A Line to Kill

Elizabeth Lovell and her husband were finishing their lunch at a table about halfway along. Elizabeth had her back to the sea, but then she had no interest in the view: her round black glasses spoke for themselves and in the loudest possible way, making it difficult to focus on any other part of her face, which was perhaps just as well. She did not look healthy, with pale skin, sunken cheeks, grey lips. Her black hair was tightly permed. Despite the warm weather, she was wearing a long-sleeved dress and a shawl. Her husband – in polo shirt and baggy cotton trousers – was small, plump and bald and was drinking a glass of wine. She had ordered soup. He had been eating lobster. The broken shell and claws were all around him.

‘Hello, Elizabeth. Have you had a good lunch?’ Judith had regained her good cheer.

‘Lovely, thank you.’ Elizabeth turned towards us, craning her neck awkwardly. Her words sounded strangled, as if they were trapped in her throat.

‘I’m with Anthony. He’s just arrived with the other writers.’

‘Dark hair, untidy, going grey. Jewish. Late fifties. Didn’t shave this morning. Short-sleeved shirt, linen trousers … crumpled. Doesn’t look too pleased to be here.’ This not entirely flattering portrait of me was rattled out at speed and without emotion by her husband. ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he went on. ‘Liz likes to know who she’s talking to.’

How could I be offended? ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ I said.

But it wasn’t. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in an afterlife. And it’s always been my feeling that anyone who calls themselves a professional medium can only be exploiting the all-too-real sadness of people who have suffered a loss. I once had dinner in an expensive restaurant with an actor whose wife was supposedly psychic. She insisted that my mother, who had been dead for thirty years, was standing next to me and continued to pass across messages from her. My mother was happy. She hoped I was happy too. It quite put me off my fish pie.

I didn’t say any of this to her, of course. Instead, I asked her, ‘When did you arrive?’

‘Yesterday,’ Elizabeth said.

‘Flew from St Helier,’ her husband added. ‘Via Southampton and Guernsey. Took half the day. The ferry’s no better.’

‘Well, we’re delighted you’re here,’ Judith said. ‘Have you got everything you need?’

‘Top-notch.’ Sid picked up a lobster leg, gripped it between his teeth and sucked out the meat. ‘Will you join us, Anthony?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I’ve just got off the plane. I’m sure we’ll see each other later.’

Why did I say that? Why is it that whenever I meet someone who has lost their sight, I’m unfailingly clumsy? Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice. Her husband poked around for another piece of flesh. She ate her soup. I nodded at Judith and left.

Judith came back with me to the reception area. By now all the other writers had taken their keys and mine was the only one remaining.

‘I’ll see you at four thirty,’ she said. ‘And then afterwards at The Divers Inn. Call me if there’s anything you need.’

I took my key and my suitcase and went up to the second floor. The rooms at the hotel had been given various designations – Platinum, Silver, Premium and so on. I noticed from the card that had been given to me with the key that mine was simply a Guest Room. It was small, with two single beds, two chairs, two pictures of Braye and, disappointingly, a view over the car park. But it was comfortable enough and I would only be here for two nights.

I unpacked and took out my laptop but I was too tired to work. It had been a long day and I’d had to get up early to meet Hawthorne at Waterloo. I had a book to read but in the end I dozed off, stretched out on the bed.

I was woken by a loud banging on the door. As I opened my eyes and stumbled to my feet, slightly ashamed to be found asleep in the middle of the afternoon, I realised that it was not actually my door but the one belonging to the neighbouring room. It opened and closed again.

Almost at once, an argument began on the other side of the wall. Some of the words were indistinct, but as the two people raised their voices I was able to hear whole sentences.

‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d be here?’

‘I’m sorry, Marc. I didn’t know.’

‘You accepted the invitation.’

‘I asked you! You said it was all right!’

It was Marc Bellamy and his assistant, Kathryn Harris. He was the one who had knocked on the door so the room must be hers. His voice grew louder and more violent.

‘I can’t bloody stay here!’

‘I’m sorry …’ She sounded on the edge of tears.

‘You’ve really screwed up.’

I heard the sound of an impact. He had either kicked something or thrown something at her and it was enough to get me to open my door, half afraid for her safety.

I was just in time to see Marc Bellamy go storming past. He didn’t notice me. His fists were clenched. He was staring straight ahead.

He had murder in his eyes.

4 The Ace of Spades