Inspector Zhang Goes To Harrogate Page 2

  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 who 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.

  Inspector Zhang went over to the bathroom door and squeezed past the body, taking care not to touch it. He looked around the bathroom, then went back to the bedroom and opened the door. The two detectives were standing there with the manager behind them.

  The detective in the grey suit frowned at Inspector Zhang. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in this room?”

  “I am Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force,” said Inspector Zhang. He took out his wallet and showed them his warrant card, but the detective ignored it.

  “What are you doing here?” repeated the detective.

  “Inspector Zhang said he wanted to make sure that evidence wasn’t disturbed,” explained the manager, wringing his hands.

  “It is important to preserve the crime scene,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Crime scene? I was told Mr Hyde had killed himself,” said the detective.

  “That is certainly what it looks like,” said Inspector Zhang, opening the door wide. The two English detectives walked into the room and looked at the body hanging from the bathroom door. “But one can never be too careful when one has a sudden death.”

  “You haven’t touched anything?” asked the detective.

  Inspector Zhang shook his head. “Of course not.”

  The detective nodded as if he wasn’t sure Inspector Zhang was telling the truth. “I’m Chief Inspector Hawthorne,” he said. He nodded at the younger detective. “This is Sergeant Bolton.”

  Inspector Zhang shook hands with the two men. “Have you had a chance to talk to the chambermaid?” asked Inspector Zhang. “She discovered the body.”

  The two detectives looked at the manager. He nodded. “Maria. She’s down in the housekeeping office. She’s a bit shocked, obviously. She was in the corridor outside the room and remembers hearing a thump, probably the chair falling over. But there was no other sound so she thought nothing of it.”

  “What time would that have been?” asked the Chief Inspector.

  “She went in to clear the room at two-fifteen. She said she heard the thumping sound a few minutes before that.”

  Chief Inspector Hawthorne walked over to the bathroom door and looked up at the body.

  “His name is Sean Hyde, he’s one of the writers who was appearing at the conference,” said Inspector Zhang. He saw that the sergeant was about to tread on the handkerchief and he hurried over to him. “Be careful please, Sergeant. I think that handkerchief was in Mr Hyde’s mouth at some point.”

  The chief inspector walked over and looked down at the handkerchief. “Are you sure?” he said, taking a pair of blue latex gloves from his pocket.

  “It was damp, and screwed up,” said Inspector Zhang.

  The chief inspector took a polythene evidence bag from his pocket, picked up the handkerchief and placed it inside. He went back to the bathroom door and carefully pushed it open so he could examine the end of the rope that was tied to the handle.

  “There is no note,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Suicides don’t always leave notes,” said the chief inspector. He walked out of the bathroom and examined the chair. Then he turned to look at the body. He frowned, then peered behind the body. “Handcuffs?” he said.

  “Handcuffs?” repeated the sergeant, looking up from his notebook.

  “They were given to everyone attending the convention,” said Inspector Zhang. “A promotional gimmick. I have a pair myself.”

  “So he stood on the chair, put the noose around his neck, handcuffed himself and then rocked the chair until he fell. Suicide.”

  “I am not so sure,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “Why not?’ asked the chief inspector. “Mr Hyde was in the room alone when he died. It can only have been suicide.”

  “He was certainly alone in the room,” said Inspector Zhang. “But that doesn’t mean it was definitely suicide.”

  The chief inspector frowned. “I don’t follow you, Inspector Zhang.”

  The Singaporean detective shrugged. “There are suicides that look like murder, and murders that appear to be suicide,” he said.

  The sergeant laughed. “You’re saying he was murdered? Just because you are at a mystery writers convention doesn’t mean this is a mystery to be solved.”

  “I’m merely suggesting things are not always as they seem,” said Inspector Zhang. “As I said, there is no note. That is always a red flag for me.”

  “Not all suicides leave notes,” repeated the chief inspector.

  “But most do,” said Inspector Zhang. “And it seems to me that a man who made his living from words would take the opportunity for one final page. Also, when I spoke with Mr Hyde yesterday he didn’t strike me as the type to kill himself.”

  “The type?” queried the chief inspector.

  “He didn’t seem the least bit depressed,” said Inspector Zhang. “In fact when he was on the panel he told us all the plot of the new book he was working on. He certainly wasn’t suicidal at that point.”

  “So if he didn’t kill himself, who did?” asked the chief inspector.

  “There are several suspects,” said Inspector Zhang. “Indeed, there was one man who threatened to kill Mr Hyde in front of a room full of witnesses.”

  The sergeant looked up from his notebook. “Really? Who?”

  “Another writer called Archibald Dumbleton. Frankly I think he might be unbalanced. He interrupted one of the panel discussions, accused Mr Hyde of all sorts of things and then threatened to kill him.”

  “Is this Mr Dumbleton still here?” asked the chief inspector.

  “I saw him downstairs at the Murder Mystery lunch,” said Inspector Zhang.

  “And you said there were other suspects, Inspector Chang?” asked the chief inspector.

  “It is Zhang,” said Inspector Zhang. “Not necessarily suspects, but there were certainly others who were unhappy with Mr Hyde. He appeared to have inspired considerable jealousy and hostility in quite a few people.”

  “Oh really? And how did he manage that?”

  “I gather that Mr Hyde had been very successful at publishing cheap eBooks. Several members of the audience seemed to think he was selling them too cheap, and others disagreed strongly with his views on marketing.”

  “Anyone in particular come to mind?” asked the chief inspector.

  “There was an author on the panel with Mr Hyde. A Mr Sebastian Battersby, I think his name was. He had one of those punk rocker haircuts. He was ver
y aggressive and at one point I thought he was going to strike Mr Hyde with his pen.”

  The sergeant chuckled. “They do say it’s mightier than the sword,” he said.

  The chief inspector flashed him a warning look and the smile disappeared from the sergeant’s face. “Why was that?” the chief inspector asked Inspector Zhang. “What were they fighting about?”

  “Mr Hyde pointed out how few books Mr Battersby was selling and suggested he wasn’t likely to get a new deal from his publisher. Mr Battersby took offence to that. But it couldn’t have been Mr Battersby, he was at the table next to mine at lunch and I didn’t see him leave at any point.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “There was an agent on the panel. I forget what his name was. But Mr Hyde told him that agents didn’t have much of a future and they got into quite a heated argument.”

  “So basically this Mr Hyde wasn’t exactly winning friends and influencing people?”

  Inspector Zhang frowned, not understanding the reference.

  “He was making enemies, that’s what you’re saying,” said the chief inspector.

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “But do you really think any of these people were angry enough to kill Mr Hyde?”

  “Who knows what drives a person to kill?” said Inspector Zhang. “Sometimes it can be the slightest thing.”

  The sergeant put away his notebook and folded his arms.

  “The thing is Inspector Zhang, we have what looks like a suicide and no real motive for it to be anything other than that,” said the chief inspector.

  “The handcuffs worry me,” said Inspector Zhang. “Why would he handcuff himself?”

  “To make sure that he couldn’t help himself?” said the sergeant. “He could have handcuffed his own hands behind his back then kicked away the chair, knowing that with his hands cuffed it would be a sure thing.”

  “Have you ever known someone to kill themselves in such a manner? Handcuffing themselves first?”

  “I’ve seen a man cut his wrists and hang himself,” said the sergeant.

  Inspector Zhang nodded thoughtfully, then looked across at Chief Inspector Hawthorne. “And what about the handkerchief?” he said, nodding at the evidence bag in the detective’s hand. “Why would he put that in his mouth and then spit it out?”