The Thirteenth Room (Kempston Hardwick Mysteries Book 4) Page 6

  ‘Miserable bugger if you ask me.’

  ‘Which I didn’t. Nothing wrong with keeping yourself to yourself, is there? Perhaps you should take a leaf out of his book, Sid.’

  ‘Charming, that is. There’s plenty of other good pubs round here I could drink in, y’know.’

  ‘No there isn’t,’ Doug replied.

  ‘Fair point. Bit weird that there’s been two deaths, though, ain’t it?’

  ‘Well yeah, that’s why I called him. If there’s something a bit funny going on, he’ll get to the bottom of it. Not as if the local coppers are going to do much good. They only call him for help half the time anyway.’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if he was bumping them off to give himself the work,’ Sid said before taking a gulp of his pint.

  ‘Do you ever have anything good to say about people, Sid? Besides, he doesn’t get paid anything. He’s “a man of independent means” as he puts it. So you can cut that rubbish out straight away. No, I reckon there’s got to be something dodgy going on there. Something not quite right. Kempston’ll get to the bottom of it, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Doubt that very much,’ said the voice of Jez Cook, who’d managed to float into the pub unheard and plant himself at the end of the bar nearest the entrance. ‘All seems a bit too clever for me.’

  ‘Most things seem a bit too clever for you, Jez,’ Doug said, heading down his end of the bar. ‘That’s why you’ve been inside three times.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s what they ain’t caught me for that’s the real story, ain’t it? What’s good today?’

  ‘It’s all good. Serving crap doesn’t tend to go down too well business-wise. But then again you’d know all about that.’

  ‘I’ll have you know my crap’s got a very good reputation locally,’ Jez replied.

  ‘Well the police certainly know all about it, don’t they? Bloody good job you’re not able to shift any of it since the Black Horse shut down. Which reminds me. If you’re even thinking of bringing anything like that in here you can get out now while I’m asking nicely.’

  ‘Woah, relax,’ Jez said, raising his hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m just here for a pint, all right? Nothing like that.’

  ‘Right. Well make it just the one and be on your way then,’ Doug said.

  ‘Blimey. Talk about things being bad for business,’ Jez mumbled under his breath, having pointed to the beer he wanted.

  ‘Three-twenty. And no, you can’t stick it on the tab,’ Doug said, jumping in before Jez could speak again.

  ‘How’s that for customer service?’ he replied, fishing deep in his pockets for the right change. ‘Anyway, what’s been said about all this business down at the Manor then?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Doug replied, taking the money from him and putting it in the till. As he did so, he noticed a man he didn’t know sitting at the far end of the bar next to the cider pumps, his pint almost finished, looking intently at Jez.

  ‘Well, I should imagine it’s the talk of the town ain’t it? Bit weird having two people top themselves in that short a time in the same place. And doing it the same way and all. And seeing as they didn’t know each other...’

  ‘What, so you’re Columbo as well as Al Capone now are you?’ Doug said, laughing.

  ‘Nah, nothing like that. But it’s weird, ain’t it? I mean, both being hung by a dressing gown cord in the same room. Neither of them depressed or nothing. No reason to want to top themselves, like.’

  ‘What, so you reckon we’ve got a serial killer on the loose now?’ Sid chipped in.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ Jez replied. ‘And anyway, it’s not a serial killer till you’ve got three victims. It’s just a double murder.’

  ‘The police don’t seem to think so,’ Doug said, mopping down the bar with a dishcloth.

  ‘Not at the moment. But they will do. They’ve got to see it sooner or later, ain’t they?’

  ‘You think there’ll be more deaths?’ Doug asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Jez said. ‘Have to wait and see, won’t we?’

  At the other end of the bar by the cider pumps, Kevin McGready swallowed heavily as he finished the last dregs of his pint, stood up, pushed the stool back against the bar and left the Freemason’s Arms.

  Sunday 22nd March

  20

  Although Hardwick was reluctant to allow Ellis to set off down to Brighton on his own after the less-than-successful episode with Kevin McGready, he also knew that time was not on their side. The revelation of a second suicide at the Manor Hotel had stirred a worrying and impending sense of doom within Hardwick. Although he had no details, he knew that it did not bode well.

