The Hanging in the Hotel (6 page)

Jude put the suit on a hanger in the heavy dark-oak wardrobe, then turned to look at the figure on the bed. In his rumpled shirt, striped boxer shorts and socks, there was something boyish about
Nigel Ackford. Despite the heavy late-night shadow on his chin, and the dark hair on his legs, the posture of his body suggested a five-year-old crumpled in sleep.

She decided he’d be more comfortable under the covers and managed to extricate the duvet and quilted bedspread from under the deadweight of his body, and flip them over him. Surprisingly,
this, the gentlest of the manipulations he had undergone during the previous ten minutes, woke Nigel Ackford.

He looked around in benign confusion, and took a moment or two to register Jude’s presence. His confusion intensified.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, remembering her strange garb. ‘You’re not in some dream of being tended by an Edwardian nanny. You’re in your room at the Hopwicke
Country House Hotel. I’m Jude. I’ve just helped you get into bed.’

‘Ah.’ Nigel Ackford giggled, reinforcing his childlike image. ‘I’m sorry I needed helping.’

Jude let out a non-judgmental ‘Well . . .’

‘No, really sorry. I found the evening rather a strain. Very important to make the right impression with the P-Pillars of Sussex.’

‘They seemed quite impressed with you.’

‘Yes.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘Yes, I think I did all right.’ His smile grew broader. ‘Bob Hartson said he thought he might be able to put me up for membership
soon.’

‘To become a full Pillar?’

As soon as she had said the words, Jude realized how ridiculous they sounded, but Nigel Ackford was unaware of any incongruity.

‘Oh yes, that’d be good. I’m quite young to be a Pillar of Sussex.’

Jude nodded, because that seemed to be the appropriate thing to do. The young man’s eyes gyrated in their sockets, and his lids flickered. He would soon be asleep.

But he overcame drowsiness for another mumbled communication. ‘Going to be a good year, this one. All my troubles are over. All sorted out. I’ve made up my mind which way I’m
going. This is going to be a good year.’ His head nuzzled luxuriantly back into the soft pillow. ‘I’m going to ask Wendy to marry me. And I’m pretty confident she’ll
say yes . . .’

He was asleep. Jude left the room quietly, but she needn’t have bothered. Nigel Ackford was so deeply under nothing would wake him until, presumably, the crushing agony of the
morning’s hangover.

Jude was used to the routine of the staff quarters. She took the remaining key from its rack and went out into the deep blue calm of the April night. In the last light before
she locked the kitchen door, she saw from her watch that it was nearly three o’clock.

There was no bulb in the hall light of the stable block, so Jude couldn’t see the number on her key tag. With an internal grin, she remembered Suzy’s warning about not gatecrashing
the dreams of the chef or the chauffeur, but if she didn’t take the risk, she wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep. So she pushed against the nearest bedroom door, which gave easily.

It was the wrong room, but not as embarrassingly wrong as it could have been. A small bedside light had been left on to reveal the usual chaos left by a teenage girl. Distinctive T-shirts thrown
down on the unmade bed left no doubt as to the occupant’s identity. But of Kerry herself there was no sign. The room was empty.

The next door was locked. Jude’s key fitted, so no worries about chefs or chauffeurs. She let herself in. Suddenly aware of how tired she felt, she had only the most perfunctory of washes
and fell into bed. The alarm was set for seven, so that she’d be back on duty to serve breakfasts to the Pillars of Sussex. She wondered, after the excesses of the night before, how many of
them would feel ready to face the full English. Most, she reckoned, as she fell instantly into sleep.

Suzy, sensible as ever, recognized that Edwardian nanny costumes would look incongruous at eight o’clock in the morning, so the staff’s daytime uniforms were neat
blue suits. Jude always found at least two in the uniform cupboard which fitted her, suggesting that a lot of the hotel’s staff were mature matronly women.

As she had surmised, almost all the Pillars of Sussex went for the full English breakfast option. One or two looked a little sweaty and greenish about the gills, but they managed to keep up a
diluted version of the night-before’s banter. The misogyny certainly remained. There were many shouted exchanges along the lines of ‘Don’t get sausages this big at
home!’

‘That’s what your wife was saying to me only the other day!’

