No Going Back (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 7), page 5
“I’m going to inspect the Travellers this morning. Rathbone’s fiancée Katya manages the place. I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about her engagement party.”
She gives me a sigh that says I’m beyond redemption. “You’re determined to antagonise Rathbone, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I intend to do much more than that.”
Eleven
The Travellers is more hotel than public house. While tasteful gold letters spell out the name, suggesting class and quality, the fake Tudor beams and leaded windows with PVC frames can’t make the building look centuries old. Window boxes and hanging baskets burst with colourful annuals, but their brightness only accentuates the faded and weary banner that advertises Sky Sports. A modern three storey annex houses the hotel, which will soon have a new gym, sauna and swimming pool in the basement. Like the nightclub at the back of the pub, the pool will open out onto its own patio, offering views across the marshes to the coast.
The Travellers has something for everyone – including an outbreak of salmonella at a wedding reception a few years ago.
When I arrive at nine thirty, I settle back in the car and phone Kelly in the call centre. I have to wait a minute or two before her line is free. Despite her friendly greeting, she sounds wary when she hears my voice.
“Can you do me a favour, Kelly? I’ve arrived at the Travellers for a food hygiene inspection and I forgot to bring the premises file. Could you email me the inspection summary from the last visit?”
“I thought you were going to Tollingdon Community College.”
I’m pleased she’s checked my diary. “There’s going to be a grand opening of the new pool and gym at the Travellers the weekend after next,” I say, reading the huge sign in front of me. “Celebrities, several distinguished guests from the world of sport and leisure, and the mayor will be here. As the place is overdue an inspection, I thought I’d better make sure the standards are good. We don’t want anyone getting ill at the opening.”
“We’ve got a high volume of calls at the moment. I’m not your personal assistant.”
“I don’t mind waiting five minutes. Oh, and will you update my online diary to show I’ll be at the Travellers all morning? Thanks.”
I end the call, saddened to confirm my suspicions. Kelly should have referred me to Gemma. But Kelly needs to update Rathbone. She’ll be on the phone to him right now, telling him I’m at his pub. He’ll guess I’m here to talk to Katya about the engagement party. Will he tell his fiancée to say nothing or brief her to ensure their accounts tally? With only a few minutes to talk to her, it will be interesting to see which route he takes.
When the email arrives twelve minutes later, I’m confident Kelly’s spoken to Rathbone.
I grab my white coat and inspection folder and head inside. Two years ago, Mike and I came here to track down a dodgy mobile caterer. The rooms were wall to wall black with matching floors and ceilings. Now, the booths and partitions have gone, creating a large room that’s decorated in neutral tones to highlight the polished woodwork. Seating with plush, plum-coloured upholstery now lines the walls. Uplighters provide a softer glow than the former glare of plasma TV screens and gaming machines.
Like the Goth barmaid, the bar has been replaced.
A woman in a black suit and plum-coloured blouse walks through the swing door from the kitchen at the rear of the room. Her heels beat an aggressive rhythm on the bare boards as she approaches. Slim, with mahogany coloured hair, cut into a crisp bob, she has an air of self- confidence that’s intended to intimidate, like the ‘don’t mess with me’ look in her pale wolf eyes. What her welcoming smile lacks in sincerity, it makes up for with dazzling white teeth.
“We’ve been expecting you, Mr Fisher.”
“You have? And here I was, thinking I’d surprise you.”
“Thanks to Gregory’s keen interest in your work, we can calculate the date of the next inspection from the rating you gave us last time.”
If that’s the case she would know this inspection’s long overdue. Still, she speaks fluent bullshit, so we should get along well.
“Our new chef Terry will be here shortly. Can I get you a coffee while you wait?”
“If you’ll join me, Miss Novik.”
“It would be a pleasure to sit and explain all the improvements we’ve made since your last inspection, but I’m needed elsewhere. Terry’s best-placed to answer your questions.”
“Why, was he at your engagement party on Saturday, Katya?”
That stops her in her tracks. “No. Neither were you, Mr Fisher, but then you weren’t invited.”
“Neither was Harry Lawson and look what happened to him.”
Her forced smile can’t take the edge off the flash of anger in her eyes. “I understand he was an old friend of yours.”
I nod. “That’s why I’d like to find out what happened on Saturday evening.”
“Haven’t you already spoken to Gregory?”
“I understood he was upstairs when you first encountered Harry.”
Another forced smile. “I’ll organise coffee.”
“Decaff for me.”
She pulls out her mobile phone and orders coffee from the kitchen. She sits in the chair opposite me, her posture upright, her hands smoothing her skirt, allowing me a good look at her diamond cluster engagement ring. When there are no creases left in her skirt, she clasps her hands together and looks up.
“Mr Lawson was rude and aggressive. He was soaked to the skin, unsteady on his feet and he reeked of whisky, Mr Fisher. He stood there, staring at my breasts, but I’m used to that.”
She’s good. No wonder Rathbone fell for her, though I doubt if he had much say in the matter.
“As I explained to the police, Mr Fisher, I tried to calm Mr Lawson and take him into the study. He refused and accused me of recruiting illegal immigrants to work here.”
