The Hanging in the Hotel

Chapter Fourteen

Jude was not one of those women for whom the visit was an essential weekly ritual, but she did enjoy going to the hairdresser. She had been blonde for so long that she’d almost forgotten her original hair colour, though she was relieved to observe her roots were not yet showing white. For her the signal to go to the hairdresser was not the blondness creeping away, but a sudden sensation one morning that there was too much hair to pile on top of her head. That was when she’d book in, or more often just appear without an appointment.

She wasn’t particularly bothered who did the cutting, being able to find subjects for conversation with most people. As usual, she did more listening than volunteering information. She found the process restful, the washing, the application of the colour, the cutting.

But the most enjoyable part was waiting for her hair to dry after the colour had been applied. Jude liked lying back in a chair, secure in the knowledge that there was nothing else she could be doing at that point. The drying process would take as long as it took, at such times the hairdresser would be busy with another client so conversation would not be required. And Jude could either let her thoughts wander, or idly skim through a variety of magazines which did not impinge on the normal course of her life.

The Saturday after Nigel Ackford’s death, she was in the hairdresser’s enjoying one of those weeklies that have redefined – and considerably lowered the qualifications for – the status of ‘celebrity’. In the inevitable synchronistic way that relevant events have a habit of bubbling to the surface at the right moment, she found herself looking at a picture of Suzy Longthorne.

The photograph dated back to the prime of Suzy’s marriage to Rick Hendry, and the accompanying text was all about him rather than her. She was mentioned as a ‘former model’, too old to ring many bells among the youthful demographics of the magazine’s target audience. Rick Hendry would have suffered the same fate, had his career not been revived by new television fame. Famous for his acerbic dismissals of the talents of teenage pop wannabees, he had now reached the coveted status of ‘the man the public love to hate’.

His new celebrity had brought him all the bonuses attendant on television popularity – appearances on chat-shows, at awards ceremonies and in highly paid commercials. The words – ‘I wish I’d been born deaf’ – with which he greeted the worst of the aspirants on the talent show had become a recent national catchphrase. He had even reached the giddy heights of being caricatured by cartoonists and lampooned by satirical television impressionists. The old rocker had certainly reinvented himself for the new millennium.

The photograph of Rick with Suzy was one of a sequence evoking his previous career. There were also shots of him leaving for international tours with his band, squiring other forgotten women, looking beat-up and past-it in the early nineties. These shots framed the main picture which showed Rick with his arms around nineteen-year-old twin girls who had survived the rigours of the talent show to become over-hyped one-hit Number Ones. His famously large teeth were revealed in a lascivious grin, which deepened the engraving of lines on his long thin face. His hair was short and grey. The caption read: ‘As young as the women he feels.’

Jude had met Rick Hendry a few times while he had been married to Suzy. He had always worked hard on his image. The ‘wild man of rock’ was a cunning self-marketer, shrewd about business, tight with his money, ruthless in getting what he wanted. The new incarnation – poison-tongued, ageing enfant terrible – was, Jude felt sure, quite as carefully manufactured as any of the previous ones.

And whoever wrote the text which accompanied the magazine’s photo-spread had clearly bought into Rick Hendry’s self-image.

TV’s Mr Nasty has never made any secret of the fact that he likes beautiful women. ‘And when beauty and talent come together,’ says Rick, ‘the combination is a total knockout.’ Currently single, the ‘Black Mamba of the Box’ isn’t sure where he’s going to strike next. ‘I’m having such a good time playing the field, why should I ever go back to an exclusive relationship? There’s life in the old dog yet.’ And for an old dog who’s made a career out of bitchiness, who can doubt that what he says is true?

Good luck, Rick – and I think we can put that prescription of Viagra on hold for a while yet!

Carole didn’t notice her friend had had her hair done. Jude never emerged with that crisp salon-fresh look. Her hair was just piled up again on top of her head, secured by whatever clips or combs were her current favourites. Only the very observant would have detected a change in its degree of blondness. And that Saturday afternoon as she came rushing round to Woodside Cottage, Carole was far too preoccupied to take in that kind of detail. ‘I’ve just had a call from Barry Stilwell,’ she announced.

‘Oh?’

‘From his golf club.’

She sounded so bewildered that Jude giggled. ‘I see. Not wanting to ring his mistress from home.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ But there had been something conspiratorial in Barry’s tone, which had almost suggested they were sharing an illicit secret.

Jude scratched her newly blonde hair thoughtfully. ‘I’m surprised men bother with that these days. Ringing from the golf club. You can use a mobile to ring from anywhere. You know, mobile phones have really changed the whole complexion of adultery.’

She sounded almost wistfully regretful of the fact, as though some of the fun had been taken out of the game. In other circumstances, Carole might have pressed her for amplification, but she was currently too shocked by her recent phone conversation with Barry.

‘But he wants to meet me again,’ she said.

‘Go for it.’

‘Jude, I can’t. For one thing, he’s repulsive. And for another, he’s married.’

‘Can’t let details like that stand in your way.’

‘I am not the kind of woman who has affairs with married men.’ She knew she sounded terribly pompous, so she added, ‘Or with anyone else, come to that.’ Which somehow didn’t sound right either.

‘Carole . . .’ Jude’s brown eyes fixed hers in an expression of mock-seriousness. ‘There are times when you mustn’t think about yourself. You must set aside your own feelings and prioritize the greater cause.’

‘I don’t think having affairs with married men you can’t stand could ever be defined as a greater cause.’

‘It could if it brings a benefit with it.’

‘What benefit could an affair with Barry Stilwell possibly bring?’

‘Information.’ The lightness had dropped from Jude’s tone; she was completely serious. ‘Barry Stilwell is the only link we have to the Pillars of Sussex. We need to keep in touch with him if we’re going to find out what really happened to Nigel Ackford.’

‘But—’

‘Whether you have to go to bed with him to get that information is up to you –’ Jude grinned ‘– Mata Hari.’