The Hanging in the Hotel (18 page)

Jude refused the offer of tea or coffee. He gave her an avuncular look and linked his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘So, Jude, what have you got to tell me? Something new, I
hope?’

‘Yes. Well, new to me, anyway.’

He chuckled, and she realized this had been the wrong thing to say. Of course, Goodchild’s look seemed to imply, we in the police have rather more information to hand than a mere amateur
could possibly accumulate. Jude’s words had put her on the back foot right from the start of the interview.

‘So, what breakthrough do you wish to confide in me, Jude?’

‘Just that the Pillars of Sussex were not the only people staying on the Hopwicke House site on the night of Nigel Ackford’s death.’

The Inspector gave her a shrewd look, as though she had told him something he hadn’t been expecting, but then let his face relax into a smile. ‘So who are we talking about
here?’ he asked blandly, before siphoning all the wind out of her sails. ‘Miss Longthorne’s ex-husband. “Television’s Mr Nasty”? Rick Hendry?’

‘Yes,’ Jude was forced to admit.

Inspector Goodchild steepled his hands together and pressed them against his lips, almost as though he were suppressing a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Jude. We do rather have the advantage of
you, you know. You see, appealing and charming though the concept of the amateur detective may be, investigation is actually our job. When we in the force make enquiries, generally speaking people
tell the truth. So, though at the time of their stay none of the Pillars of Sussex may have had any idea that they were so close to Mr Hendry, Miss Longthorne told me he had been there as soon as I
asked her whether any other people were staying on the premises.’

‘I suppose she would have done,’ Jude mumbled in her humiliation.

‘Yes. She’s a very honest woman.’

Not to me she hasn’t been. But the thought only made Jude more aware of the gulf between her own amateurism and the police’s professional information-gathering resources.

‘But congratulations,’ Inspector Goodchild went on, with a smile of condescension. ‘Well done for working that out.’ He stopped as a thought struck him. ‘Why, may I
ask, did you think Mr Hendry’s presence so important? You weren’t about to suggest that he murdered Mr Ackford, were you?’

‘No,’ Jude growled disconsolately.

‘Good.’ Then, with a new hardness in his voice, he continued, ‘Because I would really discourage you from throwing around accusations of murder. That’s the point where
your little games cease to be harmless. You might find yourself in court on charges of defamation.’ The moment of censure was allowed to register before the Inspector’s mocking smile
returned. ‘So, any other information – or indeed suspicions – you want to share with me?’

Jude decided she might as well press on. She couldn’t make Goodchild’s estimation of her any lower than it already was. Contrary to popular advice, in some holes you might as well
keep digging.

‘All right. What about Bob Hartson’s chauffeur, Geoff?’

‘What about him?’ The smile played infuriatingly about his lips. ‘Are you about to drop the bombshell that he was also at Hopwicke House that night?’

‘Well, yes, I . . .’

‘This is so kind of you, Jude – to have gone to so much trouble. Yes, we do know that Mr Hartson’s chauffeur was there. He slept in the staff quarters . . . the converted
stable block.’

‘But—’

‘And his movements can be vouched for all the time he spent on the premises.’

‘By whom?’

‘Mr Hartson himself, and his daughter Kerry.’

‘Ah well, you’d expect them to—’

‘And Miss Longthorne herself,’ the Inspector concluded implacably.

Jude felt like a schoolgirl hauled up in front of the head teacher. And with no defence. She had done what she was being accused of.

And Goodchild gave her a full, head-teacherly dressing-down for her breach of the rules. Drawing to a close, he said, ‘It is deeply irresponsible to make random accusations. After a death,
people are, not unexpectedly, hurt and confused. They need to grieve, not to have their pain compounded by the insensitive probings of amateurs. So I would ask very firmly, Jude, that you and your
friend immediately cease any further investigation into this unfortunate young man’s death.’

Jude still had just enough defiance left in her to demand, ‘So that you can get your nice safe suicide verdict at the inquest?’

‘The inquest has already happened,’ he coldly informed her. ‘As I anticipated, it was adjourned to give us time to gather together our evidence. When that is presented at the
reconvened inquest, the coroner will form his own opinion as to the cause of Mr Ackford’s death.’

He didn’t say it out loud, but Jude knew Inspector Goodchild would have bet his pension on a verdict of suicide.

