Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance (6 page)

The man hadn’t said a word, just nodded towards the chair when Jack had entered, then sat down and carried on typing as if he hadn’t just pulled Jack from Paddy’s ‘office’.

Message received loud and clear,
thought Jack.
But I’ve got all the time in the world.

At last Crispin pushed the keyboard out of the way. Jack watched him lean back in his executive chair.

“Let’s get some things perfectly straight here, Mr. Brennan,” he said.

Jack waited.

“Whatever ‘deal’ my father may have made with you, he acted without authority.
I
write the budgets here at The Bell, and I manage them. My father is to all intents and purposes a non-executive director. So if you think you’re going to walk out of here with some kind of consultancy fee you’ve got another thing coming.”

“We’re not expecting any kind of payment, Mr. Myrtle.”

“And this ghost nonsense has got to stop. If I hear that you — or your partner — have uttered a single word about ghosts in this building I will instruct my lawyers. Do you understand?”

“We’re not here to find a ghost.”

“No? Really? So why are you here?”

“We were told that there might be some problems for the hotel after the accident. We were asked to help find out how it happened. You clearly don’t want that help. So I’ll go.”

Jack got up, turned, and headed for the door.

“Wait,” said Crispin. “Hang on …”

Jack ignored the request, opened the door, and walked past reception, across the lobby and out through the front doors.

He was half way down the front steps when he heard the doors open behind him.

“Mr. Brennan.”

Jack stopped and turned to see Crispin Myrtle standing at the heavy front doors. He watched the manager descend the steps and stop in front of him.

“Okay. I think I need to apologise,” he said, running his hand through his hair.

Jack stared, saying nothing, waiting.

“What I mean is … um … I’m sorry. I was hasty. Rude.”

“You were,” said Jack.

“This whole ghost nonsense. It’s blown up out of all proportion. I’ve got Health and Safety coming any minute to inspect the bloody ceilings. Insurers are sending surveyors. Wedding at the weekend wants to cancel. Half the dinner guests want their money back. And that bloody old magician’s blocking one of my best rooms.”

Crispin shook his head.

Not a happy camper,
Jack thought.

“And that’s not counting the local paper want to do a feature on the ghost of Cherringham.”

“Quite a lot on your plate,” said Jack.

“Exactly. And I must admit — I thought you were another problem. For which — again — let me say I am sorry.”

Jack watched him carefully. The man was stressed, edgy. But he seemed sincere.

Or he was a good actor?

“Okay,” said Jack. “Apology accepted.”

“Thank you,” said Crispin. “So what happens now?”

Jack shrugged. “That’s up to your father.”

“And what
exactly
is it he’s asked you to do?”

“Find out what happened. Did it have something to do with this ghost?” said Jack.

“There is no ghost.”

“Exactly,” said Jack. “Which kinda begs the question of who dropped the chandelier on your Halloween Dinner?”

“What do you mean? That was an accident, surely …”

“I doubt that,” said Jack.

“You’re sure?”

“I don’t have the luxury of forensics,” said Jack. “But I’ve seen plenty of accidents in the line of duty, Mr. Myrtle. And that was no accident. It was deliberate. Check the nuts, the plate on the ceiling …”

“But that’s horrible,” said Crispin. “Someone could have been badly hurt.”

“Someone could have been killed.”

“God.”

Jack watched as Crispin seemed to take this in.

“What should I do?”

“Go to the police?”

“No, no, no. Publicity would be dreadful. It would kill this old place.”

“Your call.”

“And what if I asked you to carry on?”

“Like I said, we’ve been dealing with your father.”

Then Crispin looked around quickly, as if to check nobody could overhear him, and moved closer to Jack.

“You see, the thing is, Mr. Brennan … dad’s not entirely … reliable.”

“Seems pretty on the ball to me.”

“He has his good days and he has his off days,” said Crispin. “Stress is not good for him.”

Jack leaned a bit closer. “What are you trying to say Mr. Myrtle?”

“I’m just thinking. In the circumstances. Perhaps you should report directly to me?”

“Sorry,” said Jack. “Not unless your father tells me to.”

