The Demesne at Saltmarsh had created its share of controversy during the planning and construction phases, and though the active opposition had subsided now that it was a fait accompli, there was still a marked difference of opinion among the locals as to its merits. To the local Chamber of Commerce, the resort’s state-of-the-art facilities were a sign of Saltmarsh’s willingness to embrace the future. For many of the residents, however, a thirty-thousand-square-foot complex of high-tech innovation and design had no place in a quiet country town. Not even if it was set in a refurbished eighteenth-century manor house on its own twenty-acre estate and with an enviable stretch of riverfront access.
Salter hadn’t really settled on a side during the contentious early times, and she remained ambivalent now. But as she pulled up in the sweeping gravel forecourt, she had to admit the developers had done an admirable job of restoring the shell of the old building. The whitewash gleamed beneath the heavy black timbers criss-crossing the facade, and the thatched roof was in better repair than any she’d seen in the area for a very long time. She remembered passing the house on her walks along the riverbank with Max when he was a baby. Even then, long into neglect, the building had impressed her with its grandeur. A remnant of another age, it had survived the centuries virtually intact, awaiting its rescue with dignity and patience. When salvation had finally arrived, in the form of an investment group with a plan to house one of the country’s most technologically-advanced hotels behind an exterior restored to all its former glory, perhaps it was, for once, the best of both worlds.
Even a brand-spanking new Detective Sergeant’s warrant card wasn’t enough to get Salter past reception, and she waited patiently while the clinically efficient Front Desk Associate dialed Susan Bonaccord’s room. In stark contrast to the rustic exterior, there was an uncompromising utilitarianism to the ultra-chic lobby. Clean edges and sharp lines gave the space a bracing clarity and definition. All in all, thought Salter, it was a good place to begin a search for the truth.
Once admitted, she walked along a corridor so plushly carpeted it seemed to suck in the surrounding sounds, leaving only a strange, unsettling silence echoing between the unadorned walls. She knocked on the door and heard Bonaccord issue a muffled command. The door lock clicked and Salter tried the handle and entered.
Susan Bonaccord was seated at a work desk on the far side of the room beside an open computer. She flashed a brief smile of greeting at the detective. “Sergeant Salter. Would you like coffee?”
Salter could see the coffee maker near the bathroom, but Bonaccord was making no move to get up. “If it’s not too much trouble. Two creams, please.”
“Benson,” said Bonaccord to the empty room. “Coffee, medium strength, two creams.”
The coffee maker hissed into action and Salter watched as the machine produced a perfectly-brewed cup. With two creams.
“Impressive,” she said, walking over to collect the cup.
“Not really. Voice-activated technology has been with us for a while, though admittedly not as much in the hospitality sector. Digital-age amenities are one of the Demesne’s major draws.” Bonaccord closed her notebook and swivelled in her chair to face Salter, indicating that the detective should take a seat in an armchair in the corner of the room.
Salter obliged, regarding the woman closely. Even though she had never met Susan Bonaccord, she would assume the woman might be in her element in this hotel room. Her crisply efficient demeanour, her fit-for-purpose business suit, even her neat, no-nonsense hairstyle, all suggested a person who might prefer not to have to clutter up her day engaging hotel staff in small talk.
Salter looked around, taking in the pristine layout of the upscale hotel room. Every surface was shiny and uncluttered, every crease crisp and neat. Who lived like this in the real world? With Max and his friends constantly in and out, Salter’s own place generally looked like a film set from The Jungle Book. She couldn’t remember a time when her home had ever been this tidy, or this clean. Of course, this was taking things a touch far, but a bit of neatness around her house would be nice, she thought wistfully, not least for the sheer novelty of it.
“You chose to stay in the same room,” said Salter, leaning forward in the armchair to sip her coffee. “I thought you might prefer to move. I imagine it must be difficult, looking around and remembering what happened on that call you took in here.”
Bonaccord nodded briskly. “Oh, yes, it is, of course. But this room is convenient for me. I have everything I need here, and the fitness centre is right next door.”
