A Grave Waiting by Jill Downie Read Free Book Online

it’s not the height of the season. I’ll be very glad to get these people off our hands, and your officer out of the corridor.”
    Betty Kerr appeared to be in her forties, well coiffed, and discreetly dressed, as befitted her position. Her manner was crisp, suggesting steely efficiency overlaid with a patina of professional charm. She did not seem to Moretti to be the kind of female who fell for womanizing headwaiters — but then, who knew about women, and what does a woman want? If Freud didn’t know, was it any wonder Moretti had failed in the only long-term relationship in his life?
    â€œUnderstandable. But first, I’d like a word with your night desk clerk. I asked if he could stay around.”
    â€œBert De Putron. He’s on the desk from eight to eight.”
    Betty Kerr hit the bell on the desk, and a moment later the desk clerk appeared. Bert De Putron was a small man in late middle-age, who seemed only too anxious to play a role in the drama.
    â€œShocking business, eh?” he said, with the smile of one for whom shocking business was a welcome relief from the nightly longueurs of desk-clerking. Moretti made a mental note to speak to the constable in the corridor about passing on information. “How can I help?”
    â€œFirst, by telling me if anyone either arrived or left the hotel during the night.”
    â€œThere’s not too many guests at the moment, but there was a young couple who went out about nine, and came back around midnight.”
    â€œGive their names to DS Falla. How about the crew: Adèle Letourneau, Jean-Louis Rossignol, Martin Smith, Hans Ulbricht, and Werner Baumgarten.”
    â€œThey all arrived just before I came on. Two of them left after dinner, and came back about ten-thirty. That’d be the Germans.”
    â€œAre you sure it was ten-thirty?” Moretti asked.
    â€œYes. One of the kitchen staff brought me a cup of tea as per usual. And I’m sure they were German, because that’s what they were talking, and I know the sound of that lingo only too well. No one else left during the night. Allan Priaulx, who relieves me, says the fat one — that’s the chef — left just before nine o’clock this morning.”
    â€œSo who relieves you during the night? When you take a meal break, or whatever?”
    â€œWell —” Bert De Putron’s smile looked somewhat frayed, and his eyes avoided those of the manageress, “I have to take a break, right? So, around midnight I go to use the loo and get the meal left for me, microwave it, and bring it back to eat at the desk. But I’d hear anything, because of the buzzer on the door at night. It sounds through to the kitchen, and I couldn’t miss it, I’m a hundred percent sure.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. De Putron, that’ll do for now.” Moretti looked at Betty Kerr, who seemed a little more tight-lipped than when they had arrived. “Where are the crew members? In their rooms?”
    â€œYes. Ms. Letourneau has assured me she will cover the cost, and they had reserved a second night. In case it was needed, she said. But I thought I’d give you my sitting room for the interviews. It’s further away from the other guests, and one of the crew is — difficult.”
    â€œI’ll start with the difficult one. If you could show me your sitting room, DS Falla can fetch Mr. Smith,”
    Moretti watched Liz Falla follow Betty Kerr upstairs, and made his way to the door she had indicated. The manageress’s private space was comfortably but impersonally furnished, lacking individual touches such as photographs, suggesting someone who did not expect to stay around long. A few minutes later, he heard the strident approach of the valet, Martin Smith, and Liz Falla’s imperturbably cheerful voice. “Detective Inspector Moretti will explain what has happened, sir.”
    â€œI should bleeding hope so!”
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