The Hanging in the Hotel (12 page)

In this opinion he was misguided. He also believed himself to be such a natural public speaker that he did not require the support of notes. In this he was even more misguided. Notes might at
least have imposed some structure on his maunderings.

He started, safely enough, by welcoming the guests, but immediately blotted his copybook by repeating one of the jokes which had been delivered by the rugby club speaker earlier in the week. It
had been a bit iffy at the Pillars of Sussex dinner; in mixed company it could not have been less appropriate. His wife flashed him a look of iced venom, and when the groom laughed loudly, the
bride shot
him
a look of iced venom, suggesting he had a long, hard marriage ahead.

Fortunately, Jude’s waitressing duties meant she didn’t have to listen to all the speeches, but as she slipped in and out of the kitchen she heard enough to suggest she wasn’t
missing much.

The groom said, without much conviction, that he was very lucky to have captured such a lovely bride, and he knew all his friends were envious of him. All his friends, who hadn’t eaten
since breakfast, and who had started the day’s drinking at noon in the pub, were perhaps injudiciously honest in their assessment of the bride’s charms.

The best man had bought a book on best man’s speeches, and tried to reproduce some of the jokes he had read there. He interlarded these with stories of a blueness which made the rugby ones
sound entirely innocent. But, since he spoke throughout in an inaudible monotone, he caused no offence.

Finally, the speeches were over, the cake was cut, and the photographer had finished his posings of the bride and groom, praying that the camera might work miracles. The guests then went through
to the dining room, expertly decorated by Suzy Longthorne to resemble an Edwardian conservatory, and Jude had a chance to pursue her investigation.

In its heyday, Hopwicke Country House Hotel had had a restaurant manager and a
maître d’
to oversee dining arrangements, but staffing economies had left Suzy in charge. She
controlled the flow of food delivery and removal with her customary efficiency, and proved that in the right circumstances it was possible even for a beautiful woman to become invisible. Once the
diners got into their stride of eating, drinking and talking, they became completely unaware of the stage management around them.

During the preliminary seating of the guests, the waiting staff were kept busy. But as soon as the pre-prepared starters had been served, Jude found herself alone in the kitchen with Max
Townley, as he plated up the main courses and put them in a heated cupboard to await their summons to the dining room.

‘Did the police talk to you?’ asked Jude. ‘You know, about the boy who died?’

A flicker of panic crossed his face, but was quickly controlled. ‘Yes. Had I heard or seen anything unusual during the night? No, I hadn’t. I’d been heavily into the vodka and
just passed out . . . not that I told the police that bit.’

‘It’s not like you to drink that much, Max. At least not here. Is it?’

‘No. I’d had some bad news that day, that’s all.’

‘Oh?’

But he didn’t rise to the bait and specify what the bad news had been. Instead, he went on, ‘Presumably the police asked you rather more, since you actually found the
body?’

‘Yes.’ She phrased her next question carefully. ‘They didn’t say anything, did they – about the possibility of the death not being suicide?’

The chef stopped ladling Cumberland sauce. The blankness in his face showed he’d never even contemplated the idea.

‘No. What are you suggesting, Jude? Be pretty difficult to do that to yourself by accident. One of these auto-erotic sex games that went wrong?’

She shook her head lightly. ‘Just a daft thought.’

Max resumed his ladling. He was still twitchy and ill at ease. ‘It’s a first for me, you know. Someone topping himself in a hotel where I was working. You hear about it, but . .
.’

‘Does it upset you?’

He shrugged. ‘Not my problem. Didn’t even meet the bloke.’ He moved away from the main courses and picked up a mixing bowl. He held a coated wooden spoon out to Jude.
‘Have a taste.’

She did. ‘Bloody marvellous. What’s the liqueur in it?’

‘Calvados. One of my specials. Goes over the apricot meringues.’ He gave a dispirited nod towards the dining room. ‘Not that they’ll notice what it is. Far too pissed.
That’s the trouble with these late weddings.’

‘You ever been married, Max?’

He laughed at the idea. ‘Why would I want to do a thing like that?’

‘Why does anyone want to do it?’

‘A question, Jude, to which I’ve never found a satisfactory answer.’

‘Max . . .’ she lowered her voice, ‘Tuesday night . . .’