  It was only through sheer necessity, then, that Ellis Flint stepped aboard the direct train to Brighton, a two-hour journey which would see him snake through the centre of London and across Blackfriars Bridge before zipping through the Surrey and Sussex countryside and nestling quietly at the end of the railway in Brighton’s impressive railway station.

  The idea of walking long distances didn’t fill Ellis with joy, his calves still aching from following a marching Hardwick to and from the Manor Hotel in South Heath. However, he didn’t much fancy shelling out for a city centre taxi and, by all accounts, the traffic he could see backed up outside the station meant that walking would probably be the quickest option anyway. Speak to Owen Bartlett, find out what went on and get to a nice local pub before heading back. That was the plan.

  The pavements of Queen’s Road, the main thoroughfare from the station to the seafront, were heaving as Ellis waddled down the hill past all manner of shops and office fronts. At the busy North Street junction, he headed east past the boutique shops and welcoming pubs before crossing the Steine Gardens and making his way up the hill into Kemp Town, the bohemian centre of Brighton.

  Ellis was not a man who explored, but that was not to say that he didn’t enjoy it. He was just quite happy knocking around Tollinghill and keeping his life as easy and carefree as possible. Which wasn’t always the case since he’d met Kempston Hardwick. The closest he’d come to anything resembling the bustling bonhomie of Kemp Town was being dragged through Soho, twice, by Hardwick in order to interview a stripper in a seedy ‘gentlemen’s’ club three years earlier.

  Yes, he was here on business, but he was alone and didn’t have to concentrate on trying to keep up with Kempston Hardwick, be it mentally or physically.

  When he finally arrived at St George’s Terrace, he located Owen Bartlett’s mother’s house and walked up the steps to the front door. A young man, probably in his early to mid twenties, Ellis assumed, opened the door.

  ‘Oh. Hello,’ Ellis said, having not expected the search to be quite this easy. ‘I was expecting to see Mrs Bartlett. Is she in?’ Ellis asked, for no reason at all other than to say something — anything — to give him some space to get his brain back on track.

  ‘Uh, no, she’s not. Why?’

  ‘Are you Owen Bartlett?’ Ellis asked, ignoring the man’s question.

  ‘Depends who’s asking,’ the man replied.

  ‘I’m here about the death of a man at the Manor Hotel in South Heath, where you worked until very recently, Owen,’ Ellis said, attempting to read some flicker of emotion from the man’s eyes. What he saw, or thought he saw, was danger.

  ‘Not here, okay?’ came the reply. ‘I’ll talk, but meet me up the road at the Sidewinder in ten minutes.’

  It struck Ellis as a little odd that Owen wouldn’t want to discuss the matter at home, and his suspicion led him to get as far as the end of St George’s Terrace before crouching behind a wheelie-bin as he waited for Owen Bartlett to leave the house and walk the short distance to the Sidewinder pub.

  A few minutes later, Owen left the house, descended the steps and walked purposefully towards the end of the street. Once he’d passed the corner, Ellis gave him a few yards’ head start before following him across the green outside some flats and onto Upper St James’s
Street, where he walked into the Sidewinder as planned.

  Ellis walked in a few moments after Owen, and explained he’d gone for a little walk to ‘get his bearings’ before coming to the pub. The pub was beautifully traditional, with a wooden floor, wooden tables and a very friendly atmosphere. Ellis was thankful that he hadn’t been led into a rough estate pub in which he’d find it very difficult to interview Owen Bartlett, but rather felt very comfortable and secure, which inspired his direct line of questioning.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Ellis said, as they sat down at a round wooden table with their pints of beer. ‘I’m told you resigned from your job and left quite suddenly on the night Elliot Carr died. Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, it is,’ Owen said.

  ‘Can you tell me why?’

