Cherringham--Ghost of a Chance (7 page)

…Sarah heard a shrill scream coming from somewhere deep in the hotel.

A woman’s scream that didn’t stop.

Almost like a siren.

Then the scream grew louder.

“My God!” said Lawrence.

Crispin staggered back in surprise: “What the hell?”

But Jack had already pushed back his chair and was up and running.

When Sarah saw him head towards the door to the lobby she started running too, dimly aware of the other dinner guests rising to their feet, mouths wide open in horror at the sound.

Into the lobby, Jack was pounding up the stairs.

“Where is it, Jack?” she shouted, just yards behind.

“Up here I think — stick close!”

Heart racing, she bolted up the first flight, then the second, feet sliding on the carpet …

The screaming now raw, terrifying, nearer and nearer —

“Help! Someone help!”

At the second landing Jack launched himself at the double fire doors that opened onto the bedroom corridor.

Sarah followed him and suddenly she could see nothing, she was in a white fog, not smoke, it was like …

…mist.

Or a cloud, so dense she could only see shapes moving, Jack’s sports jacket, a young woman in a nightdress looming towards her shrieking, screaming.

Then, for a fleeting second, a flash of red in the mist.

Bright red — blood red.

The rug began slipping, Sarah tripped and started to fall …

But Jack was there to catch her. She felt his shoulder taking her weight, his hands shifting her upright.

“You all right?” he said, his face suddenly close.

And now, the mist was clearing fast and Sarah could see the woman collapsed against the wall, sobbing.

“Can you look after her,” said Jack, and she watched him run down the corridor into the melting mist and disappear into one of the bedrooms.

Sarah crouched down and gently put her hands on the woman’s arms.

“It’s okay, you’re fine … we’re here.”

The woman looked up at Sarah, wiped her face, which was smeared with mascara and make up.

“Has it … gone?” said the woman, her voice panicky, her eyes darting to the corridor.

“Just breathe slowly, take your time,” said Sarah. “You’re fine, everything’s fine.”

“God. So frightening …”

“What happened?” said Sarah.

She waited while the woman’s breaths grew more steady and she seemed to gather her thoughts.

“I was asleep. Dozed off. Then I woke — the room was full of smoke. But it wasn’t smoke — it was … mist! Like a cloud! In the room!”

“I know. I saw it.”

“Then this shape came towards the bed. A person. A man — in a suit — with a white shirt. But he was covered in …”

Sarah could see the woman was beginning to panic again, her breathing again fast, shallow, her eyes flicking from left to right.

“It’s okay,” said Sarah. “You’re safe now, don’t worry.”

“His shirt. It was red … and wet. It was blood. He started to say something — I could see his face — then the mist … and then he was gone. I just ran. Had to get away …”

“What the hell’s happened?” came a voice behind Sarah, and she turned, to see Crispin and other guests filling the corridor.

A woman pushed through the crowd and dropped to the ground to comfort the terrified woman.

Sarah got up and stepped back to give the woman room, not sure what she’d just heard — or seen.

Then Jack appeared from one of the rooms at the end of the corridor and walked towards her. She could see his jacket was smeared with dirt, his face scuffed, his hair ruffled.

“Everything’s fine, folks,” he said, his voice to Sarah sounding so calm and reassuring. “Show’s over, nothing to see.”

Really?
She thought.
What just happened?

She watched Jack turn to Crispin.

“You okay to look after this lady, Mr. Myrtle? Think she’ll be fine. Big scare. You need us?”

“My staff can handle this, yes,” said Crispin.

“Why don’t we go finish our dinner Sarah,” said Jack, smiling and taking Sarah’s arm.

Dinner? After that mayhem?

Sarah saw him give her the tiniest of winks, and she turned with him and headed towards the stairs.

“What just happened Jack?” she said. “I think I saw—”

“I know what you
think
you saw,” he said. “I also know what you really
did
see.”

As they passed the first floor landing, she glimpsed a man in overalls appear at the end of the long corridor, wiping his hands. She watched him stare at them both as they continued down the stairs.