Jack stared at Crispin Myrtle.

Gotta say this about the guy — he doesn’t give up easy,
thought Jack.

“All right,” said Crispin. “Here’s what I’ll do. How about — you and your partner — what’s her name? Ms. Edwards? You come to dinner tonight here, with me and dad. On the house. And amongst us — we sort it all out then.”

Jack paused.

Dinner at The Bell was hardly a treat. And for all his change of heart, Crispin could be up to something.

But a dinner could be useful.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll call Sarah.”

“Terrific,” said Crispin with a grin. “Eight o’clock?”

Jack nodded.

Crispin offered his hand and Jack reached out slowly and shook it. Then he watched as the manager turned and went back up the steps two at a time and disappeared into the hotel.

Jack had a pretty good idea that Crispin Myrtle believed he’d just neutralised a threat.

But why should Jack and Sarah be seen as a threat to him?

Things were not adding up.

Jack pulled his jacket tight as a gust of wind blew a flurry of leaves across the gravel forecourt of the hotel. It had started to rain.

He looked around the deserted grounds — lawns, a pond, oak trees and willows.

Quite a bit of real estate — and bang in the middle of the village.

But currently a real money pit — that was for sure. He took in the house with its cracked guttering, peeling paintwork, weathered stone.

An old iron fire escape wound its way round to the side of the house, its ugly walkways reaching out to the higher bedrooms.

As Jack followed its path along the side of the house — a movement in one of the top windows drew his eye.

A face stared down at him, pressed against the misted glass — then it was gone.

Was that a bedroom window?

No, it was one of the attic rooms.

Jack counted the windows: one, two, three …

There was no doubt about it.

The window belonged to Freddy’s room.

*

“Enjoy,” said the teenage waiter grimly as he placed the dinner plates in front of Jack and Sarah.

Sarah smiled at the pink-faced young man.

She recognised him as one of her daughter Chloe’s classmates from Cherringham School — but she hadn’t acknowledged him.

And he hadn’t acknowledged her.

Village life,
she thought
. Nothing more embarrassing than a friend’s mum spotting you out in the real world.

She watched Jack cut into his steak and take a mouthful.

“I would have brought a doggy bag,” he said, chewing slowly. “But Riley wouldn’t have thanked me for it. Tad tough …”

“That bad?” she said, cutting through the damp crust of her own steak and kidney pie.

“Steak’s usually the safest option,” he said. “Turns out I was wrong.”

Sarah looked around the empty dining room. Of the fifteen or so tables only three were taken.

Not surprising, given the standard of the food.

At a table for two in the far corner, she could see Basil Whistlethwaite, enthusiastically digging into his meal. His dining partner, an awkward looking guy in his forties in a creased linen suit, toyed with a salad whilst keeping half an eye on the rest of the room.

“Looks like Basil’s made friends already,” she said, nodding towards the far table.

She waited while Jack casually glanced over his shoulder.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he said, turning back to attack his steak again.

“Reporter?”

“Yep, he’s got that look.”

“Maybe we’ll drop by the bar after dinner,” said Sarah. “If he is one then he’s sure to join us.”

Jack slid his “double cooked french fries” across the table towards her.

“So good they cooked them twice,” he said.

“No thanks. Got my work cut out with the mash. Lumps like stones …”

“We may be here some time, then,” said Jack. “So, you going to tell me what you’ve found, detective, while I’ve been working the scene of the crime?”

“Sure. A couple of things,” said Sarah, pushing the pie to one side of her plate and diverting to the vegetables. “Kind of interesting …”

“Shoot.”

Sarah leaned in closer and lowered her voice. The nearest occupied table was yards away, but she didn’t want any eavesdropping.

“Okay. I went online, checked out the planning history of the hotel. Seems there have been two enquiries about developing the place in the last year. Both were recommended to be rejected.”

“You know why?”

“The plans involved demolishing the building completely. Turning it into a spa retreat. With its historical status, it would take a lot of lawyers to get an okay for that …”

“Interesting. Any idea who the developer is?”

“Consortium of some kind,” said Sarah. “But if I get an hour or two tomorrow, I can probably track down the principals.”

