The Eight Curious Cases of Inspector Zhang (23 page)

“And he's said he wants to kill you before?'

“That's the first time he's made a death threat, but he's made all sorts of allegations online. He's called me a paedophile, a cyber-bully, a fraud. He tweets about me several dozen times a day, he's written to my publisher, my agent, my accountant. He's published personal details about my home and my family on-line.” Mr. Hyde shrugged. “I think he's got mental problems.”

“What about talking to the police?”

Mr. Hyde chuckled. “I don't know what the police are like in Singapore, but here in the UK bullied best-selling authors are a low priority.”

“Bullshit!” hissed Sebastian Battersby. “You're killing publishing and you're taking us all down with you.” Mr. Battersby's face was contorted with anger and his hands had bunched into fists.

Mr. Hyde turned to look at him. “You're just bitter because your sales are as bad as his.”

“And whose fault is that?” said Mr. Battersby. “You're devaluing books. Once people expect to pay less than a quid for a book how are we supposed to earn a living?”

“By selling more books,” said Mr. Hyde. “By writing better books instead of the crap you're writing now.”

“My books aren't crap!” shouted Mr. Battersby, slamming his hands down so hard on the table that Inspector Zhang flinched and took a step backwards.

“Come on now, Sebastian, your sales figures speak for themselves. You write horror schlock and the Great British public isn't buying it. They wouldn't read your stuff if you gave it away.”

“Bullshit!”

“So you said. The simple fact is you've got no future as an author; your publisher knows that and so do you. It's time you started looking for another line of work.”

Mr. Battersby stood up, his eyes blazing. He raised his pen, holding it like a dagger, as if he was about to plunge it into Mr. Hyde's eye.

Mr. Hyde looked up at Mr. Battersby and smiled tightly. “What are you going to do, Sebastian? Stab me? In front of a room full of witnesses? This isn't a cheap horror novel. This is the real world. And despite all the murders in your books, you're a wimp at heart.”

Mr. Battersby sneered at Mr. Hyde, his hand trembling, and for a moment Inspector Zhang thought he really was about to stab the author. Then he grunted, threw the pen on the floor and stormed out.

Mr. Hyde smiled up at Inspector Zhang. “Sticks and stones,” he said. “Sometimes writers start to think they're characters in their own story.”

“He is very angry.”

“He's losing his livelihood. For years the key to being a professional writer was having a publisher. Those writers lucky enough to be selected by the publishers made money. But with eBooks a writer can sell direct to his readers. Now anyone can challenge the exclusive little club that Battersby and Dumbleton belonged to and that scares them.” He pointed with his pen at the growing line of people waiting to have their books autographed. “Anyway, I have books to sign. It's been a pleasure talking to you, Inspector Zhang. Enjoy the conference.”

Inspector Zhang thanked him and went back to reception. He saw Mr. Battersby and Mr. Dumbleton standing outside the hotel, smoking cigarettes, deep in conversation.

He went upstairs. Mrs. Zhang was lying on the bed but she opened her eyes when he walked in. “How did it go?”

“Interesting,” he said, slipping off his shoes. He held up the book. “Mr. Hyde signed it for me.”

“How lovely,” she said.

“I thought we could have lunch and then see a few of the afternoon panels together. Val McDermid is speaking and I'd love to see her.” He took off his jacket, draped it over the back of a chair, and lay down next to his wife. “But first, I think I should thank you for my wonderful birthday present.”

He slipped his arms around her and kissed her on the back of her neck. She giggled and pressed herself against him.

Later, Inspector Zhang had lunch with his wife and then they spent the afternoon listening to some of the best mystery writers in the world talking about their craft. They had dinner together and then spent an enjoyable evening in the hotel bar talking to mystery novel enthusiasts.

Inspector Zhang and his wife were up early the following morning. They had breakfast, took a short walk around the town, and attended three panels discussing various aspects of mystery writing. By the time they broke for lunch Inspector Zhang had another six signed copies from authors he'd long admired.

Lunch was a special event, billed as a Murder Mystery Meal. There were twenty tables, each hosted by a writer, and during the meal actors were to play the part of various characters involved in a murder. At the end of the meal each table was to decide who the killer was, and there would be prizes for the winners.