The shingle of Fethering beach crunched beneath their feet. The sea gargled against the sand. Gulliver, quixotically determined to rid the world of seaweed, traced eccentric
circles around the two women. The April sun was paling now, but earlier in the afternoon it had held the promise of summer.

The decision to walk on the beach had been vindicated. Jude, furious after the humiliation of her encounter with Inspector Goodchild, had suggested going straight to the Crown and Anchor for a
drink, but Carole’s inbuilt Calvinist streak demanded a walk first. Then they would have earned a drink. Rather as her grandmother would make her have a slice of plain bread and butter before
she was allowed one with jam on.

‘I think I’m going to have to confront Suzy,’ Jude announced grumpily. ‘Now I know Rick Hendry was there that night. I bet it was him who called her on her
mobile.’

Carole sniffed. She was still feeling raw and exposed after the call from David. Her pale blue eyes blinked behind their rimless glasses. ‘I can see that it’s interesting, the fact
that he was there, but I don’t see how it can possibly have anything to do with the death of Nigel Ackford.’

‘If it doesn’t, why would Suzy want to keep it quiet?’

‘That doesn’t take much working out. If she’s as paranoid about publicity as you say, the last thing she wants is the tabloids knowing her ex-husband had been there.
Particularly at a time when they’re already sniffing around him over this underage sex thing.’

‘True. So you reckon it’s just a coincidence he was at Hopwicke House the night of the death?’

‘I haven’t got enough information to reckon anything,’ Carole replied rather tartly. ‘But I find it pretty unlikely that someone like Rick Hendry would have any dealings
with the Pillars of Sussex.’

‘Yes, it’s hard to see an obvious connection.’

‘Jude, it’s hard to see even an extremely obscure connection. The two worlds couldn’t be further apart.’

‘And yet they did come together that night at Hopwicke House – at least, geographically.’ Jude stopped walking and her brown eyes thoughtfully scanned the waters of the English
Channel. ‘I’ll ring Suzy when I get home. We’ve got to sort this out.’

‘Yes.’ Carole looked a little wistful. ‘And I can’t really come with you when you confront her.’

‘No. We’re old friends. The meeting has got to be handled with great delicacy and sensitivity.’

The minute she’d said the words, Jude knew they were the wrong ones. Carole, already bristling, bristled further. ‘And of course I haven’t got anything in the way of delicacy
or —’

‘I didn’t mean that. Just . . . Suzy and I go back a long way, if she’s going to talk to anyone, she’ll talk to me.’

‘And probably lie to you again.’

‘Maybe. We’ll see.’

‘Huh.’ Carole’s feathers hadn’t yet been satisfactorily smoothed down. ‘I wish there was something useful I could do.’

‘But there is. You can get more information on the Pillars of Sussex.’

‘How?’

‘Come on, Carole. Your ex-husband advised you to consult a solicitor about your will.’

‘Yes, but if you think I’m going to get into a professional relationship with Barry Stilwell, you can—’

‘Who said anything about Barry Stilwell? There’s another solicitor, very conveniently also based in Worthing, who’s a past president of the Pillars.’

A smile sweetened Carole’s sour face. ‘Yes, of course. Donald Chew.’

‘All right, Jude,’ Suzy agreed with surprising readiness when her friend rang. ‘Let’s talk. Do you fancy lunch in London?’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. I’ve got to go up for a couple of meetings, and a bit of body maintenance.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Hair, facial, nails, massage. Staving off the ravages of time.’

‘You still look great, Suzy.’

‘Maybe.’ As an acknowledged beauty for as long as she could remember, Suzy had never been winsome about accepting compliments. ‘But looking great takes a little bit longer
every day.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Jude automatically, though the line wasn’t really appropriate for her. She didn’t work hard on her appearance. She was overweight and, in her
layers of floaty garments, at times looked downright scruffy. But it didn’t bother her. She wasn’t terribly interested in people who let that kind of detail put them off. ‘OK,
where shall we meet?’

Suzy named an exclusive women’s club in Mayfair.

‘Renton and Chew.’ The voice was very carefully modulated, its natural vowels corralled into middle-class receptionist-speak.

‘Good morning. My name is Carole Seddon, and I wanted to talk to someone about making a change to my will.’

‘Certainly. And who have you dealt with before, Mrs Seddon?’

