The following day, Thursday the 24th, was the last day of the holiday. All guests had to adhere to the strict check-out time of twelve. Some of the group remained; those scheduled for the overnight train from Penzance were allowed to put luggage in storage until it suited them to depart. Danny Galvin’s small transistor radio was blazing away in the large lounge, the Partridge Family’s version of ‘Breaking Up Is Hard to Do’ bringing down the curtain on the two-week vacation.
Richard Hughes-Webb was first off, marshalling his family into position and formally saying goodbye to what he saw as both his supporting cast and his audience for the past fortnight. A sort of guard of honour surrounded his Bentley outside the main entrance. Suzie lost control of her emotions and sobbed uncontrollably, having been prised free of an amorous Danny Galvin. Rose Morrison was quick to put a consoling arm around her, saying, ‘We’ll remind you of this when you are older.’ Yvie Hughes-Webb glared at Rose, looking as though she could have happily carried out one of her husband’s operations on the spot, preferably a badly botched one.
Soon Richard’s impressive motor was purring its way down the long drive, and several onlookers might have wondered if that would be the last they would see of the Hughes-Webbs. He had made his unflattering views of the police inquiry well known and for good measure had added a tirade against the hotel’s handling of events. He had indicated that he would holiday with his family abroad the following year; it was unlikely that his family would have any say in the matter.
Next up were the Silvers, minus Bob; his reappearance at the art gallery in St Ives the previous Saturday and his rendezvous with the joggers on Wednesday morning had not developed into a family reunion at the hotel. He had taken the sleeper to Paddington the previous night and was back at work on Cheapside. Margaret Silver was being driven by her older son, Henry, while her daughter, Fiona, was waiting for Justyn to finish his goodbyes before driving them off in his Peugeot 204. Justyn, whose usual attire featured extensive cheesecloth and plenty of tie-dyed T-shirts, was now dwarfed by a huge Afghan coat as he appeared from around the corner with an emotional Jenny Charnley. He sped off down the drive blasting the Doors classic ‘LA Woman’ at full volume, shouting, ‘Goodbye, Grant. Hello, Jim!’
The Galvins set about their departure next; Paul with his grey hair carefully greased back, Alison looking strained. She had a rather pale, heavy face, but behind her horn-rimmed spectacles lurked a pair of remarkably alert, inquisitive eyes that darted from left to right with quick precision and could unnerve people. Physically the Galvins couldn’t have contrasted more. Paul was short, rotund and immaculate while Alison was taller and somewhat unkempt. In her mid-forties, she displayed a sagging fleshiness around her chin and neck. Her Mary Quant overcoat was buttoned up high, and her overall demeanour gave the impression that she was nobody’s pushover. When the assembled crowd realized that Danny wasn’t with his parents they immediately dispersed, leaving only Alison’s close friends Anne Jessops and the Duchess to say their goodbyes. Danny, having his own wheels, had decided to stay to the end of the day and enjoy things to the very last. Paul, the unpopular father, was keeping Alison waiting while he harangued the receptionist over his bill one last time, claiming the discount for Sunday’s interrupted lunch hadn’t been credited.
The disturbance at the front desk drew the luckless Simpkins out of his office for the first time since the accident. His upper lip was still badly swollen from the removal of fourteen stitches and gave an unsettling view of his two chipped front teeth. This didn’t prevent him from doing his managerial best to placate Paul. After several minutes of deadlocked negotiations Simpkins offered to refer the matter to Head Office if Paul settled the bill in full there and then. This agitated drama undoubtedly affected the number of holiday-makers who stayed to attend Mr and Mrs Paul Galvin’s departure.
Anne Jessops revealed to the waiting gallery that her family would not depart until later that day; it was widely suspected that this was down to Ted being unable to climb out of bed again. Anne had managed to get a late booking on the sleeper train, so at least the problem of driving back to the Midlands was averted. This enabled further teenage playtime, so Caroline and Grant disappeared into town to buy some silk fabric to sew into their jeans; she enjoyed inserting colourful triangles into trouser legs below the knee to create massive flares. They were later tracked down by a breathless Nick Charnley in a sound booth inside a music shop, where they were listening to pop records.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he blurted out, barely able to contain himself.
‘What?’ asked the pair in unison, rapidly removing their headphones and emerging from the booth.
‘A naked man’s body has been found washed up on Carbis Bay Beach. They think he’s from the hotel.’ Grant and Caroline stood frozen to the spot, uncomprehending.
‘What?’ Grant was alarmed. Tom’s collapse had destabilized things enough, but he had an overwhelming sensation that this dramatic news could be totally disastrous.
‘Who is it? Anyone we know?’
‘They say it’s Hector Wallace,’ replied Nick, uneasy at imparting such awful information.
‘Who found him?’
‘Trevor. You know, Trevor Mullings, the fisherman. He’s part of the crowd that drinks with Hector. I’m afraid the word is that Hector drowned, probably under the influence of booze. He was completely smashed, apparently. The police are all over the hotel again. They swarmed in like the Keystone Cops.’
The three made their way back up through the woods and the water cascades to the hotel on the hill in a very sombre mood. Caroline mused that the holiday now resembled a game of Cluedo, but instead of Professor Plum, Reverend Green, Colonel Mustard and so on it was ‘Mr Richard Hughes-Webb, Mr Bob Silver, Mr Arnie Charnley, Mr Ted Jessops and Mr Paul Galvin’.
When in due course Simpkins, the beleaguered manager, received a request from the police to interview the guests, he finally asserted himself. ‘Look, you’re not disturbing my guests a second time. Besides, many of them have already left.’
‘What, run away, have they?’ queried PC Stobart, at which point the rather battered Simpkins gained renewed strength.
‘Certainly not. They have finished their holidays, left the hotel and returned to places where they don’t get arrested every few days for crimes they haven’t committed. They have been here as holiday-makers, not serial killers …’ His voice rose to a crescendo that could have graced a key speech in a Shakespearian tragedy. Winston Churchill in full flow could not have been more convincing in his oratory.
‘All right, all right,’ replied Inspector Higham, looking somewhat embarrassed, even a little astonished. ‘Keep your hair on. But there’s something very odd about all this, very odd indeed.’ At that moment the police decided to withdraw, just as Danny Galvin and Jenny Charnley returned to the hotel, laughing and singing along raucously to ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ blasting out from their transistor radio, blissfully unaware of the latest drama being played out at the hotel. The police, by now confused by the departure of key suspects, needed time to assess how to conduct this new inquiry.
As they returned to their car Inspector Higham gave vent to his feelings. ‘This place gives me the creeps. Where do we go with this one now? I know the Chief has been briefed from someone on what’s been going on; he’s asked to see me tomorrow at ten. We’ve got to be careful, Mr Police Constable. I suspect Haughty-Haughty’s arrogant sleight of hand at work, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all!’