‘Mm?’

‘The night Nigel Ackford—’

‘I know the one you’re talking about.’ But he didn’t sound as though he wanted to pursue the subject.

‘Did you see Kerry?’

‘Saw her when she was waitressing.’

‘No. Later. After the Pillars of Sussex had gone to bed?’

He looked at her with undisguised suspicion. ‘Why should I have seen her then?’

‘She wasn’t around to help tidying up.’

‘Just gone to bed, I expect. Lazy little cow.’

‘No. She wasn’t in her room. I went in there by mistake.’

‘And are you suggesting she was with me?’ He was angry now.

‘No, of course I wasn’t.’

‘I should bloody hope not. All right, I like women, but you’d never catch me going for jailbait like that. Kerry’s trouble, let me tell you. She’s a danger
to—’

But who she was a danger to Jude did not find out. The door from the dining room clattered open, revealing Suzy, cool as ever in a long, seamless, light grey dress. ‘Time to clear away the
starters.’

Talking to Kerry proved more difficult. Jude was in the girl’s company all evening, as they bustled back and forth with trays of fresh dishes and dirty plates, as they
filled wine glasses and swept up breadcrumbs, but they were never just the two of them. And Jude needed to talk to Kerry on her own.

At last, in the pause before the coffee pots were taken in, they both arrived in the kitchen with armfuls of dessert plates. Max and his
sous-chef
, having set out dishes of petits fours,
reckoned their evening’s work was over and had set off home. Kerry looked anxious when she realized the room was empty except for the two of them.

As they unloaded the dirty dishes onto a table, she looked at Jude defiantly, like a schoolgirl who had been caught smoking. She was aware this was the first chance they had had to talk since
Nigel Ackford’s death.

Jude plunged straight in. ‘On Tuesday, Kerry,’ she said, ‘you weren’t around to help clear up after the guests had gone to bed . . .’

She could have predicted the monosyllabic response – a teenage, ‘So?’

‘I was wondering where you were.’

‘I work for Suzy, not you, Jude. If she asks me where I was, I might tell her. I don’t have to tell you anything.’

‘No. But I happen to know you weren’t in your bed at about three o’clock in the morning.’

‘How do you know that? You been snooping in my room?’

‘I walked into it by mistake.’

‘Oh yes?’ The words dripped adolescent sarcasm.

‘Yes, I did. You weren’t there. So where were you?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Usually that might be true, but at a time when someone was dying in the hotel, what everyone was doing becomes important.’

‘What are you, Jude – an undercover policewoman?’

‘No. Since you mention the police, though – did they talk to you?’

The girl nodded.

‘And ask you where you were that night?’

Another nod.

‘What did you tell them?’

For the first time, Kerry’s defiance gave way to fear. ‘I told them I went to bed.’

‘What time?’

‘I said twelve o’clock.’

‘That was a lie, Kerry. I saw you still in the bar at twelve o’clock. With your father.’

‘Stepfather,’ came the automatic correction.

‘All right. So were you still with him later on? At three o’clock?’

Fear in the girl’s expression gave way to terror. ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘No, I wasn’t with him.’ She looked very flustered. ‘Look, I can’t talk
about this now. But please don’t tell the police I wasn’t where I said I was. You won’t, will you?’

Jude had no intention of telling the police, but all she replied was a dubious, ‘Well . . .’

‘Listen, Jude, please don’t tell the police. I’ll tell you the truth. I promise I will. But not now. Not here.’ She picked up a couple of coffee pots. ‘Better take
these through.’

‘When are you going to tell me the truth, Kerry?’

‘Tomorrow. Come to my flat in Brighton.’

‘You really have got a flat in Brighton?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘I’m sorry, but you’re only fifteen and . . .’

‘My parents have always encouraged me to be independent,’ she said sniffily. Then she gave Jude the address. ‘I promise I’ll tell you everything then.’

Which was, thought Jude, to put it at its mildest, intriguing.

Her one-to-one with Suzy Longthorne was in an even less glamorous situation: the gentlemen’s toilet, in which one of the wedding guests had thrown up copiously. So
extensive was the mess that the curious could have pieced together all the details of Max Townley’s dinner from what was splattered over the tiled floor and walls. But it wasn’t the
food that had reacted with the guest’s stomach; it was the excesses of alcohol he had been drinking since noon.