‘No one. This is my first contact with your firm.’

‘Right. And could you tell us, Mrs Seddon, how you came to hear about Renton and Chew? Was it through seeing an advertisement, personal recommendation, or just random selection from the
Yellow Pages
or similar listings directory?’

God, thought Carole, is there anywhere left in the world where you can avoid questionnaires? ‘It was through personal recommendation.’

‘Excellent, Mrs Seddon. That means we must be doing something right.’ But the words didn’t sound spontaneous. The receptionist was still sticking to her script. ‘Well,
Mrs Seddon, perhaps I could put you through to Donna Highstone, who is very experienced in matters of wills and—’

‘The personal recommendation I had was to Donald Chew.’

‘Ah. Yes, well, Mr Chew himself is very busy at the moment with—’

‘The recommendation came from someone connected with the Pillars of Sussex.’

Having worked out the lies she was going to tell, Carole was not about to deviate from her chosen course. What she said did have the desired effect. There was an impressed ‘Oh’ from
the other end of the line. ‘Perhaps I should have a word with Mr Chew then. May I ask, Mrs Seddon, the name of the person from the Pillars of Sussex who gave you the
recommendation?’

‘Nigel Ackford,’ Carole announced, exactly according to plan.

‘Ah. Um, well, er . . .’ The receptionist’s script was now out of the window. So was her assumed accent, as she floundered on. ‘Um. Tell you what, Mrs Seddon, I’ll
speak to Mr Chew. And maybe you’ve got a number what I can call you back on?’

The exterior of Suzy Longthorne’s club looked like an eighteenth-century private house. But, given its Mayfair location, very few British private citizens could have
afforded to live there, even if the property didn’t include a swimming pool in the basement, first-floor gym suite, second-floor beauty salon and top-floor restaurant with a panoramic view
across the roofs of London.

Nor indeed could many private citizens have afforded the annual subscription, which, as it happened, Suzy didn’t pay. When the premises opened in the late eighties, she and various other
famous faces had been offered life membership to enhance the club’s image and ensure celebrity-studded press coverage for the launch. Few of the other honorary members had continued to use
the facilities, but Suzy, as ever recognizing a bargain when she saw one, was a regular visitor. Her trips to London were essential breaks from the pressures of running Hopwicke Country House
Hotel, and a necessary part of what she had described as her ‘body maintenance’.

Suzy had already put in an hour’s swimming and an hour in the gym by the time Jude arrived for lunch. She had also been massaged and had her facial. The glowing skin, with her hair swept
back in a bandana, showed off the natural beauty of her cheekbones. Then a couple of quick meetings and she would be back in time to spread the largesse of her loveliness over the evening’s
diners at Hopwicke House.

Though the club’s membership was exclusively female, men were allowed in as guests, and so the top-floor dinning room looked just like any other expensive restaurant. The chef had, in
fact, been recently poached from one of London’s most fashionable eateries, and the menu proffered to Jude was both lavish and exciting. In spite of all the equipment on the lower floors, the
club had no pretensions to be a health farm. Its
raison d’être
was the pampering of its members. Those who got pleasure from depriving themselves were at liberty to pursue that
course; those who enjoyed self-indulgence were equally free to follow their desires.

Suzy chose not to drink alcohol. ‘I’ll wait for the one I grant myself at the end of the day. Never tastes so good if I’ve had one earlier. But don’t let me stop
you.’

Jude didn’t. She consulted the wine list for half-bottles, but Suzy said it’d be simpler to order a bottle, and there was no demur from her guest. Jude didn’t have anything to
do in the afternoon except return to Fethering, and a mild alcoholic haze was the best condition in which to ignore the third world discomforts of southbound trains from Victoria Station. She was
slightly nervous about the forthcoming conversation, and thought a couple of glasses of the excellent New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc Suzy had ordered might relax her.

She was also encouraged by her hostess to use the menu to the full, so again she did, ordering a smoked duck’s breast salad, to be followed by monkfish with spinach and ginger. Suzy
limited herself to a rare steak and green salad. She had never gone to the anorexic lengths of some models, but always ate sensibly. And Jude had known her far too long to feel any guilt about
eating larger meals in her presence. Suzy Longthorne’s looks remained her fortune and her business equipment, so a proper diet was just another element in her ‘body
maintenance’.