The Festival Murders Page 6

  ‘That’s fine.’ She took the tumbler from him and drained it in one.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She grimaced. ‘He’s left us all right.’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘I’ve only ever seen one dead body before. My granddad. It’s the same as it was then. Everything’s there, all the things you recognise: the mouth, the hands. But they’re not there.’

  ‘I know what you mean. The spirit’s gone.’

  ‘And yet, there’s still the bit of stubble on his chin he missed shaving yesterday. It’s just so weird.’

  And the love bite, Francis thought; but he didn’t mention that.

  Outside in the road beneath the window, they heard a vehicle stopping suddenly. Blue light flashed on the ivory brocade curtains. ‘Hey ho,’ he said. ‘Looks like one of the emergency services.’ He went to the window. ‘Ambulance.’ He watched as the crew of two, in bulky fluorescent yellow jackets, climbed out of their cab and approached the front door of the hotel: a squat woman with dark hair and a skinny, older guy with a shaved head and a neat white beard.

  Two minutes later Francis heard them pass in the corridor.

  ‘You want to go back up there?’ he asked.

  Priya shook her head.

  ‘They’ll have to run through their standard checks. I might go and see what’s happening, if that’s OK with you.’

  Up in Room 29, Francis found the pair leaning over the body. The female technician had a hand on Bryce’s pulse. ‘Zilch,’ she said, turning. ‘I’m afraid he’s a goner.’

  ‘This is the gentleman that was one of the first on the scene,’ said Cathy, who was watching from a few feet away, a finger pressed to her lips.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said the female technician. ‘He wasn’t a friend of yours, I hope?’

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘I met him for the first time last night.’

  ‘He’s beyond anyone’s help now. There’s nothing for us to do here except move the body. And we can’t do that till the police have been and we’ve got the doctor’s certificate.’

  ‘So what d’you reckon happened?’ asked Francis.

  ‘Looks like a heart attack to me. At a guess, eh, Phil?’

  ‘Yep,’ her colleague agreed.

  ‘But a pretty severe one, because it doesn’t look as if he had time to call for help. Sudden cardiac death is the technical term for it. I expect the police’ll want a thorough look-see though.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Cathy.

  ‘Youngish fellow like this. You know, they might want to check for der-rugs.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Coh-caine. Ecstasy. Ketamine. Down from London for the book festival, was he?’

  ‘Certainly was,’ said Francis. ‘A distinguished literary critic.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  Way down the corridor a bell rang. ‘Front door,’ said Cathy. ‘That’ll be Dr Webster now, I expect. Or the police. I’ll go.’

  ‘We’ll stick around shall we, Phil? See what they’ve got to say.’

  ‘Yep.’

  There was a slightly awkward silence. Francis paced quietly across the room. Priya’s party dress and tights were slung loosely over one of the chairs. While she’d been up here, she had also turned the laptop off at the mains and – he noticed with a lurch – the pillow chocolate on her side of the bed was gone.

  Cathy returned with a short, red-faced man with unkempt grey hair. ‘This is Roger Webster, our local GP.’

  ‘Morning, everyone. Now what have we got here?’ The doctor approached the body on the bed and put his black case down. ‘Any loved ones present? No. OK then. We can all relax.’ Putting his hand around Bryce’s right wrist, he turned to the ambulance crew. ‘You’re not going to be wanting to rush him off to A&E, I shouldn’t imagine?’

  ‘No, doc.’

  ‘No,’ he said, after ten seconds or so. ‘I fear it’s all over for our friend here. At a glance I’d say a coronary. Then again, he does look very peaceful, doesn’t he?’

  He reached down and pulled back one of the eyelids. ‘A little bloodshot. Hm,’ he muttered, when he’d examined the other eye.

  ‘Significant?’ asked Francis.

  ‘I doubt it. Probably just tired. I see he had contact lenses. Maybe some irritation from them.’

  ‘Aren’t red eyes a symptom of suffocation?’ asked Francis.

  Dr Webster gave him a sharp, surprised look. ‘They certainly are. Also, for the record, conjunctivitis, uveitis and Sjögren’s syndrome. But in the case of suffocation, you would generally expect the eyes to be open. More to the point – what’s this?’ He was peering at the bruise on Bryce’s cheek. ‘Looks like he might have been in a scuffle of some kind.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been responsible, would it?’ asked Francis.