She pauses while a waiter walks over and sets a tray on the table. She makes no move to pour coffee. “Gregory came downstairs to deal with Mr Lawson. I returned to my bedroom.”
My bedroom – not ‘our’ bedroom.
“I was angry and upset, as I’m sure you can understand. That’s all I can tell you.”
“When did you become aware of Harry?”
“I came out of the kitchen and saw him making a nuisance of himself. As I said, I tried to get him into the study because he was upsetting my guests.”
Didn’t Rathbone say Harry made a beeline for Katya when she came out of the kitchen? “So,” I say, “Harry wasn’t aware of you until you confronted him.”
“Oh, he knew who I was.”
“And then Gregory came down and took Harry into the study.”
“Now, let me get this right.” She thinks for a few moments. “I persuaded Mr Lawson to go into the study and wait for Gregory. I didn’t see Mr Lawson again until he was found in the pool.”
I nod, though I doubt if it happened the way she said. Rathbone said he saw Harry make a beeline for Katya when she came out of the kitchen. Rathbone also said he found Harry slumped in a chair in the study.
So did Katya take him into the study or did Rathbone?
Maybe Harry was already in the study.
“You were in the kitchen before you confronted Harry,” I say. “Is it close to the study?”
“They’re next door to each other. Why do you ask?”
I look straight into her eyes. “I wondered whether you spotted Harry in the study, looking around,” I say, my tone casual. “Reporters like to nose around, don’t they?”
Her hands smooth her skirt once more.
I smile. “Maybe you spotted him coming out of the study.”
“I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I’ve told you what happened. The police have my written statement. And before you pester me with more questions, I didn’t see your friend again after I went to my bedroom.”
“You weren’t there when Harry was discovered in the pool?”
She rises and looks down at me with a sneer. “Are you asking me for an alibi, Mr Fisher? Maybe you’d like to check my passport to see if I’m an illegal immigrant, as Mr Lawson suggested.”
“I meant no offence, Miss Novik. I’m simply trying to find out what happened to my friend.”
“Your friend was drunk. When Gregory threw him out he got into the back garden and fell into the swimming pool.”
“Thank you for your time. I know you have a lot to do, what with the opening of your new gym and swimming pool. I’d love to take a look after I’ve finished in the kitchen.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“We need to add it to our pool water sampling programme, that's all.”
“There won’t be any water to sample unless the contractors resolve the fault with the filtration system.”
“You don’t seem to be having much luck with swimming pools, do you?”
“Please report to Chef when you finish your inspection.” She strides away, calling over her shoulder. “I have nothing further to say to you.”
I reach for the pot of coffee, sensing she’s already said more than she intended.
Twelve
The beefy chef walks into the dining area. Small and built like a bull, he has a shaven head, tattoos on his forearms, but the cleanest whites I’ve seen since I pressed mine this morning. He looks me over like a steak he wants to tenderise. His handshake almost crushes my hand.
“Terry Phelan,” he says in a scouse accent. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr Fisher, because I’ve found a body in the freezer.”
While I’ve lost count of the number of chefs who’ve found bodies in freezers, his laughter’s infectious and not what I expected. I could say the same for the large, open plan kitchen. Gone are the old units, the rusty cookers and dented stainless steel worktops I found on my last inspection. The grey tiles with dirty grouting have transformed into white plastic cladding that runs from floor to ceiling, covering every wall. From fridges and freezers to dry goods store, to preparation areas and wash up, everything is top quality and more than compliant with the law.
It takes less than an hour to complete the inspection and examine records. When we squeeze into Terry’s tiny office, the only question marks involve the food handlers and their training and knowledge.
“Most of them speak some English,” he says, shuffling into his chair. “Mind you, I’m one to talk with my accent.”
I sit opposite on a chair that creaks ominously. His desk looks like it fell off the back of a lorry, travelling at speed. Among the manuals, folders and boxes of antibacterial hand wash, there’s only enough room for an old laptop. More boxes, stacked on the floor, contain disposable gloves, hairnets and paper caps. He stretches across to a bookcase filled with manuals, ledgers and trade magazines. He extracts a ring binder, which he passes to me.
“Kat trains them, but they don’t stay long, which is why there are so many records.”
“What do you do if there’s a problem with communication?”
“To be honest, you only need to show the people once and they get on with it. They don’t talk much either, which is great. I don’t know where they come from, but they’re grafters.”
I hand the binder back and pull out the pad with my report forms. “I’m impressed, Terry. You must enjoy working here.”
“Kat’s a great boss. She’s demanding, but fair. She works longer hours than the rest of us and I can’t remember the last time she had a day off. She expects everything to be right and she doesn’t tolerate slackers or mistakes.”
“Yes, I can imagine she’s difficult to please.”
“Kat’s not had it easy,” he says, his tone suggesting he’s rather taken with Katya. “She was raped by the people who brought her and her sister to England. Instead of the promised job in a swanky Brighton hotel, she was forced into the sex trade. She lost her child, got separated from her sister, and was beaten if she stepped out of line or tried to escape. But Gregory Rathbone rescued her and here she is, transforming his business.”
