Road Closed (31 page)

‘Please tell Callum Martin we’d like to speak to him.’

Bronxy rose to her feet and walked to the door, moving like a cat in high heels. Geraldine promptly crossed the room and sat down behind the desk. ‘We’ll speak to him in here. If that’s convenient.’

Bronxy glanced over her shoulder and shrugged. The door closed.

‘You don’t think he’s done a runner, do you, gov?’ Peterson voiced Geraldine’s suspicion under his breath. She didn’t answer. They waited. Finally the door opened. Callum Martin walked in. He was bleary eyed. Three of the scratches on his cheek looked scabby. The fourth glistened wetly.

‘Mr Martin, we’re investigating the fire at your home on Monday night. Can you go over your movements that evening for us?’

‘I’ve told you where I was.’

Geraldine flipped open her notebook. ‘We need to run through those times again.’

‘Why? I already told you. It’s nearly a week ago. I can’t be expected to remember everything that happened a week ago, can I? I know your game. You think I was born yesterday. You’ve got it all written down, everything I told you last time, so if I don’t tell you exactly the same you’ll make out I’m telling lies, making it all up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not falling for that one. I’m not a bloody idiot. I can’t remember anything except what I told you before. That’s all I remember. So if that’s it, I’ll be off.’

‘Mr Martin, someone set fire to your house. Surely you want to help us find out who did it?’

Martin scowled. ‘Go on then. Ask your questions.’

‘We’re trying to pin down the time the fire started,’ Geraldine lied. Peterson took out his note book. ‘It must’ve been some time after you went out. You were alone, weren’t you? What time was that?’

Callum lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards Geraldine. ‘She was watching Coronation Street.’ He took another drag of his cigarette. ‘She likes Coronation Street, Brenda does. Load of rubbish. I must’ve fallen asleep. I woke up when it finished. So I went out for a jar. She asked to come with me, but she wasn’t even dressed. At that time of night. Slut.’ He paused to inhale. ‘I wasn’t going to wait for her to sort herself out, and as for Ray, he couldn’t even walk, the sorry bastard. So I went out by myself.’ He paused to inhale again. ‘I went to the pub. I stayed for a while, just drinking, you know. I didn’t talk to anyone. The landlord will tell you I was there. Why don’t you ask him?’

‘Mr Martin, you’re not a suspect,’ Geraldine lied again. ‘We’re merely interested in establishing the time the fire started. Are you sure you went straight to the pub?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see anyone loitering outside your house as you were leaving?’

‘No.’

‘And you were in the bar all the time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Drinking by youself all evening?’

Martin lit another cigarette before he answered. He spoke very slowly. ‘I was in the bar for a while. By myself. Ask the landlord if you don’t believe me.’

‘Did you go straight home when you left?’

Martin considered. ‘No. I took a walk to clear my head. When I went home I saw flashing blue lights as I turned the
corner. The fire had already started. It must’ve been about ten o’clock, when I got home.’

‘Did anyone see you, out walking?’

Martin shrugged. ‘How the hell would I know? It was dark.’

They interviewed Brenda next but it was pointless. She didn’t even seem to remember the fire at her home.

‘Fire?’ she repeated, eyes vacant. ‘What? Where’s Cal?’ Her hands trembled at her sides.

‘That was a waste of time,’ Geraldine complained as they left the Blue Lagoon. She took a deep breath, relieved to escape the stale air of the club.

‘Where to now, gov?’

Geraldine hesitated. ‘Let’s take a trip to the seaside,’ she said at last. Peterson gave a boyish whoop and Geraldine grinned.

It was a beautiful afternoon. They bowled along gentle inclines as the motorway led them through open countryside. It felt good to leave the confines of the town behind. Peterson drove at eighty down a wide sweep of tan coloured tarmac, golden in the sunlight. Many trees were still in leaf, russet, flaming orange and yellow with occasional evergreens, dark and dramatic. Although they were on a job, Geraldine felt an uplifting sensation of holiday. There was nothing for her to do but gaze out of the window. Too tired to think, she stared at fields rolling past, yellowing at the approach of winter.

‘I’ve never been much of a one for the countryside,’ Peterson commented after a while. ‘Can’t see what there is to get excited about.’