And each such sally would be rewarded by its statutory guffaw.

Because the Pillars came down to breakfast in dribs and drabs, and because Suzy was busy at reception collating their bills, it was a while before any kind of head-count could be done. And since
eating breakfast was not mandatory, guests who chose to could stay in their rooms until the ten-thirty check-out time.

So it wasn’t until then that the absence of three of the previous night’s diners was observed. Jude checked the names against a printout of the guest list, which showed who had been
allocated which room. Two gaps were quickly explained. Donald Chew, for reasons of his own, had gone early. He’d demanded his bill at seven-thirty, and left before breakfast. Next, after a
couple of slices of toast and a cup of coffee on the dot of eight, Bob Hartson had been driven away by his chauffeur.

But no one had seen Bob Hartson’s guest, Nigel Ackford.

Having witnessed the state of the young man the night before, Jude wasn’t surprised. Either he was still sleeping it off, or he was simply immobilized by his hangover. Stupid boy, she
thought as she climbed up towards the top floor. She wasn’t judgmental about people who over-indulged; she just reckoned they made life unnecessarily difficult for themselves. Jude drank a
lot of white wine, but she very rarely got drunk. In spite of her laid-back manner, there was within her a steely core of discipline. Perhaps it was recognizing the same quality in Suzy that had
kept the two of them friends.

She climbed up the hotel stairs, pushing the folded guest list into the pocket of her blue suit. On the top landing, she took out a pass-key, and opened the door of Nigel’s room Inside it
was still pitch dark. As the sprung door clicked shut behind her, the brocade curtains squeezed out every glimmer of daylight.

‘Time to get up, I’m afraid, Mr Ackford.’ She crossed to the curtains and grasped the pull-string. ‘Shield your eyes, because I’m about to let the day
in.’

Jude pulled the curtains wide, and turned back to face the bed.

Nigel Ackford had not shielded his eyes. They stared, prominent in their sockets, their whites discoloured with specks of red. His face was congested to the colour of claret. His body hung
still, sock-clad feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Around his neck, suspending him from the end crossbar of the four-poster, was one of the silken ropes that had tied back the curtains.

Nigel Ackford had been spared his hangover.

Carole couldn’t believe how relieved she was to see Jude on her doorstep the following afternoon. She hadn’t slept well. The news from Stephen had upset her, and
the fact that it upset her, upset her more. She should have been ecstatic. The announcement of a son having found the woman with whom he wishes to spend the rest of his life is something for which
every mother should be waiting. There was potential for a new generation and all kinds of old-fashioned things, like hope. Joy should be unconfined.

And yet joy was not Carole’s predominant emotion; it was confusion, closely followed by guilt. This defining moment in family life had left her examining the shortcomings of that family
life, had highlighted the failure of her marriage, and had reminded her of her lack of maternal instinct. She needed to talk to Jude about it. Jude was sympathetic. Jude was a constructive
listener.

But that particular afternoon Jude was not in a listening mood. Her priority was the news she had to impart. And when she had imparted it, Carole realized her neighbour was shaky, perhaps even
in shock. Jude’s customary serenity was so ingrained that Carole was surprised to see her in this state. She quickly supplied them both with glasses of white wine and sat Jude in an armchair
in the sitting room. To avoid delay, she even resisted her instinct to put out a little table beside the chair for her friend’s wine glass.

‘Presumably you’ve talked to the police?’

‘Yes, they sent me home. There weren’t any cabs available, I had to get two buses. That’s why it’s taken me so long.’

‘You should have called me from your mobile. I’d have picked you up.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’ Unwontedly twitchy, Jude looked out of the window into Fethering High Street. ‘The police said they’d be round later to talk more. Suzy
wanted the minimum of fuss at the hotel.’

‘One can understand that she would.’ Carole couldn’t quite keep disapproval out of her voice when Suzy Longthorne’s name came up. They’d never met, but the former
model’s public image predisposed Carole against her. Being splashed over papers and magazines, having high-profile lovers, building a career simply from being pretty . . . all of it offended
Carole Seddon’s Calvinist work ethic. Deep down, there was also the natural, inescapable resentment of a plain woman towards a beautiful one.