  ‘For his death? I very much doubt it. Not directly, anyway.’ Dr Webster had reached the love bite. ‘Now here’s an interesting-looking flesh wound.’ He chuckled. ‘Am I right to assume there’s a woman in the case?’

  ‘His girlfriend’s in my room. Down the corridor.’

  ‘Lively lady, is she?’

  ‘Quite a bit younger. Like twenty, twenty-five years.’

  ‘Very nice. That may explain a good deal. I hope he wasn’t over-exerting himself.’

  ‘Not last night, no. She was out at a party. Came back and found him like this.’

  ‘That’s what she told you, anyway.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘If she said she did, I’m sure she did. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen this kind of thing, believe me. Poor girl. Don’t suppose she’ll be going for the father figure again in a hurry. Well, the autopsy will reveal all. Though I imagine the police will want the coroner’s officer out here. Before we can move him –’

  He was interrupted by the doorbell, ringing again way down the corridor.

  ‘That’ll be the police now, I expect,’ said Cathy. She slipped out through the door. Dr Webster, Francis and the ambulance crew were left with the corpse.

  ‘Up in town for the festival, was he?’ the doctor asked, after a moment.

  ‘Certainly was,’ said Francis. ‘I was just telling our friends here, he’s one of the country’s leading book critics.’

  ‘Name of?’

  ‘Bryce Peabody. Literary editor of the Sentinel?’

  ‘Never heard of him. Sorry. But then I can’t say I ever read the Sentinel, so why would I have done. More of a Telegraph man myself. But the Sentinel sponsor the festival, don’t they?’

  ‘They do. Bryce was due to give their keynote talk this afternoon.’

  ‘They’re going to miss out on his pearls of wisdom now.’

  Heavy boots up the stairs announced the arrival of the constabulary: a lumbering, ginger-haired twenty-something with round wire specs accompanied by a bright-eyed blonde. Cathy was behind them. What was that saying about getting old? You knew it was happening when the policemen started to look young. To Francis, this pair hardly looked grown-up enough to have left school, let alone be coming out to remote hotels in the small hours to check on dead bodies.

  ‘Morning,’ said the PC, a little stiffly. He approached the bed and stared at the recumbent Bryce for several long seconds.

  ‘This is our local doctor, Dr Webster,’ said Cathy. ‘Who’s just been examining him.’ She handed him a mug. ‘There’s your coffee, Roger.’

  ‘Thanks.’ The GP took a long swig, then let out a satisfied sigh.

  The policeman turned. ‘Beyond your help, by the look of him.’

  ‘I’m afraid he is.’

  ‘Hotel guest, was he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I’d imagine he would be, Stuart,’ said the WPC. ‘Since he’s in a hotel room.’

  PC Stuart nodded, unsmiling. ‘You got his name?’ he asked, pulling out a notebook.

  ‘He’s a Mr Peabody,’ said Cathy. ‘Bryce Peabody.’

  ‘Brice,’ said the constable, pen poised. ‘Never heard
that one before. Is that an “i” then, in Brice?’

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘A “y”. B-r-y-c-e.’

  ‘On his own, was he?’

  ‘No,’ said Francis. ‘He had his girlfriend with him.’

  ‘As you can see from the female clothing,’ said the WPC. ‘Lying all over the place. Also the love bite on his neck.’

  PC Stuart ignored this. ‘And where is she?’

  ‘We took her along to my room. I thought you’d want this place left as untouched as possible.’

  ‘And who are you, sir?’

  ‘I’m a fellow hotel guest. Staying just down the corridor. I was woken by the screams.’

  ‘The screams?’

  ‘Of his girlfriend coming back and finding him. She’d been out at a party and returned in the small hours.’

  ‘What time was that then?’

  ‘Just after four o’clock,’ said Cathy. ‘I had to get out of bed and let her in to the hotel, because she’d been given the wrong front door key. Five minutes later there was this unholy yelling.’

  The PC turned to Francis. ‘So you came straight up here, did you, sir? When you heard these screams?’

