The Hanging in the Hotel

Chapter Forty-One

Hopwicke Country House Hotel was just as good at small private parties as it was at larger events. The one laid-up table in the dining room had a cloth of exactly the same colour as the Dolce & Gabbana dress that Kerry had been given by her parents as one of her presents. The table centrepiece was a cake out of whose surface Max Townley had conjured a number sixteen in spun sugar. And the menu had been specially designed according to the birthday girl’s wishes.

The invitation list had been drawn up by her stepfather. He’d booked a London club for the Saturday night party Kerry was going to have with her contemporaries. On the birthday itself he was, as ever, in sole command.

He’d chosen to have an intimate dinner party. Himself, Kerry, her mother, Suzy Longthorne and Rick Hendry. Though the last two did not seek out each other’s company at social events, Bob Hartson knew they’d do it for him. Kerry had wanted Rick Hendry there, so she could discuss her pop career, and Suzy would be on the premises anyway. Since, as well as being involved in a business relationship with him, she was also his friend, Bob Hartson had decided she should be one of the dinner guests. And since she was the hotelier, she could do any serving at table that might be required. Not that there would be much. The menu and wines had been pre-ordered. All Suzy would have to do was collect the dishes from Max in the kitchen and take back the empty ones. Bob Hartson enjoyed having the money and power to lay on nice treats for his stepdaughter.

The party had started with vintage champagne in the bar. Bob Hartson watched with indulgent pride the speed at which Kerry could put her drink away. For as long as he’d had any influence on her, he’d brought her up to relish the good things of life. He luxuriated in the prospect of her attaining pop success, of seeing his stepdaughter’s photograph and lifestyle splashed across celebrity magazines. Bob Hartson liked being in charge. He liked having power over everyone around him. And that evening, in that company, he felt good. He looked round the hotel bar, and every face he saw gave him a good feeling.

Except for the face of the woman who’d just walked in from the hall.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Jude.’ Suzy had risen to her feet in alarm.

‘I had to come,’ said her friend. ‘I owe you an apology, Suzy.’

‘What is this?’ said Rick Hendry.

Suzy knew his question was directed at her. ‘I don’t know.’

Jude provided the explanation. ‘I wanted to apologize not just to you, Suzy, but to anyone else about whom I may have harboured false suspicions.’

‘Look,’ said Kerry, ‘this is my birthday party. It’s private. I don’t want it disturbed by—’

But a raised hand from Jude silenced her. ‘I went to see someone this afternoon. An architect called Edward Dukesbury. A former lover of Nigel Ackford. And Edward Dukesbury was good enough to explain to me exactly why that poor young man hanged himself here in the hotel. His explanation was entirely convincing.’

She looked covertly round the room to see if anyone had visibly relaxed at this news. But no, they all stayed tense, as if they were all expecting more.

‘So what we were talking about this afternoon, Suzy – whether I’d be satisfied if I was given a reason why Nigel Ackford committed suicide – well, I guess now I have that reason. I should be completely satisfied.’

‘Thank God.’ Suzy did relax.

‘And I would be completely satisfied,’ Jude went on, ‘if I did not know Edward Dukesbury to be a fraud.’

‘What?’ demanded Sandra Hartson.

‘He’s an actor called Lionel Greaves.’ There was no point in spelling out to them how she’d recognized the face from the old television show, how Carole had asked Gaby to check out the name, and how Gaby had emailed back a photograph taken from the website of the Spotlight actors’ directory.

‘A very good try,’ Jude went on. ‘Nearly had me fooled. But I got a break of good luck. So I don’t know who tried to set up that little treat for me . . .’ She looked round the room. Suzy would not meet her eye. ‘Anyway, whichever one of you it was who briefed Lionel Greaves, I should tell you he got one detail wrong. As a clincher on selling me the suicide theory, the so-called Edward Dukesbury told me he’d been woken by a phone call from Nigel Ackford shortly before he killed himself. The young man apparently rang on his mobile – which is strange, because Nigel Ackford didn’t at the time have a mobile. He’d given his to his former girlfriend Wendy Fullerton, and though he’d talked of buying another one, according to Wendy, he hadn’t got round to it. So . . .’

