The Assassin King

Elias presented himself at hotel reception to be greeted by a plump, forty-something Indian woman with a charming warm smile that turned noticeably cooler when he produced his warrant card and explained that he was investigating Dunstan Warne’s murder. Then it turned cold when he asked if they’d had any detectorists staying last weekend, or whether any of their guests had checked out unexpectedly early on Monday morning. She didn’t answer directly, but rather called her boss Penny Scott, who instructed her in an imperious voice not to say another word until she arrived.

Elias used the time to do his customary study of the receptionist. She had a paperback copy of Jane Eyre on her desk, borrowed from the local library, to judge from its protective cover and its reservation slip bookmark, which gave her name as Kapur, Priya. She was wearing a navy jacket with gold piping that was both too snug across the shoulders and too long in the sleeve, suggesting it was inherited, and she sat with her feet tucked beneath her and with her back commendably straight. Her lips and fingernails were painted an identical bright shade of crimson and – despite numerous rings, bangles, pendants and other items of jewellery – her ring finger was conspicuously bare. She noticed him looking and pursed her lips. He picked up a brochure for Frampton Marsh and wondered again what the hell was wrong with him.

Footsteps crunched gravel outside. The door opened and Penny Scott arrived like a compact whirlwind, her husband trailing haplessly behind her like a plastic bag caught in its tug. She looked to be in her mid-fifties, tall, thin, blonde and attractive, but with a brittleness that was emphasised rather than mitigated by her expensive clothes and heels, by her painted long nails, her lashes and whitened teeth. ‘So you’re this detective, are you?’ she said, marching up to him. ‘We already told your people all we know.’

‘And we’re grateful, believe me,’ said Elias. ‘But a new line of inquiry has opened up. We think you may be able to help us with it.’

‘And? Are we supposed to guess?’

‘The detective was asking whether we had any detectorists staying last weekend,’ piped up Priya.

‘Detectorists?’ asked Penny Scott.

‘Yes,’ said Elias. ‘Detectorists.’

‘I thought you were after smugglers.’

‘We were. Now we’re looking at detectorists too.’

She gazed at him a second or two, then turned to Priya. ‘You were on duty, weren’t you? Did we have any detectorists staying?’

‘No,’ said Priya.

‘There you go, Detective. No.’

‘Who did you have staying?’

Priya glanced at Penny Scott. Penny Scott nodded reluctantly for her to go ahead. ‘Most of our guests were here for a wedding,’ she told him. ‘Those ones all checked out some time on Sunday. Only five stayed that night. Mr Inwood is one of our regulars. He works all hours on an environmental project. He only comes in to sleep and have breakfast. I’ve never seen him with a metal detector, and he’s certainly never hired one of ours. Anyway, he hurt his ankle a couple of weeks ago, and he’s still on crutches. Otherwise, it was only the Grahams and the Gwynns, both here on our weekend package. I don’t think they knew each other before, but they spent a lot of time together. They’re all quite elderly and frail, so I can’t imagine they had anything to do with it. They did all check out early on Monday morning, though. But then they would, wouldn’t they?’

‘You were here that night?’

‘On duty, yes,’ said Priya. ‘Not at the desk. I have a room in the back. If anyone needs me, they ring the bell.’

‘Did anyone ring it that night?’

‘What if a guest is out late? How do they get back in?’

‘They have keys and the code for the door.’

‘Is there a log of when it’s used?’

‘No. It’s just a lock.’

‘How about your metal detectors? Could someone take one without you knowing?’

‘I suppose. We keep the key behind the desk. But the storeroom’s next to me, and I think I’d have heard.’ Her eyes flickered to Gregory Scott as she said this, however, and then she flushed slightly, as though realising she’d made a mistake.

Elias turned to look at him, half hidden behind his wife. He looked to be about her age, but where she was still gamely fighting time, he’d happily given in. Overweight, with thinning grey hair and an uneven shave, wearing a crumpled blue blazer over his peach polo shirt and a pair of tight red jeans that seemed to squeeze all the fat up from his thighs into his midriff instead. His complexion suggested he liked it out of doors, and there was plenty of power in those meaty arms, easily enough to cleave a skull in two. ‘How about you, sir?’ he asked. ‘Would you happen to be a detectorist yourself?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ demanded Scott.

