The Hanging in the Hotel (7 page)

‘And that’s when you’ll get your suicide verdict?’

He smiled the smile of someone accustomed to recalcitrant and emotional witnesses. ‘Jude, I’m sorry. I simply used the word “suicide” for convenience. It looks like a
suicide, but I suppose, until the coroner’s verdict, I should really be saying “
apparent
suicide”. Would you be happy if I referred to the unfortunate incident as
“the death”?’

‘I don’t mind what you call it, so long as you haven’t made up your minds about what happened.’

‘Of course not. That would be very unprofessional for people in our job.’ This made her feel even more patronized. ‘Now, I think we’ve got the details of how you
discovered Mr Ackford’s body this morning – though, if any other recollections come to you, we would be most grateful to hear them.’

He reached into the inside pocket of his smart suit for a card. ‘While I think of it, this has got my numbers on it. The mobile, the office . . . I’m based in Worthing, so if
there’s anything you wish to communicate, don’t hesitate . . .’ She took the card, while the Inspector went on, ‘I’d like to talk, Jude, if I may, about the
conversation you had with the deceased in the early hours of this morning.’

‘Yes.’

‘You say Mr Ackford was very drunk.’

‘Extremely. They’d all drunk a lot right through the evening.’

‘Ah yes.’ Detective Inspector Goodchild smiled fondly. ‘Always enjoy their drink, the Pillars of Sussex.’

Something in his manner alerted Jude. He seemed to know all about the association. Was it even possible he was a member? Had someone from the group already been in touch? Had someone pointed out
how awkward it might be for the Pillars of Sussex to be contaminated by the merest whiff of scandal? They had a lot of local influence, which might easily reach up to the highest echelons of the
West Sussex Constabulary.

But she didn’t vocalize her suspicion. ‘Nigel Ackford was singing. He wasn’t a maudlin drunk, not self-pitying and self-hating. He was cheerful.’

‘So you’re saying that’s a reason why he was unlikely to have killed himself?’

‘Possibly, yes. He seemed far from suicidal when he talked to me. His mood must have changed pretty violently in a few hours.’

‘People’s moods do, Jude. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the symptoms of depression?’

The condescending tone made her want to snap back, but she curbed the instinct. ‘I
am
familiar with the symptoms of depression. I have done some work as a healer and alternative
therapist.’

‘Ah.’ It could have been Carole responding. She would have put exactly the same mixture of disbelief and contempt into the monosyllable. ‘We did find anti-depressants in the
dead man’s sponge bag, Jude.’

She hadn’t expected that, but didn’t allow the information to put her off track. ‘Nonetheless, I still don’t think Nigel Ackford was suicidal the last time I saw him. He
was full of hope. He reckoned he was a shoo-in to join the Pillars of Sussex, and he seemed very excited about that.’

‘“Excited” is a good word, Jude, in the circumstances. Manic depressives are subject to violent mood-swings. Not to mention a loose grasp on reality. And if Nigel Ackford
seriously thought someone of his age had any chance of becoming a Pillar . . .’ Goodchild let out a dismissive grunt. ‘I’m no psychologist,’ he admitted generously, though
still implying that he put such experts in the same category as alternative therapists. ‘No, I’m not, but from everything I’ve heard about Nigel Ackford – just in the very
brief time that I’ve even known of his existence – he seemed to display all the symptoms of bi-polar disorder.’

‘Well . . .’

‘Up when you saw him at two-thirty this morning,’ the Inspector persisted, ‘and down when he woke up with a crippling hangover some few hours later.’

‘But you don’t know—’

‘Jude, Mr Ackford had a history of mental illness. He broke down at university. Last year he had three months off from his employers, Renton and Chew. He also—’

‘Inspector, he was going to get married. He was about to propose to his girlfriend.’

This did stop him in his tracks. ‘Might that girlfriend’s name be Wendy?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

He nodded, and exchanged a look with the impassive Detective Sergeant Fallon. ‘We’ve just come from talking to Miss Wendy Fullerton.’

‘And she’s Nigel Ackford’s girlfriend?’

Jude’s enthusiasm was quickly dashed. ‘She
was
Nigel Ackford’s girlfriend.’

‘Well, I know. Obviously he’s dead and—’

‘She was Nigel Ackford’s girlfriend until four months ago. Then she broke off the relationship.’

