Rob Warner blew across the rim of the plastic coffee cup as he read the front page of the Tollinghill Echo. The headline read:

  LOCAL HOTEL IN SUICIDE SCANDAL: PARANORMAL INVESTIGATORS CALLED IN AFTER SECOND DEATH AS POSSIBLE SUICIDE CULT PROBED

  Warner closed his eyes and shook his head, then looked at the byline. Of course. Kit Daniels. It had to be Kit Daniels. The shock jock of the local newspaper, intent on trying to get the juiciest possible stories to make a name for himself. He thanked his lucky stars that at least the paper hadn’t yet got wind of the third death. If and when they did, that’s when the proverbial would really hit the fan.

  The newspaper’s entire ethos was built around trying to publish sensationalist stories which they could then sell up to the nationals. With advertising revenues at an all time low — particularly in tatty rags such as the Echo — local newspapers had to resort to desperate tactics to generate income. The Tollinghill Echo was amongst the worst offenders and Kit Daniels was the most notorious amongst the Echo’s journalists.

  At least he’s spelt everything correctly this time, Warner thought as he skimmed through the article. Before now, when Kit Daniels had been the first to break stories, Warner had wondered how on earth he’d got the information. He no longer bothered wasting his time thinking about it, as it was always the case. He was sure Daniels had a network of people on the ground, listening carefully in pubs and shops and passing up information from the grapevine in exchange for a small bung here and there.

  Although Kit Daniels was known for not respecting the police and its investigations, even he could not deny that he needed to obey the law, even if he was prone to pushing it to its extremes. It was about time Warner put in a call.

  He picked up the phone and dialled the number for Kit Daniels’s direct line. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

  ‘Tollinghill Echo, Kit Daniels speaking.’

  ‘Christopher, hello,’ Warner said.

  ‘Ah, Mr Warner. What a pleasure,’ Kit said, knowing that the only person who referred to him by his full name was Tollinghill’s local Detective Inspector.

  ‘It might be for you, Daniels, but it’s not for me. I’ve just seen your front page.’

  ‘So have thousands, Detective Inspector. Good, isn’t it? You should see the online version. The comments section has gone bananas. All sorts of nutcases out there. We’ve had everything from satanic cults to government brainwashing by the Illuminati so far, and it’s only been live two hours.’

  ‘And you think that sort of sensationalism is clever, do you?’ Warner asked.

  ‘Got to get people talking, haven’t we? That’s our job, after all. Just reporting the news. That’s how it is. Keep you lot on your toes for starters.’

  ‘We don’t need keeping on our toes,’ Warner replied. ‘We’re investigating two deaths here and the last thing we need is you sticking your oar in and stirring up a load of conspiracy theories.’

  ‘Well what are your theories, Detective Inspector? Do you have any? I’m guessing not. What’s wrong with a little outside help, in that case? I mean, you’re not averse to using people from outside the police force to help you with investigations, are you?’

  Warner knew damn well what Kit Daniels was referring to. He’d made remarks about Hardwick’s involvement in investigations in the past, but he now had a feeling that he knew Hardwick was floating around the Manor Hotel situation, too.

  ‘And anyway,’ Kit Daniels continued. ‘Are you actually investigating? Because the last I heard, you were treating the deaths as suicide. No investigation required, surely?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Daniels,’ Warner said. ‘The gist of it is that it’s nothing to do with you or your birdbrained readers. How much clearer do I have to make myself? I want you to stop reporting on this, pull the story from your online outlets and keep it out of your papers from now on. If — if — there is some sort of suicide cult going on, the last thing we want is new people joining in. All right?’

  There was a short silence before Kit Daniels replied. ’We have a duty to report the news, Detective Inspector.’

  Warner sighed. ‘Do you want blood on your hands? Because if you continue along this path, that’s what you’ll get.’

  46

  The smell of black coffee assaulted Ellis Flint’s nostrils as he sauntered into Hardwick’s kitchen and headed straight for the pot of black liquid.

  ‘Would you like a coffee, Ellis?’ Hardwick asked sarcastically.

  ‘Not to worry. I’m already doing it,’ Ellis replied. ‘Hope you’ve made it nice and strong. I’m having real trouble waking up at the moment. I must be getting ten hours of sleep a night. It’s madness.’

