He turned from the beach and found a phonebox on The Esplanade. It was eleven o’clock. Would he be in? He put his phonecard in and punched in the number Brian shared with the other students in the house. It started to ring.
“Hello?”
A strange voice. He asked for Brian, said it was his father.
“Just a minute,” the voice mumbled.
He waited, tapping his fingers against the glass, and after a few moments Brian came on the line.
“Dad! What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m just down the coast from you and I wanted to say hello. How are you doing?” Banks felt choked, hearing Brian’s voice. He wasn’t sure his words came out right.
“I’m fine,” Brian answered.
“How’s college?”
“Oh, you know. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Look, are you sure there’s nothing wrong? Mum’s okay, isn’t she?”
“I told you, everything’s all right. It’s just that I won’t be able to make the time to drop by and I thought, well, being so close, I’d just give you a ring.”
“Is it a case?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Are you still there, Dad?”
“Of course I am. When are you coming up to visit us again?”
“I’ll be up at Christmas. Hey, I’ve met some really great people down here. They play music and all. There’s this one guy, we’re going to form a band, and he’s been playing some great blues for me. You ever heard of Robert Johnson? Muddy Waters?”
Banks smiled to himself and sighed. If Brian had ever taken the trouble to examine his collection — and of course, no teenager would be seen dead sharing his father’s taste in music — he would have found not only the aforementioned, but Little Walter, Bessie Smith and Big Bill Broonzy, among several dozen others.
“Yes, I’ve heard of them,” he said. “I’m glad you’re having a good time. Look, keep in touch. Your mother says you don’t write often enough.”
“Sorry. There’s really a lot of work to do. But I’ll try to do better, promise.”
“You do. Look—”
His time ran out and he didn’t have another card. Just a few more seconds to say hurried goodbyes, then the electronic insect sound of a dead line. When he put the phone down and started walking back to the hotel, Banks felt empty. Why was it always like that? he wondered. You call someone you love on the phone, and when you’ve finished talking, all you feel is the bloody distance between you. Time to try sleep, perhaps, after a little music. Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care. Some hope.
THIRTEEN
I
Hotel or bed and breakfast, it didn’t seem to make much difference with regard to the traditional English breakfast, thought Gristhorpe the following morning. Of course, there was more choice at the Mellstock Hotel than there would be in a typical B and B, but no one in his right mind would want to start the day with a “continental” breakfast — a stale croissant and a gob of strawberry jam in a plastic container. As it was, Banks sat struggling over a particularly bony kipper while Gristhorpe stuck to bacon and eggs and wished he hadn’t. Between them, they shared a rack of cold toast and a pot of weak instant coffee.
Gristhorpe felt grumpy. He hadn’t slept well; the mattress had been too soft, and his back was bothering him. The breakfast didn’t help either, he realized, feeling the onset of heartburn.
“I dropped in at the hotel bar for a nightcap yesterday,” he said, pushing the plate aside and pouring more coffee. “Thought I might be able to get something out of the regulars.”
“And?” asked Banks, pulling a bone from the corner of his mouth.
“Nothing much. There’s a couple from Wolverhampton staying the week, and they said the Barlows, as they called themselves, were in once or twice. Always pleasant. You know, nodded and said hello, but never got into any conversations. The missis thought they were a honeymoon couple.”
“You know,” said Banks, “he’s really starting to get on my nerves, Chivers. He turns up somewhere, goes around smiling like Mr Clean, and people die.”
“What do you expect?”
“It’s just his bloody nerve. It’s as if he’s challenging us, playing catch-me-if-you-can.”
“Aye, I know what you mean,” said Gristhorpe, with a scowl. “And we won’t catch him sitting here picking at this fine English cuisine. Come on.” He pushed his plate away and stood up abruptly, leaving Banks to follow suit.
The hotel manager had provided a small room on the ground floor for them to conduct interviews. First, they read over the statements that DI Loder and his men had taken from the hotel staff, then asked to see Meg Wayne, the chambermaid.
She looked no older than fourteen or fifteen, a frightened schoolgirl with her uniform and starched cap that couldn’t quite contain her abundant golden hair. She had a pale, clear complexion, and with a couple of red spots on her cheeks, Gristhorpe thought, she could probably pass herself off as one of Tess’s milkmaid friends in Hardy’s book. Her Dorset burr was even more pronounced than Loder’s, her voice soft and surprisingly low.
“Mr Ballard, the manager, said I could take the day off,” she said, “but I don’t see the point, do you? I mean, the rooms need doing every day no matter what happens, and I could certainly do with the money.”
“Still,” said Gristhorpe, “it must have been a shock?”
“Oh yes. I’ve never seen a dead body before. Only on telly, like.”
“Tell us what you saw yesterday, Meg.”
“We-ell, I opens the door as usual, and as soon as I does I knows something’s wrong.”
“Were the curtains open?”
“Part way. Enough to see by.”
“And the window?”
“Open a bit. It was chilly.” She fiddled with a set of room keys on her lap as she spoke.
“Did you go into the room?”
“Not right in. I just stood in the doorway, like, and I could see her there on the bed, with her head all covered up.”
“Tell me exactly what you saw,” said Gristhorpe. He knew that people tend to embellish on what they have observed. He also wanted to be certain that Loder and his SOCO team had restored the room to the way it had been when Meg opened the door. He grimaced and rubbed his stomach; the heartburn was getting worse.
“It looked like just twisted sheets at first,” she said, “but then, when my eyes grew more accustomed, I could tell it was someone under there. A shape.” She blushed and looked down at her lap. “A woman’s shape. And the pillow was over her head, so I knew she was… dead.”
“It’s all right, Meg,” said Gristhorpe. “I know it’s upsetting. We won’t be much longer.”
Meg nodded and took a deep breath.
“Did you see the woman’s face?”
“No. No, I just knew it was a woman by the outline of the sheets.”
“Did you disturb anything in the room?”
“Nothing. Like I told Mr Loder, I ran straight off to Mr Ballard and he sent for the police. That’s God’s honest truth, sir.”
“I believe you,” said Gristhorpe. “We just have to make certain. You must have been upset. Maybe there’s something you forgot?”
“No, sir.”
“All right. Did you ever see the people who were staying in that room?”
“Not as far as I know. I don’t see many guests, sir. I have to do my job when they’re out.”
“Of course. Now think, Meg, try to remember, was there anything else about the scene that struck you at the time?”