The Hanging in the Hotel (17 page)

‘Yes.’ His lower lip jutted in childish petulance, as he continued, ‘It was all set up. The producers told me it’d be a shoo-in. I’ll show you the video one day.
The format’s a great idea – not just me cooking, but bringing in, like, these other unknown chefs, just people I’ve met at restaurants or pubs I’ve been to. So it’s
different from what anyone else is doing . . . though of course it’s still me at the centre of the whole thing. No, you must see the video. I mean, it wasn’t done with full production
values, but, you know, it gives a very good idea of how the format would work. I’m bloody good in it – got a bloody sight more personality than Gary Rhodes or Jamie Oliver.’ He
sneered at the names. ‘And I’m a bloody sight better cook. Oh, no,
I
wasn’t the reason why the BBC turned the idea down.’

‘Then what was the reason?’

‘Went with the wrong production company, didn’t I? Should have taken my talents direct to the BBC, rather than going through an independent. OK, the company I went with have got a
good track record of getting programmes made, but it’s all been with ITV.’

‘Ah. Of course,’ said Jude, as though this made everything clear.

‘So the Beeb’s going to be pretty resistant to anything they offer, isn’t it?’

‘I thought these days independent production companies sold across the channels.’

‘No way. Well, some of the big ones do. I’m sure, if your production company’s got a big hit and is flavour of the month, you can sell anything to anyone, but that’s not
the general rule.’ Max had justified the reasons for his rejection, and he wasn’t going to let mere details like facts get in the way. ‘Some are always selling to ITV, some to the
BBC. I should have realized, but I’m a bit naive when it comes to that kind of stuff. I mean, I haven’t got a media background like you.’

Like me? She let it pass.

‘But the trouble is, I’m really buggered now. Because I’ve been offered to the BBC, and been rejected – for the wrong reasons, but nobody’s going to know that
– it’s like I can’t be offered there again.’

‘Couldn’t you be offered to ITV?’

He grimaced. ‘Not such a track record there with cookery programmes. They haven’t really developed their own line in celebrity chefs. I suppose Channel 4’s a possibility . . .
unless you’ve got any other ideas?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Presumably that’s why you wanted to meet.’

Jude couldn’t quite believe the direction the conversation was taking. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You said you’d been putting two and two together.’

‘Yes.’

‘And there were a couple of ideas you wanted to run by me.’

‘But I said ideas about the night Nigel Ackford died,’ Jude pointed out.

‘Yes. And that was the day I’d heard about being rejected by the BBC. I thought you had some ideas about my future as a celebrity chef.’

His self-centredness was quite astonishing. He seemed unaware of any world outside his own. At that moment Jude knew rumours of Suzy having an affair with Max must be nonsense. Suzy would never
link herself to such a blinkered egotist.

‘Max,’ Jude said gently, ‘I didn’t ask to see you to talk about your career.’

‘Oh.’ The disappointment was undisguised. ‘But I thought you, with your media background . . .’

‘Let’s get this straight. I don’t
have
a media background.’

‘You said you and Suzy—’

‘I met Suzy in my late teens when we were both models. We stayed friends, but I very quickly gave up the catwalk and went into theatre.’

‘And television?’

‘I did a little bit of television, yes.’

‘Then you must still have useful contacts who could help me . . .’

She was surprised at the desperation of his naivety. She’d have expected him to be more streetwise. He’d rubbed shoulders with celebrities; he should have known better how the media
world worked, and how short memories were there.

‘Max, I ceased to have any contact with the world of television in the early seventies. Any people I knew who might have had any influence in the medium are long retired, probably dead.
I’m afraid I can’t help you at all in that way.’

His desolation was almost comical, and Jude realized once again how potent was the dream of television fame. Max nursed the fantasy of being taken up as a media darling, of having his face
spread across the nation’s screens and magazines, of lucrative deals for supermarket ads, of recipe books piling up at the top of the best-sellers’ lists. That was his escape route, his
way out of the daily grind of preparing unappreciated food for the guests at Hopwicke House. Television fame could get him out of his flat in Worthing, and into the glamorous metropolitan world
which he reckoned was his rightful milieu. He could buy an even more expensive motorbike.

Max came back to life, his desolation replaced by a resentful curiosity. ‘Then why did you ask to meet, if it wasn’t about helping me to get on television?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about what happened that night at the hotel.’