“Paddy Stover,” said Jack under his breath. “Surprise, surprise.”

At the bottom of the stairs, instead of heading back to the dining room, Jack turned and led Sarah into the bar. The place was empty — clearly the drama upstairs had drawn both staff and guests to the second floor.

She watched Jack walk behind the bar.

“Whisky?” he said.

“Perfect.”

“Good for shock,” he said, pouring two large doubles, “and also guaranteed to get rid of the taste of that dinner.”

“We going to pay?”

“Perks of the job.”

He came round, handed over her glass and then clinked it with his.

“To the spirit world,” he said.

She took a big mouthful and swallowed.

“Wow.”

“Hits the spot, huh?” he said with a grin.

She could see he was itching to tell her what he’d found.

“Come on Jack — out with it.”

She watched him take another mouthful himself.

“That lady’s bedroom,” he said, “the window was open. Went out onto a fire escape …”

“Which, from the look of it, you went down?”

Sarah saw Jack finally notice the state of his trousers and jacket.

“Damn it, this is my
one
set of good clothes,” he said, brushing at the rust marks.

“So, you went down the fire escape …”

“Oh yeah,” said Jack, picking up his story. “Rickety old thing too. Anyway, down one flight, and then I saw another window half open, on the first floor. So I gave it a shove, went in. Found a light switch. Bedroom. Unoccupied. But footprints on the floor — muddy, rusty …”

“Not yours …”

“Exactly. And guess what else I found?”

“Freddy the ghost?”

“Not quite,” he said. “But near enough …”

Sarah watched him reach into his pocket and bring out what looked like a plastic bag.

“In a corner of the room. In a trash can …”

He held it out to her and she took it.

Heavy plastic. A logo, product name. She turned it over.

“Dry ice,” she said.

“And that’s not all.”

Now she could see that Jack really did look triumphant. From his other pocket he produced a small, red bottle.

“Theatrical dye,” said Jack.

“Ah — blood,” said Sarah.

“Can’t pin this one on Freddy,” said Jack. “But I think I know who
is
responsible.”

Jack put a leg up on the railing of his boat, Riley standing by his side.

Already this morning his dog had raced away from the boat’s mooring, chasing birds from the thickets nearby, and even scaring up a rabbit that bolted as if it had springs on its hind legs.

Yes,
Jack thought,
Riley has great hunting instincts.

And maybe he should actually go hunting with him some day.

English countryside.

Pheasants scattering before your eyes.

Riley would enjoy it.

But Jack … well, he had seen so much gunplay in his day. More than a few times he’d had to use his weapon.

Somehow the idea of shooting for sport didn't work for him.

But fishing?

Now that was different story.

And standing there in the late October sun, still some warmth to it even though the sunsets came earlier and earlier, he had been thinking about The Bell Hotel, its ghost … its wacky cast of characters.

Just about all of them looking guilty.

He had a theory who it might be — but nothing was quite hanging together.

Still, he had an idea.

By now, Sarah would be in her office. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt her in the chaos he knew ensued every morning just getting Chloe and Daniel out the door and off to school.

Won't be long before Sarah will need to think about university for Chloe.

Changes come fast.

Another thing Jack well knew.

He slid his phone out and, squinting in the bright morning sun, searched for his recent calls, popping up Sarah's number and tapping to dial.

“Jack! I was hoping you'd call.”

“Morning Sarah. Make any discoveries in the night?”

“Nothing more really. Just background on the previous rejected applications to develop the old hotel. Whoever is behind them has been very persistent.”

Jack nodded. “I'm guessing someone could be … persistent enough to trigger a little accident just to move things along?”

“Not so little Jack. I mean … that could have been really bad.”

Jack hesitated. When he was a NYPD detective sometimes he found that he figured things out …
thought things through
… better on his own.

He had had some good partners.

And some not so good ones.

When he became chief of detectives, he made sure that he was careful in any pairings he made.