Jude’s brown eyes gave the room another circuit. Suzy still wouldn’t look at her, but none of the others cracked.

Kerry Hartson, though, was annoyed. ‘Listen, this is my birthday party—’

‘Ssh!’ It was Rick Hendry’s hand that had gone up, and the girl was instantly silent.

He turned to face Jude. The beam of his smile was as big as ever, but there was little warmth in it. ‘Listen, sweetie. I know you’ve always been a bit flaky. Suze always had some friends who were a few joss-sticks short of a bundle. But I want some explanations. Presumably what you’re talking about makes sense to you, but I got lost a long time ago. Edward Dukesbury – Lionel Whatever – who are these people?’

‘Someone here knows very well,’ said Jude doggedly. ‘Or maybe you all do?’

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Sandra Hartson.

‘I mean I think there’s been collusion between all of you. The efficiency with which Carole and I have been fed ever-changing stories – someone’s been orchestrating that.’

Sandra Hartson still didn’t understand.

‘When you’re threatened,’ Jude went on, ‘you all close ranks, just like the Pillars of Sussex.’

‘I have nothing to do with the Pillars of Sussex,’ Suzy objected.

‘Nor do I,’ her ex-husband agreed.

‘Not directly, no. But you’re all part of the same thing, or you’ve all become part of the same thing.’

‘And what’s that?’ Sandra Hartson posed the question as if she really did not know the answer. Which she possibly didn’t. Sandra was the only person present Jude reckoned might be genuinely ignorant.

She had their attention, so she started to spell out what Carole had relayed to her. ‘There’s a journalist called Karl Floyd, who works for the Fethering Observer, and he got rather interested in the business dealings of some of the Pillars of Sussex. All right, low-power threat. Not too dangerous. He could be controlled by his editor who, like so many important people locally, the Pillars had in their pocket. He could be gagged and sacked if necessary. But Karl Floyd was persistent and, once Nigel Ackford started feeding him information about Renton and Chew, he became more of a threat. Still, he hadn’t got much, and if Nigel could be stopped from giving him more, the threat would go away. That, in my view,’ said Jude boldly, ‘is why Nigel Ackford was killed.’

‘He wasn’t killed. He committed suicide.’ But Suzy no longer sounded as though she believed her own words.

‘That wasn’t the end of it, though. Nigel was out of the way, but Karl Floyd wasn’t. And he was persistent. He started working away at a new source of information, someone much higher up in Renton and Chew, Donald Chew himself. And Donald was getting increasingly unreliable. He was getting less cautious about hiding his homosexuality. Maybe he liked the idea of talking to a young male journalist. And he was also drinking more than ever. He was becoming more of a potential liability every day, and life would be a lot easier if he were off the scene, which of course, conveniently, he now is.’

There was a derisive laugh from Rick Hendry. ‘I’ve heard of conspiracy theories . . . We’re spoilt for them in the rock business. Who sabotaged Buddy Holly’s plane? Did the CIA kill Jimi Hendrix? Who was the actual body in Elvis Presley’s coffin? But yours, Jude, seems to take the biscuit. What is this awful deed that the Pillars of Sussex were perpetrating? And that this intrepid boy reporter was about to unmask. Gun-running? Drugs? Illegal immigrants?’

‘Nothing so dramatic as those. And indeed something that may not even be illegal – though it could engender some bad publicity – and I don’t need to tell you, Rick, how nasty that can be. What Karl Floyd was investigating concerns the business practices of Bob Hartson.’

There was no change of expression on the property developer’s corrugated face, though both his wife and stepdaughter looked anxiously towards him.

‘As we all know, Mr Hartson, you’ve been very successful.’ He bowed his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. ‘You have a vast property empire all along the South Coast. You’re very well in with the local planners and all the other great and good of Sussex.’ Still he seemed to think he was being flattered. ‘And as a result, you have a lot of money to invest in new developments and, on occasions to help out people in trouble.’