  ‘I only got as far as the corridor. The young lady had collapsed on the stairs. Then Cathy here appeared, and quite a few other hotel guests who’d also been woken.’

  ‘And where did they go?’

  ‘We sent them back to bed and took Priya into my room.’

  ‘Priya. That’s the girlfriend’s name, is it?’

  ‘Yes. P-r-i-y-a.’

  ‘Not heard that one before either.’

  ‘It’s Asian,’ said Francis. ‘Of Asian origin anyway.’

  ‘I see,’ said the PC. He noted this down too. Then he turned back to Dr Webster and the ambulance crew. ‘What d’you reckon this is then? Heart attack?’

  ‘Looks very much like it,’ said the doctor. He chuckled again. ‘Unless he’s been poisoned by a rare South American plant extract that no one’s ever heard about.’

  ‘You think he might have been poisoned?’

  ‘No, bad taste joke, sorry. It’s almost certainly a heart attack. Or possibly a brain event. Both would be consistent with his facial expression which, as you can see, shows no alarm, no indication that he was consciously aware that anything was wrong.’

  ‘And what about this bruise?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have killed him. My guess is that it was sustained earlier.’

  ‘So you’re saying there’s no chance of him being poisoned?’ said the PC.

  The doctor looked despairingly across from the PC towards Francis and Cathy and back again.

  ‘I can’t say there’s no chance. It’s also possible he was strangled. By a very expert murderer. Using a silk scarf which has left no obvious mark.’

  ‘You think he might have been strangled?’

  ‘Please, constable. The point I’m trying to make is – no, I don’t think he was either poisoned or strangled. If there was, by any remote chance, foul play, it would most likely be suffocation.’

  ‘You think he might have been suffocated?’

  ‘No! I’m ninety per cent sure he had a heart attack – a myocardial infarction, if you want to get technical. Though obviously I can’t rule anything out until we’ve had an autopsy.’

  ‘And in the meantime we have to decide whether to call in CID.’ The constable looked back over his notes. ‘Shall we have a word with the girlfriend now, Wendy?’

  ‘Let’s do that.’

  ‘Might not be a bad idea for me to see that she’s all right too,’ said the doctor.

  ‘We’ll just have a quick chat with her first, sir, if you don’t mind,’ said the PC.

  ‘As you see fit. We’ll wait here, shall we?’

  ‘Unless there’s another room you could all go to,’ said the PC. ‘We may need to seal this one off shortly.’

  At Cathy’s suggestion, Dr Webster, the ambulance crew and Francis repaired downstairs to the little guest lounge that backed onto the terrace, where newspapers lay scattered on a central table and a chess board was set up ready for play between two straight-backed, green velour armchairs.

  ‘Tea or coffee anyone?’ Cathy asked.

  ‘Why on earth did I say all that about him being poisoned or strangled,’ said the doctor, when she’d gone. ‘I might have known that idiot would take me literally. Now he’s going to want to cover his arse and call in CID. The body’ll be here for days.’

  Cathy arrived with mugs of tea and a fine array of biscuits: shortbreads and chocolate Bourbons; round Jammie Dodgers and Rich Tea. Ambulanceman Phil munched his way silently through no less than three Bourbons. A little later, the two PCs had joined them.

  ‘We’ve spoken to the young lady and we’ve decided to call in CID,’ said the constable. ‘So we’ll be sealing off the deceased’s room in a minute. I’ll remain up there until they arrive.’

  Cathy was trying hard to conceal her disappointment. ‘D’you really think that’s necessary?’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve got to follow procedures,’ said the PC.

  ‘What about Priya?’ asked Francis. ‘It is her room too.’

  ‘She won’t be able to go back in there now,’ said the PC.

  Francis turned to Cathy. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve got any spare capacity this weekend, have you?’

  ‘Completely fully booked. I’ve even got someone in the box room, which is where we put people in emergencies.’

  ‘She’d better stay with me,’ Francis said, ‘for the time being. I can sleep on the sofa. Could you provide us with some bedding?’

  Ten minutes later the ambulance crew had gone. Dr Webster had examined Priya and found her to be in shock, but coping fine. Now she sat on Francis’s sofa, lit from one side by the early sunshine, sipping a freshly made cup of Tetley’s green tea.