Not only could your life depend on your partner, but partners needed to be in sync, looking at a crime scene, interrogating the suspects.

Not easy to do.

But with Sarah … Jack felt that whatever ideas he had only got sharpened, made clearer when he talked to her.

“Had a thought,” he said.

Sarah laughed at that, “I imagined you did.”

“I couldn't catch this Mr. Anderson last night. Like he knew I might want to talk to him. So — I’m going to surprise him this morning.”

“Well, that should be fun.”

And Jack laughed at that.

“Won't it? Wondering if you might ask Todd to pop over to the hotel. Say—”

Jack looked at his watch. Another memento from his service in the NYPD.

The traditional watch: a classic Rolex.

Looked great. And even told time as well!

“Maybe 30-40 minutes? If he can get away.”

“Will do. Anything else I can do?”

“Think so. I'm guessing Mr. Anderson won't be forthcoming. Can you check in with that receptionist … What’s her name?”

“Suzie. Probably the only person in the place that
doesn't
seem suspicious.”

“Don't write her off too fast,” he said, laughing. “So with the blessing of father and son Myrtle, can you see what information the hotel has on the mysterious Mr. Anderson? Whatever information he used for booking …”

“Good idea. The place may be run down and shabby but they still have to follow proper booking procedures.”

“Exactly my thought. And then — can you get away this afternoon? Gorgeous day. Come to the Goose, we’ll walk, plan, see where we are. Maybe a stroll to the old church? Clear our heads …?”

“The one with the mural of Doom?”

That gave Jack pause. By now, so many places in this village had such a special connection to him and Sarah.

In a way, he thought that Cherringham had become more their village than just about anybody else who lived here.

Though the ever-suspicious Buckland sisters just might challenge that.

“Sure. Grace is on top of things. It’ll be good to get our heads together. I’ll let you know what I find out about Anderson.”

“And if we’re in for a winter like last year, we’d better enjoy this sun—”

Then, on the phone, Jack heard a loud voice in the background — words indistinct.

Then Sarah: “Excuse me. What are you doing? We're not quite open yet, and—”

More words. The voice shrill over the tinny speaker.

Even abrasive.

Then Sarah came back to Jack.

“Jack — got to go.”

“Irate customer?”

“No,” she said, no humour in her voice. “Just got a surprise visit myself.”

“From?”

“Mandy Myrtle.”

Sarah lowered her voice. “And she’s not happy, either …”

“Going to be an interesting day,” he said. “See you over here later …”

“You bet.”

Then the phone went quiet.

Riley did a circle at Jack’s feet.

“Want another dash, boy?” Jack waved his hand towards the grassy meadow that stretched to the Roman road on the other side of the field, the road straight and lined perfectly with tall hedges.

And Riley didn't need any more encouragement as he raced to the gangway, legs flying, running out to the grass, the sun making his fur glow.

*

“Ms. Myrtle — maybe you’d better sit down.”

Sarah looked at Grace who did a live version of a frowning emoji.

The woman standing in their office was dressed in a snug and smart black skirt and jacket, with a crisp white shirt — the very epitome of a stylish businesswoman.

But with her eyes glowering, and her clipped voice far too loud for the small office, the woman was intimidating.

“Please. Have a seat. And Grace can make us some tea and—”

“Tea? This bloody country with its tea obsession. For the record, a pot of tea does not make everything better.”

Steady now,
Sarah thought.

Sarah tried again, “Please, do sit down …”

The woman rolled her eyes in a gesture that looked more like she was rolling her whole head. Then, with a “God …” she took the chair opposite Sarah.

“And I’m sorry you don't want some, but Grace, can you make me—”

“I didn't say I
wouldn’t
have a cup of tea, now did I? You villagers.”

The way the woman said that word made it seem like she had descended from London to visit Middle Earth.

Sarah thought she might have to check whether she had clumps of soil between her toes.

“Ms. Myrtle, I can see you are very upset, and—”

“How amazingly observant! You bet I am, Ms. Edwards. In fact — ‘upset’ doesn't begin to describe my current state.”