Bob Hartson seemed to be enjoying this paean to his success and philanthropy.

‘Just as you have helped Suzy here at Hopwicke House.’

As Jude went on, the hotelier gave her a sharp look.

‘In his researches, Karl Floyd found out that what you’ve done for Suzy follows a pattern. You look out for businesses in nice old properties or on attractive sites, and you particularly look out for ones that are having financial problems. Then you offer to invest in the properties, help the people out, offer them loans at advantageous rates. All above board, proper contracts sorted out by your friendly solicitors, Renton and Chew.’

Bob Hartson smiled. ‘You haven’t said anything yet that I wouldn’t be happy to see in the Fethering Observer – or the Sunday Times Business Section, come to that.’

‘No, I agree,’ said Jude. ‘You’ve been very supportive to local businesses. It’s when you withdraw the support that’s significant. The contracts Renton and Chew draw up for you have very specific timing clauses, giving you options to pull the plugs whenever you choose.’

Bob Hartson shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Normal business practice.’

There was the crunch of a large car drawing up on the gravel outside. Jude flinched, recognizing the significance of the sound. But none of the others reacted, so, swallowing down her fear, she continued to outline her argument.

‘But, Mr Hartson, it’s striking in how many cases you’ve withdrawn your financial support at a very bad time, and as a result the owners have been forced to sell up, and then – remarkably – their properties have been bought by one of your companies.’

He still couldn’t see anything wrong. ‘I always offer well over the going rate. Otherwise they wouldn’t sell to me.’

‘And then you sit on the properties until your friends in the planning departments get change of use agreed, and you develop them into housing.’

‘In exact accordance with current government policy,’ said Bob Hartson complacently. ‘The south-east needs more houses. I bet the prime minister wishes there were more developers like me around.’

‘I don’t know. I think the prime minster likes to keep all the power to himself. He might not like you having as much as you do – or indeed the way you use it.’

‘How do you mean?’

Surprisingly, the answer came from Suzy. ‘Like the way you’ve used your power over me! Constantly threatening to take your investment out of Hopwicke House unless I do exactly as you want. Making me take cut-rate bookings for functions like the Pillars of Sussex dinner, so you can show off to your friends!’

Rick Hendry joined in. ‘And the way you’ve manipulated me! Encouraging me to invest in your companies, then threatening to expose my involvement with you. Constantly asking for favours in return!’

‘Favours like getting Kerry through the Pop Crop auditions?’ suggested Jude.

‘Yes,’ said Rick Hendry.

‘Oy!’ the girl wailed. ‘That’s not the reason. It’s because I’m good!’

All her idol responded to this was ‘In your dreams.’ Kerry burst into tears.

‘Favours like building up Max Townley’s hopes for his television career?’ Jude went on.

‘Yes,’ Rick Hendry admitted. ‘And the worst of the lot was making me agree to be auctioneer for that bloody auction of promises!’

‘I’m not so sure, Rick,’ said Jude. ‘Don’t you think the worst was actually using your showbiz contacts to persuade a beat-up actor like Lionel Greaves to spend a little time in one of Bob Hartson’s unconverted flats in Hove, taking a very small part for a very large amount of money?’

But that was an admission too far for Rick Hendry. He looked bemused. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Kerry Hartson was now weeping bitterly. Her mother leant across to comfort her. But her stepfather was enjoying himself too much to notice. He was positively glowing with confidence.

‘I don’t deny anything you’ve said, Jude.’

‘And you don’t deny that, if it appeared in the press, a list of all the deals of that kind that you’ve done would look pretty bad?’

‘Sure, it’d look bad, but it’s not going to appear in the press.’

‘Because Nigel Ackford and Donald Chew are both dead.’

‘Yes. Conveniently, they are.’ Bob Hartson’s smile was almost smug now. ‘And no one will ever be able to find any connection between me and either of their deaths. Anyway, if I wanted to keep that stuff out of the press, I wouldn’t have gone after Nigel or Donald. I’d have silenced the journalist – this Karl whatever-his-name-is. And I notice nobody’s yet made an attack on him.’