‘Which part of the question do you find confusing, sir?’

‘Why do you want to know? Are you accusing me of something?’

‘We found a number of coins beneath where Mr Warne was buried. It seems possible that someone was digging for them when Mr Warne spotted them and came to challenge them.’

Penny Scott stared aghast at him. ‘Are you saying he was killed by a detectorist?’

‘I’m saying it’s a line of inquiry. Well, sir? Are you one yourself?’

He tugged a finger inside the collar of his polo shirt. ‘Not as such, no.’

‘I used to be. I haven’t been out in ages.’

‘What kind of ages? Days? Weeks? Months?’

‘More like years.’ But his voice betrayed him, as did the pleading look he threw his wife. ‘I’m sorry not to be more specific. It’s not like I keep a diary.’

‘But you do own a metal detector?’

‘Everyone does around here. It’s our local pastime.’

‘What make is yours? What model?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

‘How much did it cost, then?’

‘Be reasonable, Detective. It was years ago.’

‘Roughly, then. A hundred pounds? A thousand? More? Less?’

‘I’d say about a thousand. Perhaps a hair more. I’m a wealthy man, Detective. I don’t like second best.’

‘Very well. So you own a top-of-the-range metal detector. Have you ever taken it out onto Warne Farm?’

‘Absolutely not. Mr Warne was quite clear that his fields were out of bounds.’

‘What about last Monday morning? Were you up and about early, by any chance?’

‘I was not. I slept like a log.’ But again that plaintive glance at his wife.

Elias turned to her. She’d frozen stiff, save for a tremble in her jaw. ‘Can you confirm that, ma’am?’

A marked hesitation. An angry glance at her husband. But then: ‘Yes. I can.’

‘You share a bedroom, then?’

‘I happen to be a very light sleeper. I wake at the slightest noise.’

‘If you slept through a noise, how would you even know?’

She gave a blink, like one of his old opponents caught with a jab. ‘It’s not just the noise. We have intruder lights too. They’d wake Rip Van Winkle.’

‘Ah,’ said Elias. ‘Then that settles it.’ He turned back to Priya. ‘Do you rent out spades as well as metal detectors?’

‘Good. Then we’ll be taking them away for examination. I assume that’s okay?’

‘Examination?’ protested Penny Scott. ‘Whatever for?’

‘For blood,’ Elias told her. ‘For hair. For fingerprints. To clear your guests of suspicion. That’s what you want, I imagine. To clear them of suspicion?’ He gave her the chance to reply. She didn’t take it. ‘Where are they?’ he asked Priya. She took a key from the rack, led him to the storeroom. He photographed everything in place then locked it and pocketed the key. ‘No one goes in there until my people have been,’ he told her, before turning to Gregory Scott. ‘Do you own a spade too, sir?’

‘This is an outrage,’ he said.

‘An outrage to ask if you own a spade?’

‘An outrage to imply I had anything to do with Mr Warne’s death.’

‘I’m looking to exclude you, sir. Do you not think you should be excluded?’

‘Of course I should.’

‘Good. Then if you could show me…’

‘If you insist. But this whole thing’s a farce.’ His defiance fell flat, however. He looked trapped and guilty as they filed out of the hotel.

There were CCTV cameras on the roof and in the car-park, noted Elias. He texted Quinn as they walked to come review last Sunday night’s footage. Then he called Frank Mason to have him send a team to collect the spades and metal detectors.

The hotel and the Scotts’ converted barn were screened off from one another by a high conifer hedge. To get from one to the other, they had to walk out of the hotel car park to the shared drive, then take the other fork. An automated gate had a postbox and a buzzer on it, along with a gap down its side for anyone on foot. Gregory Scott was still leading the way, but his shoulders slumped ever more heavily as he trudged with gallows slowness. If ever Elias had seen guilt, he was seeing it now.

An open-faced garden shed was set at an angle from the barn. The three of them went inside together. A huge green sit-on mower took up much of its interior, while a pair of rakes, a fork, a hoe, some shears and other such garden implements hung neatly from hooks on the right-hand wall. They all had Dewit’s trademark ash handles, and looked to be of the same model and vintage too, as if the Scotts had ordered the complete set on first moving in. Yet Elias could see no sign of a spade, only of a gap where a spade might fit.