  ‘Well why do you think?’ he replied. Ellis opened his mouth to tell him exactly why he thought he’d upped and gone, but thought better of it. ‘Look, I hadn’t been happy there for a while, all right? And I’ve not been well, truth be told. Depression and that. So when that bloke topped himself I just couldn’t take it any more. I had to get out.’

  ‘Had there been problems at the hotel before?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘Nothing like that, no. I just mean in general. I mean, South Heath’s not quite Brighton, is it?’

  You can say that again, Ellis thought. ‘You mean you were homesick?’

  ‘Yeah, if you like. I’d been at the hotel for a while and it just wasn’t going anywhere. I wasn’t happy. I’d been thinking of leaving for a while but that was just the icing on the cake for me.’

  ‘Who found Mr Carr’s body?’ Ellis asked, knowing that Owen would either choose to lie for some reason, in which case he’d know he was hiding something, or would tell the truth, in which case he’d see which way his eyes flickered in order to have a marker for Owen’s truth tells. Hardwick had always pooh-poohed Ellis’s insistence that this method would make it very easy to spot who was lying and who was telling the truth, having told him on a number of occasions that it was unreliable and likely to cloud their judgement. Stick to the facts, Ellis, Hardwick would always say. Sod the facts, Ellis thought. There are no facts.

  ‘I only know what I’ve been told. Apparently it was Derren. Derren Robson,’ Owen said. Ellis thought he saw a mere flicker of the eyes to the upper-left, but his answer came too quickly for him to be sure.

  ‘And am I right in thinking that you had quite a long conversation with Mr Carr at the bar that night?’

  ‘Yeah, I did. There weren’t many people in and he was just sat there looking pretty miserable so I humoured him.’

  ‘Humoured him?’ Ellis asked.

  ‘Yeah, you know what I mean. Just listened to him and chatted.’

  ‘And what was he miserable about?’ Ellis asked. ‘Did he say?’

  ‘Something about an argument with his wife. It was meant to be their anniversary but she’d said or done something which had upset him, so he came down to the bar for a couple of drinks instead.’

  ‘Did he say what she had said or done to upset him?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Owen said, taking a sip of his beer. ‘I don’t really remember. You get a lot of sob stories working behind a bar. People feel they can come to you with their problems, you know? Kind of what made me sick of the job in a way. I mean, we’ve all got our own problems, ain’t we? Don’t need no more grief from total strangers.’

  ‘What problems do you have, Owen?’ Ellis asked, turning more good-cop-agony-aunt as the conversation progressed. ‘Money issues? Girl troubles?’

  Owen scoffed and shook his head at the suggestion. ‘Let’s just say no.’

  Ellis’s brain, as was the norm, took a little while to catch up. Unfortunately for him, his mouth got there first. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s not much of a gay scene in South Heath, is there?’ Owen asked, trying to nudge Ellis’s train of thought.

  ‘Well no, there isn’t. There are a couple of very good gay friendly nightclubs in Shafford, so I hear, which... Ah. I see,’ Ellis replied, suddenly realising what he was meant to have already realised. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘You didn’t offend me,’ Owen said. ‘Contrary to popular belief, gay people aren’t actually offended by women.’

  ‘So were there man troubles?’ Ellis offered.

  ‘Just the usual,’ Owen said, offering no further information. ‘Look, I know it was probably stupid to just disappear like that, but it’s not as if it really mattered, is it? I mean, it’s just a job. I know a bloke died and that, but they didn’t exactly need me hanging around.’

  ‘That’s just the problem,’ Ellis said, clasping his hands and leaning forward as he prepared to drop the bombshell. ‘It might well look very bad that you disappeared so quickly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Owen asked.

  ‘We believe that Elliot Carr may have been murdered.’

  Ellis watched as Owen Bartlett’s face turned an even whiter shade of pale.

  21

  As much as Hardwick liked the Manor Hotel and admired the beautiful stone building and the grounds in which it stood, he had hoped not to be back any time soon.

  The event of a second suicide at the hotel had meant that there was now very little doubt in Hardwick’s mind that foul play was involved. This was confirmed when he popped in to the Freemason’s Arms on his way to South Heath to speak to Doug Lilley, the landlord, who’d called him with the news about the second suicide.