‘Oh. But if he’d asked her to marry him, she might have felt—’

‘If he’d asked her to marry him, I got the impression Mr Ackford would have received a very dusty answer. Wasn’t that the impression you got, Fallon?’

The Detective Sergeant nodded.

‘So,’ the Inspector continued, ‘while the
thought
of proposing to the young lady might have buoyed Mr Ackford up when he was drunk, he would still have woken up to the
reality that she had in fact – not to put too fine a point on it – dumped him. Which,’ he concluded with satisfaction, ‘is exactly the sort of thing that might make any man
contemplate topping himself.’

‘But, I still think—’

‘Jude!’ Inspector Goodchild’s veneer of urbane fastidiousness was wearing thin. ‘We found a letter.’

‘Yes, I heard about that. What did the letter say?’

‘I am not at liberty to reveal the contents.’

‘Was it handwritten?’

‘There is a tradition,’ Inspector Goodchild said coldly, ‘that in situations like this, the police ask the questions, and we—’

Jude interrupted as a sudden, welcome recollection came to her. ‘But of course there was another letter! The note that was found in one of the bedrooms.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘There was a note, a threatening note.’ Jude’s words tumbled over each other in her excitement. ‘Printed on Hopwicke House headed paper. Suzy showed it to me. Kerry had
found it in one of the bedrooms. It said: “Enjoy this day. You won’t see another one” – something like that.’

The Inspector looked sceptical. ‘Rather strange, wouldn’t you say, that Miss Longthorne didn’t mention this
note
to me?’

‘She must have forgotten. In the shock of everything that was happening.’

‘We did ask Miss Longthorne more than once whether anything unusual had happened yesterday, either before or after her guests arrived.’

‘It must have slipped her—’

‘We put the same question to the young lady, Kerry.’

‘And she didn’t remember finding the note in the bedroom?’

‘She didn’t mention it, no.’

‘But there was a note. I swear there was.’

‘Right, right.’ Inspector Goodchild nodded slowly. ‘I’m not disbelieving you, Jude. I should think you’re probably right. Miss Longthorne forgot about it in the
excitement of the moment.’

‘And I’m sure, if you asked her specifically about the note she showed me . . .’

‘Just what I was about to do.’ He produced a mobile phone from his pocket and, as he keyed in a number, said, ‘Wonderfully neat little gadgets, these, aren’t they? Makes
you wonder how we ever managed without them. They’ve made such a difference to—’ He raised a hand, indicating that he had got through. ‘Miss Longthorne? It’s Detective
Inspector Goodchild. Sorry to be back to you so soon, but there is a detail I need to check. Thank you. Very kind.’

He looked around the clutter of Woodside Cottage as he listened to Suzy, but Jude could not hear what her friend was saying. Then Goodchild spoke again. ‘I’ve just been talking to
your friend Jude, and she was telling me about this note that was found in one of the bedrooms yesterday. Found by the girl, Kerry, apparently? The contents were of a threatening nature, I gather.
Ah, thank you. Thank you very much. I’m afraid I probably will have to be in touch again, but only on minor details. It shouldn’t take long. Thank you. And I hope you manage to get a
good night’s sleep tonight. Goodbye.’

He ended the call and smiled. She didn’t need him to spell it out, but he did.

‘I’m sorry, Jude. I’m afraid your friend Suzy Longthorne doesn’t have any recollection of ever seeing the note you described.’

‘I just do not believe that that boy committed suicide,’ said Jude, as they approached the Crown and Anchor.

‘If he had a history of depression . . .’ Carole argued.

‘He may well have had a history of depression, but I saw him that night. He wasn’t depressed then. He was just drunk.’

‘Drink is a notorious depressant,’ said Carole primly.

‘But he wasn’t drunk and depressed. He was drunk and incapable. He couldn’t have organized a suicide, he could hardly stand.’

‘Then maybe it happened by accident.’

‘You do not remove a curtain rope, tie it to a crossbeam and put it round your neck by accident.’ Jude pushed open the clattering doors of the pub.

Carole followed her in, surprised to see so much anger. She was the uptight one; Jude always seemed to emanate an almost unnatural laid-back calm. But the interview with Detective Inspector
Goodchild had clearly got to her.

‘Well, there’s a sight to brighten up a dull evening. Two large Chardonnays if ever I saw them.’