Salter wondered how long she worked out each day. It would be a precise amount of time, with each exercise scheduled and its output monitored. Whatever her exercise regimen was, it would be a far cry from Salter’s own shambolic daily efforts, grabbing a few minutes for a jog wherever she could. Regardless of its encouraging results, or perhaps even because of them, she felt a momentary pang of envy for Bonaccord’s ability to plan her day so rigorously.
“I’m trying to press on, put it behind me,” continued Bonaccord. “I think that’s the best way, don’t you? Besides, moving to another room would cause me further inconvenience I don’t need at the moment.”
Further? Was this her subtle way of sending a message about the sergeant’s intrusion into her day? Nevertheless, she admired the woman’s determination to avoid being held hostage by her circumstances, and focus instead on the parts of her life she could control, like her work. Salter rocked forward slightly in the chair once more, still unable to find a comfortable position. If Bonaccord had been sending a message, she would no doubt appreciate the sergeant getting down to business. “I’m trying to put together a picture of Mr. Wright’s lifestyle,” said Salter. “Frankly, his world seems a bit on the small side, and since you played such a big part in it recently …”
“Did I? How sad.”
“Sad?”
“Well, I mean, I had so little to do with the man, really. I typically have a number of projects on the go at any given time. It’s hard to think of any one of them playing a major role in someone’s life.”
To sip her coffee, Salter had to hunch forward in the armchair again. It was an awkward, inelegant posture. She began to understand why Danny Maik usually conducted his interviews from a standing position. “Had you ever met Mr. Wright prior to this transaction?”
“No, and the truth is there was really no reason for us to have met in person this time. It’s not unusual these days for me to conclude a business deal, even a fairly significant one, without ever having laid eyes on the other party. But Mr. Wright insisted on coming down to the offices so we could meet face to face. They’re like that, aren’t they, these older men who’ve lived alone for a long time. They pour their attention into the small details: promptness, courtesy, formality.”
They weren’t small details as far as Salter was concerned, but Susan Bonaccord wasn’t wrong. Salter could think of at least one other man who lived alone who would have checked all those boxes.
“Still, nice, in a way, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Bonaccord, as if considering the idea for the first time.
Salter gave up her see-sawing in the armchair and lifted herself to her feet, still holding the coffee cup. She felt faintly pleased with herself. She hadn’t been working on her abs particularly, but she wouldn’t have been able to manage a manoeuvre like that before she’d begun her exercise routine. “There were no problems with the deal, you said. No points of contention?”
Bonaccord shook her head sharply. “None whatsoever. I did get the sense that in parting with these performance rights he was letting go of something that had once meant a great deal to him, but once he had decided to do so, there was never any hesitation.”
“I assume you had been talking to Mr. Wright quite a bit lately. If he had other worries, someone in prolonged negotiations with him might notice. Was there anything you were aware of?”
Bonaccord had taken a moment to check her phone and laptop screen. If there was anything of note on either, it wasn’t urgent enough to distract her from the sergeant’s question. “Nothing at all. He seemed concerned about how the production company intended to use the dance numbers we were acquiring. That was the purpose of our phone call, actually — to reassure him the integrity of the original Shammalars numbers would be preserved in their entirety.”
Salter saw the hotel phone on the nightstand, and it reminded her of a detail in the incident report from the earlier night. It was a small one, insignificant, but it would nevertheless send a signal to the other woman that Salter, too, was thorough and professional.
“The duty manager said he noticed the phone had been moved to the far side of the bed. Was there any particular reason you’d done that?”
Bonaccord nodded easily. “Mr. Wright liked to talk,” she told Salter. “And in fairness, we did have a number of items to discuss. I suspected the call might be a long one. I thought I might as well make myself comfortable on the bed.”
“You were expecting his call then?” The way she seemed to be peppering Bonaccord with questions smacked to her more of an interrogation than a conversation with a witness, but she suspected that, rather than finding it unsettling, such a ruthlessly efficient approach would be standard fare for someone like this.
“He’d called previously, a couple of times, but I was busy on other calls. I told the Front Desk Associate to tell him the next time he called I would be available at eight thirty.”
“That’s when he called?”
“On the dot.” She raised her eyebrows at the sergeant.
Old school values, thought Salter. Again, just like Danny, another man whose manners seemed to hearken back to a different era, now lost in the mists of time.