The writer hosting Inspector Zhang's table was a young woman from Scotland who had written a historical murder mystery. There were free copies of her book for everybody. As he took his place at the table, Inspector Zhang saw Sebastian Battersby at the neighbouring table, and on the other side of the room, close to the main table, he saw Archibald Dumbleton. There was no sign of Mr. Hyde.

There were eight people on each table, including the writer. On Inspector Zhang's left were two middle-aged sisters, and sitting next to Mrs. Zhang was an elderly headmaster from Taunton. Opposite Inspector Zhang were a young couple in their twenties, a young man with shoulder-length blonde hair and his girlfriend who had a crew cut and wide shoulders.

The starter was smoked salmon, and as the plates were being cleared away the master of ceremonies introduced the four characters who were the suspects in a murder that had just occurred in a greenhouse on the hotel grounds.

There was Professor Green, a sixty-something balding man in a tweed jacket; Doctor Miller, who was staying at the hotel with his wife; Miss Susan Smith who was one of a dozen writers attending a creative writing course at the hotel; and Dick Reynolds, a convict who had recently been released from prison where he had written a best-selling gangster novel.

The master of ceremonies explained that the body of an agent had been found in the greenhouse, to which there were cries of “shame!” and a ripple of laughter. The agent had been stabbed with a shard of glass, and the four characters were all suspects. The four suspects then took turns to explain who they were, and where they had been at the time of the murder.

Most of the diners at Inspector Zhang's table scribbled notes on their menus, but he just sat and listened with a quiet smile on his face. “Isn't this fun?” asked his wife.

Inspector Zhang nodded. “It is very amusing,” he agreed.

The main course was roast chicken with vegetables and a yellowish sauce that Inspector Zhang found quite pleasant. Once the plates were removed another actor stood up and revealed himself to be a forensic analyst. He then proceeded to go over the physical evidence in the case, including the fingerprints found on the glass shard used to kill the agent, footprints in a flowerbed outside the greenhouse, and an analysis of blood on a handkerchief that had been found in Miss Smith's handbag.

As the actor was coming to the end of his presentation, a chambermaid pushed open the doors and hurried across the room, clearly distraught. She rushed over to a tall man in a dark suit whom Inspector Zhang recognised as the hotel manager. The manager was standing close to Inspector Zhang's table and as the worried woman spoke to him he heard the words “dead body” and “hanging”.

The manager put his am around the woman's shoulder and walked with her to the door. Inspector Zhang stood up. “What's wrong?” asked his wife.

“Somebody has died,” he said.

“Yes, dear, I know. And we have to find out who the killer is.”

Inspector Zhang gestured at the manager and the chambermaid. “No, I think there has been a death in the hotel. I won't be long.” He hurried out of the room and caught up with the manager and the chambermaid at the bottom of the stairs. “Is there a problem?” he asked the manager.

“Nothing for you to worry about, sir,” said the manager. He was in his forties, tall and with a suntan that looked as if it was from a bottle rather than the sun.

“I am a police officer,” said Inspector Zhang. “If there has been a death there are certain procedures that need to be followed.”

“You work here in Harrogate?” asked the manager.

Inspector Zhang shook his head. “I am from Singapore but I am sure the procedure is the same. The local police must be called and the body must not be touched. Can you tell me what has happened?”

“He's hanged himself, that's what's happened,” said the chambermaid.

“I'm just going to check the room now,” said the manager.

“That is fine, but the body mustn't be touched.”

The manager went over to the reception desk and told the receptionist to call the police, then he headed up the stairs with the chambermaid and Inspector Zhang in tow.

“I heard a thump when I was in the corridor, but I didn't think anything of it,” said the chambermaid. “Then when I opened the door to clean the room, he was there. Dead. Hanging, he was. It was horrible.”

There were a dozen people standing in the corridor, peering into the room.

“Excuse me, please,” said the manager, pushing his way through.

Inspector Zhang followed him into the room. The chambermaid stood in the doorway as if she couldn't bring herself to step over the threshold.

The body was hanging from the bathroom door and Inspector Zhang realised with a jolt that it was Mr. Hyde. There was a rope looped around his neck that went over the top of the door. He was wearing grey trousers and a white shirt and there was a damp patch on the front of his trousers from where the bladder had emptied.