Ted Crisp stood in his usual position behind the bar. His beard and hair showed their customary ignorance of grooming. The sweatshirt he wore was so faded that its original colour could have
been black, blue or green; the advertising logo it had once shown off was now an incomprehensible blur. The idea that she had had an affair with him – however brief – still seemed
incongruous to Carole. But not distasteful. She was glad their relationship had now settled down to a kind of joshing affection.

He was pouring the drinks before they ordered them. There was some comfort in that, thought Carole. Though she still didn’t think of herself as a ‘pub person’, it was good to
have a haven where one was known and recognized.

‘How’re you, Ted?’ she asked.

‘Mustn’t grumble. Doesn’t stop me, though. Guess what this is an impression of.’ Suddenly he turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees behind the bar.

‘No idea.’

‘A counter-revolutionary.’

They gave the joke the groan it deserved. In a previous incarnation, Ted Crisp had been a stand-up comedian. If the one he’d just cracked was representative of his jokes, it was no wonder
he’d sought alternative employment.

‘So you two got any news, have you?’

‘Well . . .’ Carole scoured her memory, without much optimism that she’d find anything interesting. Then she suddenly remembered. ‘Actually, my son’s getting
married.’

‘Fancy,’ said Ted.

‘You didn’t tell me that,’ said Jude.

‘I’ve hardly had a chance to get a word in.’

‘True. Sorry.’

‘I keep forgetting you got a son.’ Ted scratched his chin through the thatch of beard. ‘Forget you’d been married, and all. Still, we divorcees have to stick together,
don’t we?’

Carole didn’t like that. Her marriage was a private failure. She didn’t want it to be lumped together with all the other broken relationships.

‘What’s your potential daughter-in-law like?’ asked Jude.

‘I haven’t met her yet.’

‘But you must have got an impression from what Stephen said.’

Carole had. Her son had engendered an impression of someone she wouldn’t get on with. Someone whose agency had had a financial package set up for it, who had rich parents who were possibly
not even British. Someone who had the rather affected name of Gaby. Of course she didn’t say any of that. She knew it was just prejudice. But then Carole, like most middle-class English
people, had ingested prejudice with her mother’s milk.

‘Not really. Her name’s Gaby.’

She tried to keep disapproval out of her voice, which was just as well, because Jude said, ‘Gaby. That’s a nice name.’

‘She’ll probably talk your head off.’ In response to curious looks, Ted explained, ‘Gaby by name, gabby by nature.’

Yes, it was a blessing for everyone, really, that he’d not continued with the stand-up.

‘Anyway, I’m going to meet her soon,’ said Carole, with what she hoped sounded like enthusiasm. ‘Weekend after this.’

‘It’s very exciting,’ said Jude. ‘The prospect of grandchildren.’

That was the consequence of the marriage about which Carole hadn’t allowed herself to think. In spite of Stephen’s talking about buying a large family house, she had not followed the
logic through. Grandchildren – they would provide another opportunity for her maternal skills to be found wanting. It was all daunting – and very confusing.

She was relieved that when they’d sat down, having ordered Ted Crisp’s recommendation of Dover sole, the conversation reverted to the events at Hopwicke House. A suspicious death was
always so much more interesting than wedding plans.

‘I’ve a feeling there’s a kind of cover-up,’ said Jude.’

‘Aren’t you being a bit melodramatic?’

‘I got the firm impression from Detective Inspector Goodchild that he’d be very happy with a suicide verdict.’

‘From what you say, the death did look like suicide. And presumably the police like things nice and straightforward.’

‘Yes, but I got the feeling there was more to it. As if Detective Inspector Goodchild had been talked to by someone . . . and that someone didn’t want the investigation to go any
further.’

‘What makes you say that? Do you have any evidence?’

‘No.’ The idea was quickly dismissed. Jude had always placed more reliance on instinct than evidence. ‘Those Pillars of Sussex are an incestuous lot. All scratching each
other’s backs. They’ve got a lot of influence locally. If they wanted something kept quiet, I’m sure they could arrange it.’

Carole went into wet-blanket mode, a position that came distressingly easily to her. ‘Jude, you don’t know any of the people involved. You only met them last night – and that
was hardly
meeting
in any meaningful sense. You may not have liked the Pillars of Sussex setup – I don’t like secretive all-male associations either – but that
doesn’t mean they’re in a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.’