“That’s some story.”
“She’s some woman. She deserves a top hygiene rating, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’ve earned it, Terry. I’ll complete the details upstairs if that’s okay. Were you here when the new kitchen was fitted?”
“No, I’ve only worked here for six months, but Kat leaves me to it. She lets me adapt the menu and create new dishes, especially for weddings and parties.”
“Did you do the catering for her engagement party?”
“Only the finger buffet. I prepared it here and took it over to the house. Now that’s a grand place. Have you seen it?”
“Only from the outside.”
He laughs. “Aye, Kat’s housekeeper is harder to get past than a doctor’s receptionist. Vera she’s called – Vera Slater. When I arrived at the gates, she refused to let me in because I didn’t look like any chef she’d ever met. I had to call Kat to get through. Then Vera refused to let us take the food through the house. We had to go through a gate and through the back garden. Nice swimming pool and Jacuzzi,” he says, reaching for his phone. “I took a photo on the way out.”
“I hear someone fell into in the pool,” I say, studying the photo.
“That’s why Kat didn’t want me to go over and collect anything,” he says, as if everything makes sense now. “I thought it was Vera, being awkward. She got the right hump when I had a nosy at the pool, telling me I was holding up Green-Fingered Glen, who needed to mow the lawn.”
“He’s the gardener, right?”
“He’s not keen on Mrs Slater either. She checks his work like Hercule Poirot before she’ll open the gate so he can leave.”
“Does she control all the gates?”
“She controls the days you can visit. She’s in charge of housekeeping here at the hotel three days a week. That leaves two days at the house when Glen can do the garden. He tried to change his days to avoid her, but no luck.”
When the sous chef beckons him, I head upstairs. Without prompting, a cup of tea arrives, brought by the same waiter as before. He hurries away before I can strike up a conversation. Hearing a ride-on lawnmower outside, I walk over to the window and spot Green-Fingered Glen’s van close by. Though tempted to talk to him, I make a note of his mobile number. Back in my seat I consider what Terry told me.
If Vera Slater locked the gate after Glen finished his work last Saturday, how did Harry Lawson get into the garden?
Who unlocked the gate for him?
If only Vera Slater, Rathbone and Katya have keys to the gate, one of them must have allowed Harry to access the garden last Saturday. While this leads to some interesting conjecture, I wonder if someone made a copy of the key.
Hearing the lawn mower once more, I realise there may be another way into the garden.
I hurry around the back of the Travellers and stop beside Glen’s van. He waves when he notices me and pulls up on his ride-on mower a few moments later. I hold up my badge and raise my voice to be heard above the sound of the engine. “I understand you look after Gregory Rathbone’s garden.”
He removes his baseball cap to reveal a sweating bald head. “What of it?”
“Terry Phelan suggested I had a word with you.”
Glen, whose fingers are more nicotine yellow than green, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “I only cut the grass and tidy the borders.”
“How do you get your ride on mower into the garden? It’s too big to fit through the gate at the side of the house.”
“Well spotted. Why do you want to know?”
“A friend of mine had an accident on Saturday evening.”
“You mean the reporter who drowned in the pool?”
“How do you know he was a reporter?”
“He asked me the same question you just did.”
I glance at my watch. “Do you want to break for lunch so we can talk?”
He puts the cap back on his head. “I’ve got grass to mow.”
“Can you tell me how you get your lawn mower into the back garden?”
“I don’t. I use Mr Rathbone’s mower. It’s similar to this one.”
“How did he get his mower into the garden?” I ask, sensing I know the answer already.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
Unwilling to admit defeat, I try a different angle. “Is there another way into the back garden?”
“Reporter asked me that too.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I suggested he rang the doorbell.”
He takes a final draw on his cigarette and flicks it away.
Back at my car, I glance across at the hotel annexe, weighing up my chances of speaking to Vera Slater. If she helped Harry get into the back garden, she might feel anxious now he’s dead. He had a way with women when he turned on the charm. They seemed to gravitate towards him, keen to listen to his exaggerated stories and escapades as a hunt saboteur. Being a reporter for the Tollingdon Tribune helped. He specialised in lifestyle features, which meant free tickets for shows and galleries, offers of meals from restaurants and an easy way to entertain women.
He also ensured our activities to disrupt hunts received good coverage.
Did Harry charm Vera Slater?
When Katya strides out of the hotel, looking like she’s ready to kick someone, I climb into my car. I’m already going to get enough grief from Rathbone when she tells him about the conversation we had. I won’t compound it by demanding to inspect the hotel.
Vera Slater will keep. I don’t want to talk to her here – or at Rathbone’s home for that matter. That’s assuming she’ll talk to me. If she trained at the Green-Fingered Glen school of public relations, I may as well quit now.
I need a backup plan.
I’m halfway to Wartling when I realise Adrian Peach at the Argus could help me. As a colleague and a reporter, he may know what Harry was working on.
Stopping in the layby near the entrance to Herstmonceux Castle, I ring Adrian. He’ll be delighted to learn I’m investigating Harry’s death, but for all the wrong reasons.