‘It’s not at its best this time of the year. It looks very different in the summer.’

‘Yes, it must look very different in the summer. And the winter. Imagine all this, covered in snow. Funny when you think about it, how different things can look.’

Geraldine was thinking about the people who had hired cars in Sandmouth on 22nd November. CCTV footage of
customers, and of cars driving out of Sandmouth in the direction of Harchester on the evenings of 22nd and 24th, had been scrutinised. Only one woman had made both journeys, Bobbie Geere. Geraldine thought about what the sergeant had said. Things didn’t always look the same.

‘What if?’ she began.

‘What’s that, gov?’

‘I was just thinking about the old woman who hired a car and drove from Sandmouth to Harchester… Could she have been Sophie Cliff?’

‘In disguise, you mean?’ Peterson sounded animated. ‘With a false name?’

Geraldine called the station. ‘We need to check if Sophie Cliff could have printed out a driving licence… a false one… she worked in IT… Yes… and any internet café in the area. Check in Sandmouth and Harchester and anywhere else within reach… And have another search for the woman called Bobbie Geere.’ She hung up. An atmosphere of excitement pervaded the air between them.

Geraldine stared ahead, impatient. ‘Another half hour and we’ll reach the top of a hill and be able to see the sea,’ she said. Peterson shrugged. As though mirroring the sky, the road surface changed to grey. They passed a sign: SANDMOUTH 25.

‘Another half an hour,’ the sergeant agreed. ‘Probably less. We’re making good time. Should be there in twenty minutes – if the road’s clear.’ Geraldine wondered what they were going to discover when they reached Sandmouth. ‘Let’s hope it turns out to be worth the effort,’ Peterson added, expressing Geraldine’s misgivings. ‘What’s the betting they’ll have Sophie Cliff on CCTV all Monday evening, and we’ll be back to square one.’

Geraldine stared out of the window.

56

Excelsior

The Excelsior Hotel stood in its own grounds on the cliff top. It was opulently furnished in the style of a bygone era, with elegant cream and crimson flock wallpaper and dark red carpets and drapes. The modern chrome and black leather of the bar looked out of place beside the grandeur of the foyer and lounge. Geraldine and Peterson took a quick look around. A group of men in the bar were talking in loud voices. Geraldine listened, out of habit, as she walked by.

‘…and then he hooked the ball into the rough.’ Ubiquitous music was playing, a beat without a tune. There was a faint clatter of cutlery in the background. Geraldine moved on, past a vase of tall yellow lilies. She turned away. Since her mother’s funeral she had disliked the heavy scent of lilies.

A couple of women were chatting over coffee. ‘It was perfect, but the only one in my size had a mark on it.’

‘Oh, unlucky.’

Geraldine followed Peterson back to the foyer. The girl behind the desk was on the phone. Geraldine thought that they must look like a couple waiting to check in. She wondered how it would feel, arriving at the hotel with Ian Peterson beside her, not as a colleague but as a companion. A boyfriend. She dismissed the thought with an involuntary shake of her head.

‘You all right, gov?’

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ the receptionist said. Geraldine brushed past the sergeant and displayed her identity card.

‘We’re checking the arrival and departure dates for a Mrs Sophie Cliff who stayed here earlier in the week.’

The girl entered the name and scanned her screen. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Mrs Cliff stayed here this week.’ She checked her screen again. ‘She arrived on Saturday morning and checked out on Tuesday after breakfast.’ Although she had been on the desk that week she could tell them little about Mrs Cliff’s movements. ‘She stayed in room two hundred and thirteen. There’s someone else in two hundred and thirteen now. I don’t think you can go in.’ She looked worried. ‘But I do remember the woman from two thirteen, now I come to think of it, because she was a bit…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, first of all when she arrived she said she had no idea how long she’d be staying. And she was – scruffy.’ The girl hesitated and lowered her voice. Geraldine stepped closer. ‘She looked – well, as though she needed a shower, if you know what I mean. And she had this vague look, as though she wasn’t all there. To be honest, she gave me the creeps. I think she went out walking during the day,’ she added, trying to be helpful.

‘Walking?’

‘Most of our guests play golf or walk on the cliff path.’ She looked up as a group of men in golfing gear approached the desk. ‘Excuse me, I’ll just be –’

‘I’d like to speak to the manager,’ Geraldine interrupted her.