  Doug was well connected, not just as the landlord of a thriving pub in the small market town of Tollinghill, but as a member of the local Rotary Club and various other organisations. For him to be one of the first to hear of any local developments was certainly not surprising.

  He had explained to Hardwick exactly what he had heard: that the second suicide was that of a young woman from London who’d been staying at the Manor Hotel with some friends to attend a local pop concert. She’d recently turned eighteen and had also passed her driving test in the past couple of weeks, so the event was something of a double celebration for her. What piqued Hardwick’s interest, though, was the manner in which she’d died.

  As with Elliot Carr, she’d been found hanging from the exposed rafters in room thirteen, the room which had been used for storage at the hotel, with a dressing gown cord acting as a noose. Again, a chair seemed to have been used to get to the rafter and subsequently kicked away. The suicide seemed to be identical in every way to that of Elliot Carr.

  What was most infuriating for Hardwick, though, was that the local police force seemed to be completely unwilling to treat it as anything other than a suicide. Hardwick knew that Detective Inspector Rob Warner was not one for wanting to get his hands dirty and he also knew that pen ink and paper cuts were his least favourite ways to do it. True enough, he had plenty of sympathy with the modern police officer regarding the mountain of paperwork they had to fill in just to get a cup of coffee from the vending machine, but DI Warner sometimes took his aversion to protocol to the extreme.

  Even now as he walked up to the front door of the Manor Hotel, before he’d even set foot inside and spoken to the hotel staff about what they saw, Hardwick was convinced that something else was at work. It would be convincing DI Warner of that which would prove to be the hardest task, though.

  On entering the hotel and being ushered through to the bar by the ever-present Mandy, Hardwick noticed that the ageing technophobe Barbara was once again working behind the bar. No longer fancying a coffee, he ordered himself a Campari and orange.

  ‘Ice?’ Barbara asked, already heading to the ice machine before she’d had a response.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘That’s if I can get this thing working. Don’t know why they can’t just have the ice in a bucket any more. Health and safety, I suppose. Instead I’ve got to push the glass against there, twist that and tug this. And with these arthritic hands, too. Can barely tie my own shoelaces with these thing
s, never mind operate the Starship Enterprise here.’

  Ten minutes later, after having watched Barabara wrestle with the ice machine, Hardwick had his drink.

  ‘Starting to becoming a regular occurrence, seeing you in here,’ Barbara said as she handed over the marbling liquid. The sharp, bitter aroma hit Hardwick’s nostrils, making him salivate instantly.

  ‘Yes, unfortunately so. I hear that there’s been another suicide,’ he said, in the manner of passing conversation.

  ‘Oh, yes. Terrible thing. Only a young girl, too. Dreadful shame.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Hardwick replied, taking a sip of his drink as he handed over a handful of coins. ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Well, yes. It was one of the poor maids who found her, God bless her soul,’ Barbara said, making the sign of the cross. ’The girl had been staying here overnight to go to a concert at Everidge Farm. Alex Alvarez, I think it was.’ Alex Alvarez was a huge global pop star, the winner of America’s foremost TV talent show, bringing a bizarre brand of Mexican-influenced rap to the masses.

  Everidge Farm, colloquially known as “Evvers” amongst those who know those sorts of things, was a large area of farmland on which a permanent music stage had been erected, and was now home to large pop concerts and the like. Needless to say, Everidge Farm was no longer actually a working farm, making its more recent sobriquet far more fitting. It was also infinitely more marketable, for which its PR company was eternally grateful. Come and see a concert at Everidge Farm didn’t quite have the same ring to it as Thank ‘eavens for Evvers, and Wherever, Whenever, Our Evvers as twee but nonetheless successful marketing tag lines.

  ‘This concert was last night, was it?’ Hardwick asked, having already done his research but not wanting to seem too keen.

  ‘Yes, it was. She was here with some friends — another two, I think. Yes, that’s right. They had two rooms. Two of them were sharing one room and she was in the other. They came back after the concert and were at the bar until about two o’clock in the morning.’