“And you think the Myrtles are involved?”

“Have to be, right? Though whether it’s Lawrence or Crispin—

“Or both.”

“True. Could be. Could be neither.”

“How so?

“Remember Lawrence mentioned his daughter — Mandy?”

“Sure. Lives in London.”

“Works in London. Wait for it … In ‘global hospitality investment’.”

“Aha,” said Jack. “Hotel finance?”

“Yep.”

“Now that is interesting …”

“I also spoke to our lawyer friend Tony — who sends his regards by the way — and he tells me—”

“In total confidence, of course …”

“Of course … He’s acted for a couple of the hotel’s creditors recently, forcing the Myrtles to pay outstanding debts.”

“So they really are going broke?”

“I downloaded the last two years’ accounts,” said Sarah. “Myrtle Hotels is losing money hand over fist …”

“I see where you’re going. You think they could be doing things on purpose? Letting the place slide …”

“A property like this, in the heart of Cherringham — run it down hard enough and suddenly all that planning opposition just melts away …”

“Especially when you add a nice ghost story into the mix …”

“Scare off all the guests—”

“Health and Safety guys screaming blue murder, insurers not paying out …”

“It all adds up, no?”

“And there was I thinking the Myrtles were the good guys,” said Jack. “And of course — let’s not be too hasty — they may well be.”

“You’re right. We don’t have any proof.”

“But we have a credible theory,” said Jack. “Now we just have to work out how they did the ghost stuff, and how that chandelier fell …”

“Or rather —
who
did it …”

“Maybe we should ask the Myrtles themselves?” said Jack, nodding towards the dining room door.

Sarah looked across the room and saw Lawrence with a younger man heading towards them.

And she felt the familiar tiny thrill of fear that she always felt on a case when she came face to face with the main suspects.

The feeling that
it could be any one of them …

“Sarah! Jack!” said Lawrence cheerfully. “No, don’t get up, hate to spoil your dinner!”

Too late for that
, thought Sarah.

“You must be Crispin,” she said holding out her hand to the younger man.

“Pleasure to meet you,” said Crispin Myrtle, taking her hand and giving it a brief squeeze.

His hand was cold.

Sarah looked up at the two men as they stood uncertainly at the side of the table.

“You not joining us?” said Sarah, taking in Crispin’s tailored suit, hand-made shirt.

Even as she asked, Sarah knew that Crispin would never eat the food on this menu.

He clearly aspired to be in a different league.

Probably off to The Spotted Pig later.

And a spa hotel?
she wondered.

Yes, that’s more Crispin’s style …

“Love to,” said Crispin. “But, er, bit hectic tonight, and anyway, just wanted you to know that dad and I have had our wee chat and he has something he’d like to say to you. Isn’t that right dad?”

“What?” said Lawrence, looking at his son, confused. “Um, oh yes — of course. What I wanted to say was … Crispin’s back in charge now. So, er … anything you need to know, you just, er … talk to him. Not me. Crispin’s the boss.”

Sarah watched him pat Crispin on the back. But neither son nor father smiled.

The two of them just stood awkwardly by the side of the table, while she and Jack waited, not eating.

“Delicious pie,” said Sarah, to break the silence.

“Isn’t it?” said Crispin.

Did he pick up on her sarcasm?

Crispin was one chilly operator.

Sarah looked from Crispin to Lawrence. The older man seemed vulnerable. Cowed, even …

“I see Basil has found himself a dining partner,” Jack said.

Sarah watched Crispin and Lawrence look over to the corner table where Basil and his dinner guest had just stood up, and were heading towards the bar.

She saw Crispin frown slightly.

“Hmm, yes,” he said. “One of the participants at the Ghost Dinner, I do believe.”

“Ah,” said Lawrence with a big grin, as if he’d woken from a daydream. “The mysterious occupant of number three, Jack!”

“Mysterious?” said Crispin, looking confused.

“Mr. Anderson,” said Lawrence. “In the bridal suite! With the lead pipe!”

The old man actually cackled at his reference.

Sarah could see Crispin even more baffled. He put his arm on his father’s shoulder, as if to lead him away, but as he did …