The individual who had caused the chaos had sidled quietly back to his seat and it had been left for the next visitor to the Gents’ to find out and report what had happened. Suzy came
through into the kitchen, as Jude and Kerry were piling up plates for the student who did the washing up. The hotelier’s face was grim as she collected mops, buckets and disinfectant.

Jude asked what they were for, and was told.

‘But you shouldn’t have to do that, Suzy.’

‘Everyone else is busy.’ As ever, Suzy betrayed no resentment, just took the practical approach. It was all part of the job she had chosen for herself.

‘I can do it. You’ll ruin your clothes.’

‘We’ll both do it,’ Suzy conceded, as she slipped a nylon overall on top of her designer dress.

So the circumstances weren’t ideal, but it was the first chance Jude had had that day to speak to her friend on her own.

As they mopped and swabbed, trying not to think about what they were doing, trying not to look at the debris or breathe in the noxious smell, Jude asked boldly, ‘Why did you lie to the
police about that note, Suzy?’

There was no pretence at incomprehension, just a straight answer – the answer she had given when asked the same question on the phone. ‘Because I didn’t want a murder enquiry
at Hopwicke House. The place could have been closed for weeks. I certainly couldn’t have done this wedding today.’

Jude wrinkled her nose grimly. ‘At the moment not doing this wedding seems an attractive option.’

‘I need the money, Jude.’

This prompted a characteristically blunt question. ‘Why? Do you owe a lot?’

‘Yes. I’ve borrowed like mad to keep this place going, but I don’t think I can borrow any more. I need income. Otherwise I’ll have to sell up.’

‘Place must be worth a bit.’

‘I wouldn’t be destitute, no. But by the time I’d paid off my debts, I’d have lost massively on my investment. If I can keep going for a few more months, I’m sure I
can turn this round.’ There was a defiant set to her jaw. ‘A few more years and I can sell it as a successful going concern. That’ll be my pension.’

Practical as ever. Even through her years of fame and massive earnings, Suzy Longthorne had always kept a level head about her finances.

‘And you’re sure you can’t borrow any more?’

The auburn hair trembled with a decisive shake of the head.

‘Not even from Bob Hartson?’

The hazel eyes turned on Jude like the beam of a searchlight. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘Max mentioned it.’

Suzy nodded, as if she had assumed that to be the case. ‘I’m not denying Bob’s put some money into Hopwicke House. I’d hoped to be able to manage without investors, but
that ceased to be possible. Better someone local, someone I know, than an impersonal bank or venture capitalist.’

‘So you do know Bob Hartson well?’

‘He’s an acquaintance, not a friend.’

They had mopped up the vomit, the shreds of vegetable and other indefinable items from the walls and floor. Next they had to swab down the tiling with disinfectant.

After a few moment’s rubbing, Jude asked, ‘So what’s the
quid pro quo
?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘With Bob Hartson. He lends you money. What do
you
have to do?’

‘I have to pay interest. That’s how money-lending usually works.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘What are you saying, Jude?’

‘I was wondering why you continue to employ Kerry?’

This question seemed to bring Suzy relief, as if she’d been expecting something worse. ‘All right. There was a kind of agreement between Bob and me about that. But it’s short
term, just work experience. Soon, even a devoted a stepfather as Bob must realize that the girl has no aptitude for hotel work.’

‘And will he then free her to fulfil her dreams of being a pop idol?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Suzy sharply.

‘I thought that’s what Kerry wanted to be. I thought that’s what all girls of Kerry’s age wanted to be. That or a television presenter.’

‘Ah. Yes. Well, you may be right.’

Again Suzy seemed relieved. What was the worse thing that she was expecting to be asked about? Jude hazarded a guess. ‘And did Bob Hartson also put pressure on you to limit investigation
into Nigel Ackford’s death?’

The hotelier was really stung this time. ‘No, he did not! I told you, I did that out of self-preservation. I can’t risk bad publicity for the hotel.’ The hazel eyes once again
focused their unforgiving beam. ‘Listen, Jude, you’re a friend. A good friend. But I don’t like the tone of your questioning. I have nothing to hide.’