Max Townley looked puzzled. ‘We have talked about it. I’ve told you. I was pissed off about being rejected by the Beeb, so I drowned my sorrows in vodka.’

‘Something else happened.’

For a moment he genuinely did not remember anything else happening. Then he said, ‘Oh yes, of course, that solicitor topped himself.’

‘Yes. I wondered what thoughts you had about that?’

He shrugged. ‘Not many. One solicitor more or less in the world – doesn’t make a lot of difference, does it? Some people might even think it was a good thing.’

‘But you didn’t see or hear anything odd that night?’

He didn’t like the new direction of her questioning. ‘You’ve asked me this stuff before. And last time you even insinuated I might have been having it off with Kerry, which I
didn’t take to very kindly.’

‘I’m sorry. But you are quite friendly with Kerry.’

‘I’m friendly with lots of people – doesn’t mean I shag them!’

‘No. Incidentally, a friend of mine saw you on Saturday giving Kerry a ride on your bike.’

‘What is this? Under bloody surveillance, am I?’

‘It’s just you saying you haven’t got a relationship with Kerry and—’

‘I haven’t! I was just giving the kid a lift to some audition she wanted to go to in Brighton – all right?’

‘Audition for what?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

His stock of goodwill was rapidly diminishing. Jude became more conciliatory. ‘I’m not getting at you, Max. I’m just convinced that there was something funny about that young
man’s death at the hotel.’

‘Funny?’

‘Like it not being suicide.’

‘But—’

‘Like it being murder.’

‘Ah.’ Max considered this idea for a moment, but then decided it didn’t concern him. ‘Maybe. I wouldn’t know. Like I said, I was dead to the world.’

‘You didn’t get up at all during the night? Or hear anything?’

‘I’ve told you – no.’ It sounded genuine. ‘I did wake up at one point, and considered going to see Rick Hendry and throwing myself on his mercy. But then I guess I
just went back to sleep again.’

‘Rick Hendry?’

‘Yes. Surely you know he owns Korfilia Productions. It was named after that overblown album he did with his band – can’t remember what they were called . . .’

‘Zedrach-Kona.’

‘Bloody hell, yes. Knew it was something poncy.’

‘Max, you said you thought of going to throw yourself on Rick Hendry’s mercy?’

‘Yes. Well, after the success they’ve had with
Pop Crop
, Korfilia Productions could sell anything to any of the networks, so I thought maybe I might get him to back me as a
celebrity chef. He knows how well I’ve done at Hopwicke House, so I thought if Korfilia Productions backed me, then the BBC would have to listen and—’

‘No, I’m sorry. Stop.’ Jude held up her hand. ‘Why did you think of throwing yourself on Rick Hendry’s mercy in the middle of the night at Hopwicke
House?’

‘Because he was
there
.’

‘That night?’

‘Yes. He was staying with Suzy.’

‘Hello. This is David.’

‘Oh. David.’

‘Remember?’

‘Yes. Of course I remember,’ said Carole. Though she’d tried to put all thoughts of their failed marriage behind her, she still recognized his voice.

‘I was ringing about Stephen . . . and, erm . . . Gaby.’

Instantly she recalled how irritating she had found that little ‘erm . . .’, a mannerism her ex-husband contrived to get into almost every sentence he spoke.

‘Oh yes. It is excellent news, isn’t it? About them getting married,’ said Carole conventionally.

‘Very good. She’s a . . . erm . . . sweet girl, don’t you think? Stephen’s done very well for himself there.’

Carole was forced to admit she had yet to meet their son’s paragon of a fiancée. ‘I’m having lunch with them this Sunday down here . . . well, near here.’

‘Yes, of course. They told me. I was getting my . . . erm . . . getting my weekends mixed up. They’re house-hunting, aren’t they?’

‘There was talk of looking at some properties, yes.’ Carole was amazed at how stilted she sounded. They hadn’t spoken for at least two years, but were instantly back to full
awkwardness.

‘Erm . . . Carole . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I was ringing about our wills.’

‘Oh?’

‘I know you changed your will . . . erm . . . after we got divorced.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed with some asperity. ‘It was one of the first things I did.’

‘Yes, erm . . . I didn’t, actually.’

‘Didn’t what?’

‘Change my will.’