‘Oh, but they have,’ said a new voice, as Carole Seddon stepped into the bar.

‘What?’ Bob Hartson’s demeanour changed completely. He looked as if he had just received a heavy punch in the stomach.

‘You should be careful,’ Carole went on, ‘when you use someone else to do your dirty work. There’s always a danger they may go freelance and start doing things off their own bat. Like attacking Karl Floyd. Like trying to attack me – and breaking down my front door!’ she added indignantly.

‘Where is he?’ Bob Hartson gasped.

‘In the kitchen. Where do you expect him to be?’ asked Carole. ‘That’s his proper place.’

‘I’ll go and get him,’ said Suzy.

A moment later, she returned through the dining room, and resumed her seat. The man who had followed her from the kitchen stood framed in the doorway, looking in amazement round the group in front of him. Finally, his eyes rested on Bob Hartson.

‘What is this? What’s going on?’ he asked.

The developer seemed to have recovered some of his composure. ‘Oh, it’s very simple. You’ve just been accused of two murders.’ He turned to Carole. ‘Or is it three? You didn’t say whether Karl Floyd was dead or alive.’

‘Alive. Badly beaten, but alive.’

Bob Hartson turned back to the man in the doorway. ‘Two murders and one GBH, I reckon it is then.’

‘But there’s no way I could have done the first one. I was fast asleep in the stable block.’

‘No,’ said Jude coolly. ‘You were supposed to be in the stable block, but when I checked the chambermaids’ check sheets for that night, it turns out you were actually in one of the rooms inside the hotel.’

‘I didn’t know anything about that,’ said Suzy.

‘No. But I think I know who organized it.’

Under the probing beam of Jude’s look, the way Kerry Hartson turned away her tear-stained face was sufficient admission of guilt.

The man in the doorway appealed to Bob Hartson. ‘It’s rubbish, isn’t it? They can’t prove anything, can they?’

The property developer smiled a hard smile. ‘I could say I saw you do Nigel Ackford.’

‘But you didn’t. You weren’t there. You’d got an alibi with Donald Chew. That was the whole point.’

‘Hm.’ Bob Hartson’s self-confidence seemed to be returning very quickly. ‘I certainly didn’t see you kill Donald Chew. And the attack on Karl Floyd – the first I heard of such a thing was when this lady mentioned it a minute ago.’

‘But I thought it was what you’d want, Bob. Suzy rang to the car while you were on site. She told me that woman Carole was going to meet Karl Floyd. I thought you’d want to stop that. I thought that was what you’d want, Bob.’ The was pathos in his repetition of the line.

The developer shook his head sagely. ‘Very risky, to try and imagine what other people might want, Geoff.’ He looked his driver straight in the eye. ‘Next thing you’ll be telling these good people that I wanted Nigel and Donald dead.’

‘But you did. You told me to get rid of them.’

‘Doesn’t sound like me.’ Bob Hartson turned to his wife. ‘Does it, Sandra?’

‘No,’ she said weakly.

‘Not my usual style at all.’ He rose from his chair and moved towards the bewildered chauffeur. ‘I think you must have got the wrong end of the stick, Geoff. And that’s a dangerous thing to do when you’ve been inside twice for GBH.’

‘But, Bob, you told me—’

‘I don’t think you’ve got any proof of that, Geoff.’

‘You bastard!’

Quick as a flash, a gun appeared in the chauffeur’s hand.

Even quicker, Bob Hartson’s hand bunched into a fist and shot up into the man’s jaw.

The bullet hit the bar-room ceiling before the gun smashed into the wall.

As his chauffeur crumpled on to the floor, Bob Hartson looked back at his guests and gatecrashers. ‘Well, say thank you. I think I saved at least one person’s life there.’

Then he looked up as Inspector Goodchild came into the room. ‘Reg, good to see you. I’d assumed Carole would call you over here.’ He pointed to the heap on the floor behind him. ‘There’s your murderer.’