“Where did she come here from?”
“A hospital called Grey Oaks, just outside Nottingham. Specializes in spinal injuries.”
“How did she end up here? What’s the process?”
“It varies,” said Grace. “Sometimes it’s people’s families who’ve heard of us. Sometimes it comes through social services. Karen’s stay in the hospital was up — there was nothing more they could do for her there, and they need all the beds they can get — so the social services helped and came up with us. We had a room available, and the details were worked out.”
“Do you know the name of the social worker involved?”
“It should be in the file.”
“Does Karen have any relatives?”
“None that I know of,” said Grace. “I’d have to check the files for the information you want.”
“I’d like to take those files.”
Grace paused, then said, “Of course. Look, do you seriously think the motive was money?”
“I don’t know what it was,” said Annie. “I’m just covering all the possibilities. We need to know a lot more about Karen Drew and the life she lived before she ended up here if we hope to get any further. As nobody seems to be able to help us very much on that score, perhaps we’d better concentrate our efforts elsewhere.”
“We’ve told you all we can,” said Grace. “You should find more information in her files.”
“Maybe.” Annie looked at Mel, who seemed to have pulled herself together and was nibbling on a digestive biscuit. “We’ll need a description of this Mary as soon as possible. Someone might have seen her locally. Mel, do you think you could work with a police artist on this? I don’t know how quickly we can get someone here at such short notice, but we’ll do our best.”
“I think so,” said Mel. “I mean, I’ve never done it before, but I’ll have a try. But like I said, I never got a good look at her face.”
Annie gave her a reassuring smile. “The artist’s very good,” she said. “Just do your best. He’ll help steer you in the right direction.” Annie stood up and said to Grace, “We’ll be sending some officers over to take statements from as many staff members and patients as possible. DS Naylor will be picking up the files before we leave. I hope you’ll be cooperative.”
“Of course,” said Grace.
Annie remained in the conference room and ate a potted meat sandwich, washed down with a glass of water, until Tommy Naylor came in with the files, then they left together. “What do you think?” she asked Naylor when they got outside.
“I think we’ve got our work cut out,” he said, waving a file folder about half an inch thick. “I’ve had a quick glance, and there’s not a lot here except medical mumbo jumbo, and we don’t even have a next of kin to go on.”
Annie sighed. “These things are sent to try us. See if you can get the artist organized, not that it’ll do much good, by the sound of things, and I’ll find out if DS McCullough and the SOCOs have anything for us.”
3
Winsome wondered if she was doing the right thing as she parked outside the Faversham Hotel that afternoon. She had told Donna McCarthy that Geoff was at a meeting and unavailable over the telephone. Rather than try to reach him later, leave a message, or wait for him to come back to Swainshead, she said she would go to find him and break the news herself. Donna had been grateful and relieved that someone else was going to tell Geoff about his daughter. Winsome had tried his mobile and the hotel switchboard a couple more times on her way to Skipton, but with no luck.
The hotel lay just outside the town, not far from where the wild millstone grit of the Brontë moorland metamorphosed into the limestone hills and valleys of the Dales National Park. Winsome knew the area reasonably well, as she had been potholing with the club in the Malham area on several occasions, but she didn’t know the Faversham. It resembled a big old manor house with a few additions tacked on. A stream ran by the back, and Winsome could hear it burbling over the rocks as she went in the front door. Very rustic and romantic, she thought, and not at all the sort of place for a convention of used-car salesmen.
She showed her warrant card at the front desk and explained that she needed to talk to Mr. Daniels. The receptionist rang the room, but got no answer. “He must be out,” she said.
“What’s his room number?”
“I can’t—”
“This is police business,” Winsome said. “He forgot to bring his medicine, and without it he could die. Bad heart.” It was a quick improvisation, but the word “die” did the trick. You didn’t have to see Fawlty Towers to know what problems a dead body in a hotel room could cause.
“Oh my God,” said the receptionist. “He hasn’t been answering his phone all morning.” She called someone in from the back room to take over from her, then asked Winsome to follow her. They made their way in silence on the lift to the second floor and along the corridor where trays of empty plates and cups sat outside doors.
Outside number 212 was a tray with an empty champagne bottle in a cooler — Veuve Clicquot, Winsome noticed, the ice long melted to water — and a couple of plates bearing the discarded translucent pink shells of several prawns. A “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the door handle.
Winsome was immediately transported back to the time when she worked at the Holiday Inn outside Montego Bay, cleaning up after the American and European tourists. She had hardly been able to believe the state of some of the rooms, the things people left there, shamelessly, for a young impressionable girl, who went to church in her best frock and hat every Sunday, to clean up or throw away. Winsome remembered how Beryl had laughed the first time she held up a used condom and asked what it was. Winsome was only twelve. How could she be expected to know? And sometimes people had been in the rooms, doing things, though they hadn’t posted a sign. Two men once, one black and one white. Winsome shuddered at the memory. She had nothing against gays, but back then she had been young and ignorant and hadn’t even known that such things happened.
Winsome looked at the receptionist, who held the pass card, and nodded. Reluctantly, the receptionist stuck the card in the door, and when the light turned green, she pushed it open.
At first Winsome found it hard to make out what was what. The curtains were drawn, even though it was past midday; the air was stale and filled with the kind of smells only a long night’s intimacy imparts to an enclosed space. The receptionist took a step back in the doorway and Winsome turned on the light.
A man lay spread-eagled on the bed, tied to the frame by his ankles and hands with black silk scarves, wearing a thick gold chain around his neck, and nothing else. A woman in the throes of ecstasy squatted on his midparts, wearing a garter belt and black stockings, and when the light came on, she screamed and wrapped a blanket around herself.
“What the fuck’s going on?” the man yelled. “Who the fuck are you?”
The receptionist headed off down the corridor muttering, “I’ll leave this to you, then, shall I?”
“Police.” Winsome showed her warrant card. She didn’t think of herself as a prude, but the scene shocked her so much that she didn’t even want to look at Daniels lying there with his drooping manhood exposed. It also made her angry. Maybe Geoff Daniels couldn’t have known that his daughter was going to die a terrible death while he was playing sex games with his mistress, but she was damn well going to make him feel the guilt of it. She asked the woman her name.
“Martina,” she said. “Martina Redfern.” She was a thin pouty redhead, who looked about the same age as Hayley Daniels, but was probably closer to Donna McCarthy.
“Okay, Martina,” Winsome said. “Sit down. Let’s have a little chat.”