“I’m curious as to why you wouldn’t use an electronic funds transfer instead of issuing him a certified cheque. Surely it would have been more secure. After all, your agreement did involve a significant amount of money.”
“Did it?” Bonnacord nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it would have been, to someone in his circumstances.”
Circumstances where five-figure amounts didn’t slide across balance sheets like pieces on a chess board, thought the sergeant, as they apparently did in Bonaccord’s world.
“He’d specifically requested payment by cheque. I’m not sure Mr. Wright would have been comfortable with something as radical as an EFT.” Bonaccord gave her approximation of a smile. It wasn’t one that had seen a lot of practice.
“I suppose we should be grateful he didn’t ask for it in cash,” said Salter. “There’s no sign the attacker went any farther into the house, but he might well have done if there’d been a pile of money on the table. Are you all right?”
A strange look had flickered across Bonaccord’s features and Salter let her question hang in silence until the other woman eventually broke it with a nervous laugh. “It’s silly, really. It’s been bothering me that the killer might have been there, listening, while I was on the other end of that call. I just kept talking, you see, saying things, even though it was obvious by then that something terrible had happened. I just felt, you know, as if I had to. It seems a bit ridiculous in retrospect.”
“No, I understand,” said Salter. She had once knelt beside a stabbing victim, whispering words of comfort as she watched the life slowly ebbing from the man’s body. She’d held on to his hand long after it was clear he was dead. It seemed to her that it was only when she released it that he would truly be gone.
“The thought that the killer might actually have heard my voice on the other end of the phone,” said Bonaccord, “even as he was stabbing that poor man to death. It felt like there was a connection between us, between me and this person … this monster. I’ve been thinking about it since it happened. But now you’re saying the killer would never have heard any of it? That he never entered the house at all?”
Salter hadn’t said that, exactly, but Bonaccord’s assumption had clearly brought the woman such relief the sergeant made no move to correct her. “The events of that evening are going to stay with you for a while yet, unfortunately, but at least that’s one part of it you can stop worrying about.”
Bonaccord nodded her head, but not a tightly-coiffed lock moved out of place. Salter wondered what it must be like to live in a world where not even your hair was allowed any freedom. This control went some way beyond a desire for efficiency, she realized. Susan Bonaccord was someone who needed to manage every aspect of her life, to determine every outcome. The world could be a hard place for people like that. It had its own views of how matters were going to proceed, and if they didn’t match your own, there was only going to be one winner. The incident the other night was a perfect example. Bonaccord’s perfectly laid plans for the next few days had been disrupted by life’s sudden spin in another direction.
Her points covered, Salter wrapped up the interview and bade the woman goodbye. On her way out, she looked around the well-appointed hotel room again. As she progressed up the career ladder, perhaps she’d experience some of this world herself. There would be conferences, seminars, meetings, that would necessitate stays in hotel rooms like this one. She wondered if Bonaccord ever got tired of the life and yearned for a night in her own home. All Salter knew was, it would take some time before the appeal ever wore off for her.
As she reached the door, she considered briefly whether she would be able to open it for herself, or whether she would have to ask Benson to unlock it for her first. She stopped suddenly and turned.
“Did you like him?”
From her seat at the desk, Bonaccord shrugged. “In his dealings, Wattis Wright was just as you’d wish the other party to be: organized, efficient, and reliable. But he was simply a person who owned something we needed to purchase. Liking him didn’t really come into it.” She paused, as if she was looking for something else to offer. “There wouldn’t have been a lot of common ground between us on a personal level, I’m afraid.”
In the forecourt, Salter paused beside her car and looked along the river toward the village. Behind her, the Demesne at Saltmarsh hummed on in its effortlessly digital way. It was a dispassionate world of order and precision, of relentless efficiency and uncompromising functionality. It crossed Salter’s mind that on the far side of the forest, less than a mile along the riverbank from here, a man had died in a house that seemed by comparison to be almost from the Stone Age. She could see what Bonaccord meant when she said there would not be a lot of common ground between them. Besides, this was a woman who seemed to have poured her life into her career, invested all she had in herself. There wasn’t much space in a world like that for other people.