  Hardwick raised one eyebrow. ‘Yes, well I’ve probably had about a tenth of that. And I’m not the one who goes to bed with eight mugs of coffee and thirty teaspoons of sugar sloshing about my bloodstream either.’

  ‘Maybe you should give it a go. Works for me.’

  ‘I think I’ll pass, thank you, Ellis.’

  Once he had made sure his coffee was sweeter than a pile of kittens in a Haribo factory, Ellis sat down at the kitchen table. It was then that he saw the wall covered in photographs, maps and scribbled notes.

  There were maps of South Heath with the Manor Hotel marked and, Ellis was surprised to see, the locations of mobile phone masts which he’d researched earlier.

  Hardwick noticed that Ellis was looking at the map. ‘Just to make sure we’ve got all the information, Ellis. Before you start thinking I’ve fallen in for your daft theories. We have to eliminate all other possibilities.’

  ‘Right. I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t. Christ, where did you get all these photos of people from?’ Ellis said, pointing to the pictures of Kimberly Gray, Elliot and Scarlett Carr, their friends and family and staff members at the Manor Hotel. There were arrows and lines connecting some of them, showing their relationships.

  ‘Facebook, mostly. A couple of them I had to take myself.’

  ‘And who’s that one?’ Ellis said, pointing to the picture of a pasty-looking young man with dark floppy hair.

  ‘That’s Owen Bartlett, Ellis,’ Hardwick replied patronisingly. ‘You went to Brighton to interview him.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Owen Bartlett has short, blonde hair. Very short. Shaved, I’d say.’

  ‘Ellis, I took that photo of him myself when I went to speak to him the other day. He can’t have just grown hair in the space of a couple of days.’

  ‘Well that’s not the bloke I talked to. I can absolutely guarantee that,’ Ellis said, jabbing his finger at the photograph before taking a large swig of his coffee as if this was no big issue at all.

  Hardwick stared at the photograph and blinked three times. ‘You know what this means, don’t you, Ellis? Only one of us spoke to Owen Bartlett. The other one was an imposter. And we’ve no way of knowing which one.’

  47

  DI Warner bowed his head as the funeral cortège circumnavigated the large fountain and came to a gradual stop outside the entrance to the graveyard.

  Somewhat fortunately, Elliot Carr’s family had decided on a full burial as opposed to a cremation, in line with Elliot’s personal wishes. Although Warner had his own theories, he was thankful that this would at least keep his options open as well as helping him avoid any potential confrontations which might have occurred should the family have wanted a cremation. In that case, he would have to have been absolutely certain that there was no chance of foul play. Just
recently, that theory had become somewhat rockier.

  He scurried away towards the road as his mobile phone trilled and warbled in his pocket, pulling it out and answering it. It was Hardwick.

  ‘I presume you’re at the funeral?’ Hardwick asked.

  ‘Yes, which is precisely why I can’t take phone calls right now, Hardwick. So if you don’t mind—‘

  ‘I just thought you might like to know that we’re on our way to Brighton,’ Hardwick said, interrupting him.

  ‘That’s lovely. Get me a stick of rock, will you?’ Warner replied sarcastically. ‘What is this, a bloody social call?’

  ‘We’re going there to speak to Owen Bartlett. The real Owen Bartlett. You see, he’s been giving us the runaround for some reason and there’s something not quite right about that.’

  Something not quite right about not wanting to spend your day talking to Kempston Hardwick and Ellis Flint? Warner thought. Surely not.

  ‘I don’t know how many times I need to tell you this, Hardwick, but you can’t just go around—‘

  ‘If I were you, Detective Inspector, I’d have the burial halted. Or at least make sure there’s an officer near the grave at all times until we know what’s gone on. You never know what evidence might be on the body.’

  ‘Well you’re not me, are you, Hardwick?’ Warner barked. ‘Our forensics team has taken every scrap of potential evidence, investigated it and stored it. Quite frankly, they’re the experts and you’re not. You’re just a complete pain in the backside, if I’m perfectly honest.’

  ‘Detective Inspector, can I just—‘

  ‘No, you cannot. You can stop calling me, stop visiting me and stop interfering. This is my investigation, so keep your nose out of it.’ Warner pulled his phone away from his ear and went to press the call end button, but not before bringing the phone back to his ear again. ‘Oh, and Hardwick? Don’t forget my bloody stick of rock.’