Feeling guilty for her disapproval – everything was making her feel guilty that day – she compensated with solicitude. ‘You must be feeling terrible – awful for you to
have actually found the body.’

Jude nodded. ‘It was nasty. Particularly as I’d talked to the boy only a few hours earlier.’

‘And he hadn’t sounded suicidal then?’

‘Far from it.’

Carole grimaced wryly. ‘Who can tell what goes on inside another person’s mind?’

Jude felt confident she quite often could tell, but all she said was, ‘True.’

‘Was there a suicide note?’

‘Apparently. Well, not necessarily a suicide note, but some document which made the police pretty certain it was suicide. I didn’t see it. As soon as I found the body, I rushed
straight down to tell Suzy. She went up to the room to check it was locked, and then called the police. Apparently they found a letter in the bedroom – under the pillow, I think.’

‘And did they immediately question all the guests?’

‘They had all gone by then. Had breakfast, checked out by ten-thirty.’

‘Who were they again? You did tell me.’

‘The Pillars of Sussex.’

Carole made a face. ‘Oh yes, I have heard of them. Some kind of back-scratching organization for local businessmen, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And this poor young . . . you know, the one who died . . . was he a member?’

‘A guest. But he seemed quite excited at the prospect of becoming a member.’

‘Hm. Lucky for your friend Suzy’ – Carole was incapable of saying the name without the preface of ‘your friend’ – ‘that all the guests had gone before
the news broke.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, it’s the kind of thing you’d want to keep as quiet as possible. You’re hardly going to advertise a suicide in the hotel brochure, are you?’

‘No.’ Jude was preoccupied, still uncharacteristically subdued. Her mind was full.

‘Though there’s no way it won’t get out soon enough,’ Carole went on. ‘People gossip. The hotel staff are bound to talk.’

‘I don’t know that they will. Suzy commands a lot of respect. So if she asks them not to tell . . .’

‘I doubt if even Suzy Longthorne’s fabled charms could stop this getting out.’ The resentment was back in Carole’s voice.

‘No. Probably not.’

‘Did the police speak to the staff?’

‘Yes. A quick word with each of us individually; then they’ll follow up.’

‘Have they closed the hotel down?’

‘I’m not sure what’s happening. There aren’t any bookings for the next couple of nights. Some at the weekend – a wedding reception and quite a lot of people staying
over. By then I would imagine they’d have completed any investigations they’re going to make.’

‘Hm. Well, that’s very sad. Horrible shock for you . . . and a terrible waste of a young life.’ Carole reckoned she had shown an adequate amount of sympathy, and could move the
conversation on. ‘I actually had some rather surprising news. From Stephen, my—’

But she got no further. Jude was on her feet, looking out of the window. A car was parking outside Woodside Cottage.

‘It’s the police. I’d better go and let them in.’

Carole’s face set in an expression of frustration.

There was an apologetic fastidiousness about Detective Inspector Goodchild, as if he would rather have been doing any job other than his own, and actually regretted the
necessity of dealing with criminal matters. He was tall, and his pale grey pin-striped suit reinforced his image of pained decency. His sidekick, Detective Sergeant Fallon, was either awestruck by
the presence of his senior or silent by nature. Beyond a ‘Hello again’ on arrival, he didn’t speak during the interview.

‘Once more, I’m very sorry to have to take you through all this, Miss—’

‘Jude, Inspector. Everyone calls me Jude.’

‘Right. Well, Jude, I’m aware you’ve had an unpleasant experience, so I will try not to dwell on it, but there are of course certain details . . .’

‘I understand.’

‘In any case of an unnatural death – particularly a suicide, we—’

‘Are you sure it is a suicide?’

The Inspector smiled indulgently. ‘Jude, I know you expressed doubts back at the hotel, and I can assure you we will be investigating every angle. The verdict of the cause of death will
have to wait for the inquest.’

‘When’s that likely to be?’

‘Within the week. The preliminary inquest, anyway.’

Jude was alerted by the adjective. ‘Oh?’

Patiently, Inspector Goodchild explained. ‘It’s entirely possible we won’t have gathered all our evidence together by then. The coroner may well adjourn the inquest to give us
time.’