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Chapter Fourteen
Skipton’s Manor House Hotel was a two-storey grey stone building, sitting in acres of luscious green woodland, enhanced by dark wood, leaded windows, a traditional grey slate roof, and creeping ivy covering the exterior. Each window adorned an intricately hand-crafted window box containing a colourful array of plants. The gravel drive leading to the hotel encompassed a circular fountain and ornately carved bushes.
Gardener admired the view, and could only find one word to describe it: elegant. It was the sort of place he would expect an old country gentleman – or perhaps a retired actor – to have stayed at. The building spoke of money. Set against the background of a clear blue sky in a late March Monday morning, the view was picture postcard perfect.
Reilly left the car and stood beside him. “You’re in a good mood, boss, for a Monday morning with the case from hell.”
Gardener turned to his partner. “My Christmas present was delivered this morning. I was just leaving the house.”
“The King and Queen seat?”
“Chris and Dad had the box ripped apart before I knew what day it was.”
“Was it worth the money?”
“I’d say so. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Gardener widened his arms to indicate the size. “It’s really deep, and finished in black leather with big round buttons. It’s the first new part for the bike.” Gardener’s eyes glazed. “And my dad had the foresight to have mine and Sarah’s names stencilled into the sides. It’s brilliant.”
“Can’t wait for a wee demo on this bike of yours,” said Reilly, rubbing his hands together.
“You’ll probably have to fight my dad for the first test drive.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said his partner. “By the time you’ve finished it, your dad will have his own set of wheels, so he will, with its own seat, and handles for you to push.”
Gardener laughed. The Irishman was probably right.
“Anyway, let’s get back to the case from hell.”
The Manor House entrance hall was a mixture of marble and a highly polished wood veneer, with the fresh smell of pot-pourri, no doubt well hidden. The oil paintings were expensive, almost certainly originals. As was the receptionist.
They flashed their warrant cards. “Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly.” Gardener tipped his hat. “We’d like to ask you a few questions if we may?”
“Oh my God, not another.”
“Another?” asked Reilly.
“Yes, another!” His reply was terse. “I know you people have a job to do, but so have we. I have a hotel to run, and you keep swarming in and closing down rooms. Well, I’m sorry, but it’s simply not good for business.”
“Neither is murder,” said Reilly.
Gardener studied the man. With his smooth complexion and neatly combed dark hair, he estimated an age in the late twenties. He was very slim and wore a pale blue suit with a shirt and tie to match. The man had exceptionally white teeth, manicured hands, and eyes to compliment his attire.
“Can you clarify that statement, Mr Sparrow?” asked Gardener.
Sparrow glanced down his nose at the name badge on his jacket, wishing it in hell, judging by his expression. He seemed dissatisfied with the familiarity it caused.
“Yes, Mr Gardener, I can and I will. We have already had a visit from the police regarding the unfortunate death of Mr White. He was by himself, and spent approximately two hours in the room. Alone.” Sparrow spoke as if he severely resented the police and their business, whilst continually moving his hands and arms as if to express those feelings. “And they told us we were not allowed to rent the room out to anyone until the investigation had been closed. And furthermore, he covered the bloody door with Scenes of Crimes tape, so that everyone else staying here would know.”
“Did he ask you for a current guest list?”
“No. Should he have done?”
Gardener glanced around. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Well, I am rather busy at the
moment.”
“So are we, Mr Sparrow. And we are real police officers, and we would like a current guest list. I also want someone to take over the reception desk while you tell us everything you know. What he looked like, his name, where he went, where he said he was from...”