  NINE

  ‘So what did they say to you?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Oh, just as you’d imagine. How had I found him? Where had I been? All that sort of thing.’

  ‘You were at that party in the country house, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Bryce came out too, for a bit. But he was tired and wanted to come back. I should have left with him. But, you know, it was a beautiful evening and it’s an amazing place. Spreading lawns and hedges clipped like giant birds and animals. I was having a good time. Then I got involved in a stupid argument with an ex who’s staying out there. I had a drink to cheer myself up and the next thing I knew it was one in the morning and all the taxis had stopped. They don’t do them after midnight in Mold, apparently.’

  ‘Even during the festival?’

  ‘As I said to one of the girls, they need a few immigrants up here. With a bit of a work ethic.’

  Francis laughed. She was offering some racial solidarity, but also probing gently; he’d pass on all that for the time being.

  ‘So how did you get back?’

  Priya explained about the Australian girl; about Rory’s attack and their escape in the dawn.

  ‘And when you got up to the room?’

  ‘I let myself in, very quietly, so as not to wake Bryce. I saw him lying there, you know, Oh, Bryce is asleep. I was just starting to undress when I realised he wasn’t snoring. Which is unusual for Bryce. Then it dawned on me that he wasn’t making any noise at all. So I ran over and saw that he wasn’t breathing. I pulled back the duvet and there he was, just sprawled out.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis.

  ‘For a moment I thought he might be unconscious. So I slapped him.’

  ‘On the cheek?’

  ‘Yes, hard, two or three times.’

  ‘It wasn’t you that gave him that bruise, was it?’

  ‘No, that was already there. Then his head lolled over and I knew he was dead. That’s when I freaked out and ran away.’

  ‘Which is when I found you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Priya had kicked off her flat leopardskin pumps and her bare feet were sunk into the beige carpet. The n
ails of her long toes were painted a shiny crimson. ‘What will happen now, d’you think?’ she asked.

  ‘They’ve called in CID,’ Francis replied, ‘so probably some kind of duty detective will come out and make another judgement. They’re covering themselves basically. Couple of young PCs, three, four, five years on the clock, they don’t want to make a mistake. If our GP friend hadn’t started going on about poisonings, they might have left it for the coroner.’

  ‘How come you know about all this?’

  ‘Police procedure?’ Francis smiled. ‘I’m a crime writer. For my sins.’

  ‘Oh. I see. So do you think it’s possible, that somebody might have’ – Priya looked up and met his eye – ‘done something?’

  ‘Anything’s possible, Priya. That’s what the professionals in the world of crime always end up saying. I personally think it’s unlikely. Bryce was a literary critic. It wasn’t as if he were a drug dealer in his spare time, was he?’

  ‘Not that he ever told me about.’

  ‘Or an immensely rich man with penurious relatives who stood to be set up for life by his will?’

  ‘Not immensely rich, no.’

  ‘He had money?’

  Priya shrugged. ‘More than he liked to let on. His dad was some kind of Midlands building magnate. When he died, Bryce came into quite a bit. And he’ll come into much more when his mother goes.’ She closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. He would have come into much more … I’m not very good at this, am I?’

  ‘You’re still in shock, Priya. Take your time.’

  ‘If you’re a literary type you don’t boast about money, though, do you? I mean, the thing to be is as broke and bohemian as everyone else. Although obviously you are allowed to live in a beautiful house.’

  ‘Which he did?’

  ‘Up in Hampstead, in a leafy street just off the Heath. And then he had this bachelor flat in Bloomsbury he kept on as an office.’

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘To the flat, yes, of course. I only ever went to the house once. Every summer he threw a bash in the garden. For the literary world and assorted extras. You’d see them there, all the big names.’

  ‘Even though he regularly damned their work?’

  ‘That’s the funny thing about that scene. They lay into each other in print and then six months later you see them chatting away merrily at a party. Secretly, I think they’re all suckers for punishment. But Bryce was pretty canny. He never went for the really successful ones – at least if they were still up there. He waited till there was a whisper against someone, then got his strike in quick. That’s the truth about him, despite his reputation for fearlessness.’