The Hanging in the Hotel (11 page)

‘It’s beautiful,’ said Carole. ‘I’m sure my son and his fiancée would like this.’

‘Getting married, are they?’ Ever the businesswoman, Suzy Longthorne picked up the cue. ‘We’ve had some wonderful weddings at Hopwicke House. If they were looking for
somewhere for the reception . . . If your prospective daughter-in-law’s local . . .’

‘No, I’m afraid she isn’t,’ said Carole, realizing she hadn’t a clue where Gaby lived. She’d assumed London, but she didn’t actually know. Nor did she
know where her prospective daughter-in-law might want to get married. Hopefully, such details would become clearer once she had lunched with the happy couple on Sunday week.

Carole was now faced with a dilemma. The hotel tour having ended, it was clearly her cue to leave, and she could do that. On the other hand, she felt she should take something back for Jude. So,
resorting to bad acting, she announced, ‘I’ve suddenly remembered. This must be the room where that poor young man died.’

Suzy was far too controlled to react violently, but her beautiful face hardened as she said, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I should explain. I’m a friend of Jude’s.’

‘Ah.’

‘She’s my next-door neighbour.’

‘Of course. Fethering. I’ve been to her house. What did she tell you?’

‘Just that there had been this . . . sad incident up here. I’d forgotten about it until . . . actually being in this room . . .’

The explanation sounded implausible even to Carole’s own ears, but Suzy did not pick up on it. Calmly, she said, ‘Yes, it was very unfortunate. I’m afraid that’s one of
the hazards of the hotel trade. Apart from the cases they’re carrying, you don’t know what other baggage your guests bring with them. Maybe the anonymity of a hotel room appeals to
people in that condition. Certainly doesn’t show much concern for others, but then I suppose suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness. Just as people who throw themselves under buses
don’t think of the effect of their actions on the driver and passengers, so the reactions of the staff are not uppermost in the mind of someone who chooses to end his life in a hotel
room.’ An expression of concern crossed Suzy’s face. ‘Jude is all right, is she? It must have been a terrible shock for her.’

‘She was a bit shaken, but she’s fine.’

‘Good.’

As she was escorted down the splendid staircase, Carole plucked up her courage and asked baldly, ‘There is no doubt that the death was suicide, is there?’

‘No,’ Suzy replied firmly. ‘No doubt at all. And, incidentally, Mrs Seddon . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I would be most grateful if you didn’t say anything about the young man’s death to your son – or indeed to anyone else. Word of mouth is so important in a profession
like mine. It would be very damaging for me if news of this unfortunate occurrence were to get around.’

As she nosed the Renault gently over the gravel of the Hopwicke House drive, Carole mulled over her recent conversation. Suzy Longthorne had certainly closed her mind to the
possibility that Nigel Ackford’s death had been anything other than suicide. And it looked as though the police shared that opinion. Surely, if they had any doubts on the matter, the
four-poster room would still be under forensic examination, not open to receive the next guest.

For a moment, Carole’s own conviction wavered. She had seen nothing untoward, she only had Jude’s suspicions to animate her own. And even Jude’s customary serenity had been
shaken by the shock of what she’d found. Maybe at such a time her responses weren’t entirely reliable.

These thoughts were interrupted by the blare of a hooter, suggesting the Renault was nearer the crown of the road than it should have been. As she steered closer to the hedge that lined the
lane, Carole was overtaken by a throatily roaring motorcycle, driven by a man in black leathers.

Clinging round his waist, a helmet crammed down over her blonde hair, was the unmistakable figure of Kerry Hartson.

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.

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.’

The emergency call came through at four. Four on a Saturday – Jude had a pretty good idea it would be Suzy Longthorne.

‘I’ve been let down again.’

‘What is it?’

‘Wedding reception.’

‘Who’ve you got?’

‘Max, obviously. The boy who insists on calling himself the
sous-chef
, and Stella. It’s one of the other girls who’s let me down. Well, not really let me down. Her
mother’s ill.’

‘And have you got Kerry?’

‘Oh yes, I’ve got Kerry. For what it’s worth.’

‘OK. I’ll get a cab.’

Suzy Longthorne’s own chequered marital history did not stop her from putting on a good wedding reception at Hopwicke House. In keeping with the new fashion for four
o’clock weddings, the guests would not arrive from the church before five-thirty, and by then Jude was neatly packaged in her Edwardian waitress kit, standing in the hallway with a tray of
champagne to greet the arrivals.

In this instance, the Edwardian theme had been picked up for the wedding itself. The men were dressed in frock-coats and the women in high-waisted long dresses with lots of buttons. This was
quite flattering to most of them, though not to the bride, who didn’t have a waist. Nor could a frock-coat be said to have done much for the groom, accentuating his shortness and making him
look like a cross between Groucho Marx and Toulouse-Lautrec.

But it was not the place of Jude or any of the other hotel staff to comment on such things. The whispered bitchiness of the assembled guests was quite sufficient.

Jude was surprised to find she recognized two of those guests. The father of the bride, it turned out, was none other than the president of the Pillars of Sussex, James Baxter. Her godfather was
Donald Chew. He was there with his wife, a small thin woman, who exuded disapproval of everything, particularly her husband.

Jude wondered whether the presence of the two men, and the family’s unwillingness to spoil the day’s celebrations, had anything to do with the perfunctory investigation of Nigel
Ackford’s death. Or indeed its hushing-up. An unnatural death in a hotel the week before a wedding reception might not be seen as the best omen for the future of a marriage.

She was determined to exploit the opportunity of her unexpected presence at Hopwicke House and speak to Kerry. There were a lot of questions she wanted to put to the girl about the night of
Nigel Ackford’s death. But the interrogation would have to wait. At the moment they were all too busy refilling champagne glasses and circulating the delicately delicious nibbles that Max
Townley and his
sous-chef
had produced.

The format for the reception was a merciful one, in that a decision had been made to have the speeches before the meal rather than after. This was welcomed by the groom and the best man, who
were among that large section of the community for whom public speaking ranks as a horror above noticing that the passenger in the seat next to you on a plane has plastic explosives strapped to his
body.

James Baxter, of course, with his wide experience of chairing Pillars of Sussex meetings, had no such inhibitions. He thought of himself as a natural public speaker.