To the left of the door was an upturned chair that Mr. Hyde had obviously been standing on.

“Suicide,” said the manager, shaking his head. “Don't people realise the trouble they cause when they kill themselves in a hotel?”

“I'm sure that's the last thing on their minds,” said Inspector Zhang. He peered around the bathroom door. The other end of the rope was tied around the door handle.

“I mean, if someone wanted to kill themselves, why not do it at home?”

Inspector Zhang ignored the manager and stared at the body. There was no doubt Mr. Hyde was dead so there was no rush to get the body down. There was something not right about the way the man's hands were stuck behind his back and Inspector Zhang gently moved the body to get a better look. The man's wrists were handcuffed with what appeared to be a pair of cuffs that had been in the convention's welcome bag.

Inspector Zhang felt a nudge against his shoulder and he turned to see a middle-aged women peering at the body. “I've never seen a dead body before,” she said.

“Madam, please, I must ask you to move away,” said Inspector Zhang. He turned to see that there were now more than a dozen people crowding into the room. He raised his hand. “Everyone needs to get out of this room immediately,” he said. “This is a potential crime scene.”

“This is clearly a suicide,” said the manager. “How can it be a crime scene?”

“It is a sudden and unexpected death. It is up to the local police to decide whether it is suicide, and until that decision has been made this room remains a crime scene.”

The manager opened his mouth as if he was about to argue with the inspector, but then he seemed to accept the logic of his argument. He held up his hands and addressed the twelve or so people in the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, could you please make your way back into the corridor.” No one paid him any attention, so he repeated his request in a louder voice. He held his arms out and ushered the onlookers from the room.

“Why is he staying?” asked a young man with shoulder-length hair and a Mexican-style moustache.

“He's a policeman,” said the manager.

“He's Chinese.”

“I am Singaporean,” said Inspector Zhang. “It is important that you leave as there could be evidence on the floor.”

“Please, ladies and gentlemen, can you all move outside,” shouted the manager, with more authority in his voice this time. The onlookers gradually did as they were told. When the last one left the room, the manager followed and pulled the door closed behind him.

Inspector Zhang heard the manager asking everyone to go downstairs where they would be given free coffee and tea. He looked around the room and noticed a crumpled handkerchief lying on the floor by the desk. He knelt down beside it and took a pen from his jacket pocket. He used it to carefully move the handkerchief.

The door opened and the manager reappeared. “They've gone downstairs,” he said. He walked over and peered down at the handkerchief. “What's that?” he asked, reaching for it.

Inspector Zhang pushed his hand away. “That is evidence and it must stay where it is,” he said. The manager apologised as Inspector Zhang straightened up. “Perhaps you could wait downstairs and bring up the local police when they arrive,” said the inspector.

“What about you?” asked the manager. “Should you be in here?”

“I am familiar with the procedure necessary to maintain the integrity of a crime scene,” said Inspector Zhang, “and some evidence can degrade quickly. For instance the handkerchief was damp in places and flecked with what appears to be saliva. That could well have dried by the time the police arrive.”

The manager nodded. “You think the handkerchief was in his mouth?”

“Perhaps,” said Inspector Zhang. “But DNA analysis will tell us for sure. Now please, if you will …” He motioned at the door. The manager left and closed the door behind him.

Inspector Zhang went over to the upturned chair and carefully examined it. Then for the next fifteen minutes he walked slowly around the room looking for a note or any indication of why Mr. Hyde might have taken his own life. He reached the window that overlooked the front of the hotel. A nondescript grey saloon had just parked and two men were climbing out. They had the same world-weary look of detectives the world over, men who were used to seeing the bad in people, who expected to be lied to and who were rarely disappointed. One of them slammed the driver's door and looked up at the hotel. He was in his fifties, probably about the same age as Inspector Zhang. But whereas Inspector Zhang had a full head of hair that was only starting to grey at the temples, the British detective was almost bald. He was wearing a grey suit the jacket of which flapped in the wind. His colleague was younger and taller, but also losing his hair. He appeared to be wearing the better suit, a dark blue pin-stripe. As Inspector Zhang watched, the two men walked towards the hotel entrance.