In Too Deep (28 page)

Which implies he would have paid with a card.

‘Unless . . .’ I say, packing up the files, ‘unless he went to visit the hotel in person to make sure it was OK, paying cash so it wouldn’t spoil the surprise.’ My mind is racing. It seems plausible.

I go into the bedroom and boot up my computer, searching through the hotel’s website, browsing their booking page and their deals. They currently have a couple of spa weekends on offer after the Easter holidays.

I scan the terms and conditions, reading through payment options . . . no charge if paying by debit card . . . a two-pound fee if a credit card is used. It doesn’t state anything about cash payments.

I’m certain that Susan told me she had a hair appointment about now. If I put on a different voice, if I dial 141 before the number, no one will know.

‘Hello,’ I say when the receptionist answers. ‘I’m enquiring about your online deals.’ I attempt a Scottish accent, whilst trying to sound older.

‘How may I help?’ the girl says. I think she’s the redhead I saw earlier.

‘I’d like to book one of your special offers, but would like to visit in person and pay cash. Is this possible?’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s not,’ she tells me. ‘All our online offers have to be paid for by card on the internet. If you were to book a regular stay with us, you could come in and pay cash in advance, though it’s not necessary. But for the offers, it’s advance payment with a card only.’

‘And no bending the rules? Not for anyone?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘The owner is very strict about this. It’s because of the special prices. Is there anything else I can help you with?’

‘No. No thanks,’ I say, momentarily forgetting the accent before hanging up.

I sit staring at the wall. Rick must have paid by card, so why isn’t there any evidence?

And if he didn’t pay, then who did?

Before I left to go back, I watered a couple of plants and flicked on some different lights to make it look as if we’re in. I locked up the house, and reversed out of the drive, beginning the hour-long journey. It gives me time to think.

I dialled Hannah’s number a few miles back, but there was no reply. I’m hoping her mood has lifted, that she’s had a nice morning, and perhaps even been hanging out with Tom. Perhaps an afternoon sightseeing will convince her to stay until Wednesday.

I pull into the car park. The old couple I encountered in the pool area are loading suitcases into their boot, preparing to leave.

‘Have a safe journey,’ I say, offering a little wave.

They each give me a concerned smile, watching me as I head towards the building.

Inside there’s no one manning the reception desk and I’m about to ring the little bell, but think better of it. I peer into the back office, leaning forward to see if I can see anyone.

‘Hello?’ I say, though not too loudly. I don’t want to attract attention.

The computer screen on the front desk glows. It’s been left logged in to the hotel system. The receptionist can’t have been gone long, and I wonder if I dare take a quick look. I might be able to find something out about payments received.

I go round behind the reception counter, poking my head through the office doorway.

‘Anyone here?’ I ask, giving a little knock.

Nothing.

Glancing around, I cup my hand over the mouse, having no idea how to operate a hotel software booking package, let alone find the specific details I’m after.

I click on the home button, randomly trying various links and options. Once I’ve located the accounts section, I see it’s not dissimilar to the system we use at work. Another window appears, showing an option to review past bookings and receipts. There are several more subheadings, one of which makes me hold my breath:
Internet Special Offers
.

There’s a box for the date range, so quickly I tap in a span broad enough to cover the time Rick would have made the booking. Then I put in the date of the actual break – last Friday until Wednesday this week. I hit search.

Only three results come up, and Forrester is not one of them. I take out the date of the break and run another search for all special offer bookings made since last autumn. The list is much longer so I sort them alphabetically. Again, none was made by Rick.

My heart is thumping, making me feel dizzy and sick. I hear voices passing outside the main front door, approaching but then receding again. Through the window, I see a family group walking away and admiring the gardens.

Dare I check inside the office?

My mind scans for excuses if I’m caught.

I was just looking for a pen . . . I needed some tape . . . Is there a first-aid kit?

I pause again, listening out. All seems quiet, so I creep into the office. There are two desks at right angles to each other, one strewn with papers and stacks of mail, the other clear and tidy. A quick glance tells me that there’s nothing of interest on the messy one, so I scan all the folders on a shelving unit against the wall.

Some files aren’t labelled, while some have handwritten descriptions. A couple are about kitchen food orders, linen supplies, there’s a fire drill log and a staff rota. The shelf below catches my eye, with several files labelled with accounting references.

Then I see the special offers folder. Stuffed inside are promotional leaflets going back several years, but there’s also a mock-up of a website page detailing the same offer that Rick booked for us. Buy four nights and get the fifth free, including two spa treatments for a standard double room.

Behind the advertising material, there are a few reports printed out. Someone has put a sticky note on one saying
For the accountant
. I’m trying to make sense of all the columns when I hear a noise.

Someone is coming.

I stand dead still, feeling myself break out in a sweat. In the foyer, a young woman calls out cheerily to a guest who’s passing through. It’s the girl I spoke to on the phone,
and she’s getting closer. My breath is loud and unsteady, rasping in and out as my panic builds.

Any moment now she’s going to catch me going through confidential papers.

