I think.’
‘And did they immediately question all the guests?’
‘They had all gone by then. Had breakfast, checked out by ten-thirty.’
‘Who were they again? You did tell me.’
‘The Pillars of Sussex.’
Carole made a face. ‘Oh yes, I have heard of them. Some kind of back-scratching organization for local businessmen, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And this poor young . . . you know, the one who died . . . was he a member?’
‘A guest. But he seemed quite excited at the prospect of becoming a member.’
‘Hm. Lucky for your friend Suzy’ – Carole was incapable of saying the name without the preface of ‘your friend’ – ‘that all the guests had gone before the news broke.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Well, it’s the kind of thing you’d want to keep as quiet as possible. You’re hardly going to advertise a suicide in the hotel brochure, are you?’
‘No.’ Jude was preoccupied, still uncharacteristically subdued. Her mind was full.
‘Though there’s no way it won’t get out soon enough,’ Carole went on. ‘People gossip. The hotel staff are bound to talk.’
‘I don’t know that they will. Suzy commands a lot of respect. So if she asks them not to tell . . .’
‘I doubt if even Suzy Longthorne’s fabled charms could stop this getting out.’ The resentment was back in Carole’s voice.
‘No. Probably not.’
‘Did the police speak to the staff?’
‘Yes. A quick word with each of us individually; then they’ll follow up.’
‘Have they closed the hotel down?’
‘I’m not sure what’s happening. There aren’t any bookings for the next couple of nights. Some at the weekend – a wedding reception and quite a lot of people staying over. By then I would imagine they’d have completed any investigations they’re going to make.’
‘Hm. Well, that’s very sad. Horrible shock for you . . . and a terrible waste of a young life.’ Carole reckoned she had shown an adequate amount of sympathy, and could move the conversation on. ‘I actually had some rather surprising news. From Stephen, my—’
But she got no further. Jude was on her feet, looking out of the window. A car was parking outside Woodside Cottage.
‘It’s the police. I’d better go and let them in.’
Carole’s face set in an expression of frustration.
There was an apologetic fastidiousness about Detective Inspector Goodchild, as if he would rather have been doing any job other than his own, and actually regretted the necessity of dealing with criminal matters. He was tall, and his pale grey pin-striped suit reinforced his image of pained decency. His sidekick, Detective Sergeant Fallon, was either awestruck by the presence of his senior or silent by nature. Beyond a ‘Hello again’ on arrival, he didn’t speak during the interview.
‘Once more, I’m very sorry to have to take you through all this, Miss—’
‘Jude, Inspector. Everyone calls me Jude.’
‘Right. Well, Jude, I’m aware you’ve had an unpleasant experience, so I will try not to dwell on it, but there are of course certain details . . .’
‘I understand.’
‘In any case of an unnatural death – particularly a suicide, we—’
‘Are you sure it is a suicide?’
The Inspector smiled indulgently. ‘Jude, I know you expressed doubts back at the hotel, and I can assure you we will be investigating every angle. The verdict of the cause of death will have to wait for the inquest.’
‘When’s that likely to be?’
‘Within the week. The preliminary inquest, anyway.’
Jude was alerted by the adjective. ‘Oh?’
Patiently, Inspector Goodchild explained. ‘It’s entirely possible we won’t have gathered all our evidence together by then. The coroner may well adjourn the inquest to give us time.’
‘And that’s when you’ll get your suicide verdict?’
He smiled the smile of someone accustomed to recalcitrant and emotional witnesses. ‘Jude, I’m sorry. I simply used the word “suicide” for convenience. It looks like a suicide, but I suppose, until the coroner’s verdict, I should really be saying “apparent suicide”. Would you be happy if I referred to the unfortunate incident as “the death”?’
‘I don’t mind what you call it, so long as you haven’t made up your minds about what happened.’
‘Of course not. That would be very unprofessional for people in our job.’ This made her feel even more patronized. ‘Now, I think we’ve got the details of how you discovered Mr Ackford’s body this morning – though, if any other recollections come to you, we would be most grateful to hear them.’
He reached into the inside pocket of his smart suit for a card. ‘While I think of it, this has got my numbers on it. The mobile, the office . . . I’m based in Worthing, so if there’s anything you wish to communicate, don’t hesitate . . .’ She took the card, while the Inspector went on, ‘I’d like to talk, Jude, if I may, about the conversation you had with the deceased in the early hours of this morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘You say Mr Ackford was very drunk.’
‘Extremely. They’d all drunk a lot right through the evening.’
‘Ah yes.’ Detective Inspector Goodchild smiled fondly. ‘Always enjoy their drink, the Pillars of Sussex.’
Something in his manner alerted Jude. He seemed to know all about the association. Was it even possible he was a member? Had someone from the group already been in touch? Had someone pointed out how awkward it might be for the Pillars of Sussex to be contaminated by the merest whiff of scandal? They had a lot of local influence, which might easily reach up to the highest echelons of the West Sussex Constabulary.
But she didn’t vocalize her suspicion. ‘Nigel Ackford was singing. He wasn’t a maudlin drunk, not self-pitying and self-hating. He was cheerful.’
‘So you’re saying that’s a reason why he was unlikely to have killed himself?’
‘Possibly, yes. He seemed far from suicidal when he talked to me. His mood must have changed pretty violently in a few hours.’
‘People’s