An earnest hotel manager took them into his office. He looked about twenty and seemed flustered by Geraldine’s questions.

‘We haven’t had any problems with guests before,’ he apologised, as though he was somehow responsible for the police enquiry.

The manager confirmed that Mrs Cliff had eaten breakfast in the dining room on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday mornings. 
She had eaten there on Saturday, Sunday and Monday at seven in the evening.

‘Can you be sure about those times?’

The manager checked his database. ‘Just a minute, yes, here it is. She checked into the dining room on Saturday, Sunday and,’ he clicked the mouse, ‘Monday evenings at seven exactly. Guests often eat early when they’ve been out walking all day. The views from the cliff tops here are spectacular.’

‘Can you tell us how long she stayed in the dining room in the evenings?’

He shook his head. ‘No. We sign guests into the dining room, for billing purposes, but we don’t record what time they leave. I could ask the waiting staff, but I don’t suppose they’d remember.’

‘Where might she have gone after the dining room?’ Peterson asked.

‘She might have gone to the bar area, or to her room. Our rooms are very well appointed –’

‘Do you have CCTV in the car park?’ Geraldine interrupted his spiel. He nodded. ‘Do you still have the footage from Saturday and Monday evenings?’

The manager drummed his fingers on his desk top. ‘We keep it for thirty days, but your colleague’s already asked about that. He took it away with him so I suppose it’s still at the local police station. You could check with him.’

They took a statement from the manager. He sighed when they asked to be shown along the corridor on the second floor. He led the way, glancing at his watch but polite enough. Room two hundred and thirteen was situated at the end of a long corridor, opposite the lift.

‘How easy would it be for a guest to leave the building without being seen?’

The manager told them it was impossible for anyone to enter or leave the building unobserved. ‘Our security system
is second to none.’ The stairs and lift both led down to the entry hall, in full view of the reception desk and the porter, who doubled as a security guard. Access to the foyer and the entrance were covered by CCTV cameras.

‘Is there any other means of access to the building, other than the lift or the stairs?’

‘Only the staff lift, which is protected by a PIN code. All the fire exits are linked to the main alarm system, we have CCTV cameras at the back exit, and all the windows on the ground floor are kept locked. The insurance company insist on it,’ he added. ‘We’re a very safe place to stay. We never have any problems with intruders. You can check our insurance records.’

‘So there’s no way anyone could leave or return to the building unseen?’ Peterson asked again when they were back in the manager’s office.

The manager shook his head. ‘It’s quite impossible. Unless…’

‘Unless?’

‘We do get busy when there’s a function on.’ He checked his screen again. ‘Saturday was busy. It usually is. A wedding party. We had an influx of guests at around eight. The hall was heaving. But the ballroom’s downstairs and we watch the stairs and lift carefully. No one could have gone up to the rooms without being seen. The porters do lift duty and check guests’ room numbers, for security purposes.’

‘But someone could have left the building unobserved in the melee?’ Geraldine persisted.

‘Of course. There’s no reason why they couldn’t have done so. It was a function. People are always free to go in and out downstairs. But no one can go up to the rooms without being seen.’

‘But she’d have had to get back in again,’ Peterson pointed out. ‘We know she came downstairs to get to breakfast in the morning. How did she get back upstairs without being seen?’

‘What time did the guests leave?’

‘The function closed at midnight.’

‘So the hall would’ve been busy then?’

The manager frowned. ‘Look, Inspector, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I can assure you our security measures are second to none,’ he repeated.

‘It’s possible Sophie Cliff could have got in and out of the building on Saturday evening without being seen,’ Peterson said as they went back to the foyer, ‘but what about Monday night? Local CID checked the CCTV and they didn’t see her or anyone like her using the lift or the stairs.’

On their way out, Geraldine stopped to speak to a porter. ‘I wasn’t on duty on Monday,’ he said. ‘That would’ve been Bern. He’s not in today but he’ll be on duty tomorrow.’ Geraldine quizzed the old man for a while, but he couldn’t help. She wandered outside to think.

Peterson went over to the desk and chatted to the receptionist. ‘What about keys?’ he asked. ‘Can you check when a room’s occupied through the electronic keys?’