Love You Dead

40 Sunday 1 March

Tooth stood by the beach, in front of a row of shuttered Victorian arches, staring morosely through the rain out to sea. To his right was a large building site, with a central structure partially covered in scaffolding, out of which rose a construction like a huge spike soaring into the sky. A hoarding had a futuristic architect’s drawing of something that looked to him like a spaceship and the wording i360. It reminded him of the Space Needle in Seattle.

A short distance out in the sea stood a rusting mass of girders, all that remained of what had once been the West Pier. Over to his left was the Brighton Pier and a short way along the shore, past the pier, what looked like a large wheel. He smelled rotting weed and boat varnish. He found seaside resorts in the rain depressing. This place reminded him in a way of Coney Island, where he’d once spent ten days in winter waiting for a man he’d been paid to torture and kill to show up. He didn’t think there was a more depressing place on earth than Coney Island in the rain.

A new smell hit his nostrils, the aroma of a grilling burger or maybe French fries, that was making him feel hungry, despite the large room-service breakfast he’d eaten less than a couple of hours ago. He turned towards Brighton Pier, walking past a closed, gaily painted hut boasting the legend, in white letters on a turquoise strip, BRIGHTON SHELLFISH AND OYSTER BAR.

Head bowed against the wind, he was thinking hard about all the places a stylish woman like Jodie Bentley would visit, and where she would be known. He couldn’t check the city records until tomorrow, so for now he decided to take her photograph around hotel bars, restaurants and cafés, and show it to cab drivers.

The one who had driven him to Western Road had shaken his head, blankly.

He walked up the steps onto the promenade and stared at the buildings across the road in front of him. A wide row of hotels and restaurants stretching for a mile or more in each direction. Right opposite him was the dark red facade of the Metropole Hotel. He crossed the road, entered, went up to the reception desk and approached one of the uniformed males behind it.

‘I’m a private detective working for a US law firm,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to trace this lady who has come into an inheritance that she’s not aware of. We don’t know her name, but we believe she might be the deceased’s only surviving relative.’ He showed photographs of Jodie Bentley.

Five minutes later, six different people had come to look at the photograph, and all of them had shaken their heads.

He left and walked the short distance along to the imposing white facade of the Grand Hotel, set behind its private parking crescent. Standing in front of the revolving door was a liveried doorman.

Tooth approached him with the same story. The doorman studied the photograph carefully, then said, ‘Yes! I recognize her. She’s been here a number of times, charming lady. She was here last week for dinner — let me think — was it Wednesday — no — I was off then. Tuesday. Yes, it must have been Tuesday!’

‘Do you know her name?’

‘No, but she had dinner here with a gentleman. Come with me!’

Tooth followed the doorman inside, past the reception desk, to the restaurant entrance, where there was a smartly dressed greeter.

‘Michele, this gentleman’s trying to find a lady who had dinner here last Tuesday.’

‘Right, thank you, Colin.’ She looked at the photograph Tooth proffered. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, she’s been here a few times. Hold on a moment.’ She opened a large, lined register filled with names and times, and flicked back a few pages. Then she ran a finger down it and stopped.

‘I think this was her — the reservation was made in the gentleman’s name. Mr Rowley Carmichael. Is that right?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tooth said. ‘What can you remember about them?’

She apologized for a moment as a group of four people turned up for lunch; she ticked them off her list and led them through into the restaurant. Then she returned. ‘I’m trying to think. I’m afraid we have a large number of people every day. If you can wait a moment, I’ll go and ask Erwan, the maître d’, if he can recall anything. Can I borrow the photograph?’

Giving her his most charming smile, he handed it over, maintaining eye-contact flirtatiously.

She returned a few minutes later. ‘Erwan remembers her!’ she said. ‘She was dining with a much older gentleman, and they asked him to call two taxis at about eleven o’clock.’

‘Is there a particular cab company you use?’ Tooth asked.

‘A local firm, Streamline.’

Tooth thanked her. His charm offensive had got him what he wanted.

He left and walked along the seafront back to his hotel. He stopped outside to smoke a cigarette, then went up to his room and ordered a pot of coffee. As he waited for it to arrive, he worked on his story.

Then he picked up his phone and dialled the taxi company.