‘Good heavens!’ So if, during all the years she’d been in Fethering, David Seddon had stepped under a bus or met some other fatal accident, Carole would have inherited.

‘David, why on earth didn’t you?’

‘I just . . . erm . . . didn’t get round to it. I was, sort of, very cut up after . . . erm . . . after what happened, and I didn’t really want to think about anything to do
with it, so . . . I . . . erm . . . I knew anything I left would go eventually to Stephen through you.’

‘You didn’t know that. I could have left it to anyone.’

‘Yes, you could have done. But I knew you wouldn’t.’

She was dispirited to realize that he was right.

‘I suppose, Carole, I thought if I met someone else, if I remarried, then obviously I would change my will in favour of . . . erm . . . but there hasn’t been anyone to change it in
favour of.’ Then, without much optimism, he added, ‘Yet.’

‘Well, I’m amazed.’

‘Yes. I . . . erm . . . I knew you would be.’

‘But you are going to change your will now?’

‘Oh yes. Yes, absolutely. I am. And that’s the point. I thought I ought to tell you.’

‘There was no need. Since it never occurred to me that I might still be a beneficiary—’

‘No . . . erm . . . it’s the way I’m going to change it that is the point.’

‘Ah?’

‘I’m going to skip a generation.’

‘Sorry? You’ll have to explain.’

‘Well . . . erm . . . the way I see it, Stephen is very well set up for himself, with his work.’ Whatever that may be, thought Carole, yes. ‘And he’s obviously going to
be much better set up when he’s married Gaby.’ Another indicator that her future daughter-in-law came from moneyed stock. ‘Two incomes.’ Or at least was well paid for what
she did. ‘So I’m going to . . . erm . . . change my will to leave everything to their children.’

‘But they haven’t got any children.’

‘Yet. And, all right, they may never have any. The terms of my will take that into account. If they don’t have any children, then everything’ll go straight to Stephen and Gaby.
But if they
do
. . . erm . . . it’ll be divided among them . . . the children.’

‘Right.’

‘I thought that would be the prudent course to take. Avoid two sets of Inheritance Tax.’

‘Yes, well . . . Very prudent. If Stephen and Gaby are happy with the arrangement . . .’

‘They are. I’ve discussed it with them, of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘So I was wondering, Carole, if . . . erm . . . you might be thinking of doing the same.’

‘Leaving my money to these . . . erm . . . conjectural grandchildren?’ Oh God, she was doing it now.

‘Yes. Exactly that.’

‘Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, David, but . . . well, it’s certainly something to consider.’

‘It is. Is there a solicitor who you deal with at the moment?’

Carole almost found herself giggling. But she didn’t think her ex-husband was yet ready to hear about the oleaginous advances of Barry Stilwell.

‘Because I . . . erm . . . I made my will through Humphrey – you know . . .?’

‘Yes.’ Their former mutual solicitor, who had represented David in the divorce. Carole certainly wasn’t going to deal with him. Humphrey was symbolic of a period in her life
she wished to blank out completely.

‘But perhaps you wouldn’t want to . . . erm . . .?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Carole agreed hastily. ‘No, if I decide to go ahead with the change, I’ll use someone down here.’ And it wouldn’t be Barry Stilwell.
The thought of his having a professional reason to lure her into his new office was not to be contemplated.

‘Right. Well . . . erm . . . good to hear your voice.’

‘Yes.’ She couldn’t in all honesty reciprocate. Hearing David’s voice had set all kinds of unwelcome thoughts running through her head and would, she knew, disturb her
sleep that night.

‘And . . . erm . . . if not before . . . see you on September the fourteenth.’

‘September the fourteenth?’ came the baffled echo.

‘The wedding, Carole.’

‘Oh yes, of course. The wedding.’

Jude had called Inspector Goodchild, mobile to mobile, as soon as Max Townley left the coffee-shop, but he was actually in his office at the Worthing Police Station. A short
walk. Yes, why didn’t she come round straight away?

The fastidiousness and slight condescension in his voice were so familiar she felt she had met him many more times than their one previous encounter. His office was small and institutional, but
somehow contrived to look soigné. A couple of well-tended pot-plants and a photograph – not, predictably, of family, but of a Scottish beach – added to the distinction given by
his almost foppish charcoal suit. The image resolutely denied that Inspector Goodchild was a standard-issue, insensitive copper.