‘Thanks for staying at Fox Court, Mrs Timms,’ she says. ‘Come back soon.’

Then another voice talking to her, coming from the direction of the bar. A male voice asking about reordering barrels for the cellar. Then I hear the chair squeak as she sits down behind the front desk. She makes a strange noise in her throat.

‘That’s odd,’ I hear her whisper, along with a couple of clicks of the mouse.

I have no idea what to do. There’s no way out of this office apart from walking right past her. Then I see her shadow approaching, folding around the door. Shoving the file back on the shelf, I force myself to stand upright with my arms folded tightly across my chest. I put on my sternest face.

‘Oh!’ she says, suddenly stopping when she sees me. She blushes furiously.

‘Susan is not going to be at all pleased.’ I tap my fingers on my arm. ‘In fact, we were discussing computer security and data protection last night over dinner.’

‘You were?’ she says, blushing even more.

I nod. ‘She really won’t be impressed that you left the computer logged in and the office unlocked. Anyone could have come prying, you know.’

‘Gosh, I’m so sorry.’ The girl stammers and I feel sorry
for her. ‘I-I just needed the bathroom in a hurry, and the phones were quiet and I wasn’t expecting any more checkouts and I just thought—’

‘That’s the thing, though. You didn’t think, did you?’ I pick up a random file off the messy desk, tapping it. ‘As I said, anyone could have come in and helped themselves to confidential information.’

‘Will you need to tell Susan?’

I frown. ‘Not if you help me find the information I’m looking for,’ I say, adding a smile. ‘I’m a consultant and I need to get some analysis reports done by the end of the day.’

For a moment, she gives me a mistrusting look, not sure she should help me with anything.

‘Or I could ask Susan.’

‘Yes, yes, of course I’ll help,’ she says quickly. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’ She walks towards me hesitantly.

I smile, placing the file back on the desk. But then I see something that makes my heart skip even more than it already is.

Poking out from under some papers is a letter with the familiar logo of Watkins & Lowe printed across the top. I’m just able to make out that the addressees are Susan and her husband, Phil. The body of the letter is obscured, but Adrian’s bold signature, scrawled in thick black ink, is quite clear at the bottom.

I leave the front desk in a daze. Nothing seems real or makes sense. I hear the receptionist offering up more apologies, telling me that if there’s anything else she can do for me then I mustn’t hesitate to let her know. Her voice is high-pitched and desperate.

I go to the main entrance door, feeling numb, tracking back over the last few minutes in excruciating detail – not that there’s much detail to be gone over. That’s the problem.

Jane, as I now know she’s called, searched the accounting system inside out with a few clicks of the mouse. She told me brightly and efficiently that no payment had ever been received from a Rick or Richard Forrester at any time in the hotel’s history, not just during the last few months. I disguised my rather specific request as the need for an example of how some payments have been getting lost from online bookings.

‘Any cash payment would have gone through the books and had a name assigned to it anyway, so there’s no chance
I’d have missed it.’ She gave me a doe-eyed look, trying to get on my good side. ‘Susan’s not like that. She’d never do anything dodgy.’

‘I’m sure not,’ I said thoughtfully.

So now I’m outside the hotel, staring across the sweeping grounds and beyond, wondering who, if it wasn’t Rick, paid for this five-night break for two in one of the Cotswolds’ most sought-after hotels.

My mind flashes back to the letter on the desk.

The green and blue colours of the Watkins & Lowe logo – capital letters entwined, with the outline of a house embedded within the ‘L’ – were unmistakable. Likewise, Adrian’s handwriting was distinctive. His signature, brash and barely legible, as though he was too important to be bothered to write clearly, was emblazoned across the bottom of the page.

Emblazoned on my mind.

The main body of the letter was obscured and impossible to read. I have no idea why Adrian would be writing to Susan and her husband, just as I now have no idea why I am staying in Susan’s hotel.

A chill works its way slowly down my spine – a raindrop on a window pane. But then I check myself, trying to think rationally.

We’re a local agency, but have a far-reaching reputation in the area. There’s a core of Oxfordshire clients, as well as investors from further afield – many recommended by existing portfolio-holders. Word of mouth, as Adrian keeps drumming into us at sales meetings, is vital in maintaining our market share.

The agency covers everything from estate auctions to regular homes, from rental properties to million-pound-plus houses. The letter on the desk means nothing. Adrian’s signature is not significant.

Therefore, I tell myself as I keep walking, Susan and her husband Phil receiving a letter or having business with Watkins & Lowe is not unlikely. In fact, it’s perfectly normal.

Perfectly normal
, I repeat over and over until it sounds silly. Nothing to do with my stay at Fox Court. Just a coincidence.

I head down the lawn, weaving a purposeless path to begin with, followed by a more decisive route tracking around the estate perimeter fence as my breathing steadies, as my mind settles into a more rational pattern. I thank Paula for showing me how to take control, to not let the dark thoughts crush me.

‘No one has forced you to come here,’ I say, feeling empowered. ‘No one is watching you, or playing games with you, or is even interested in you.’ I punctuate it with a decisive nod, finally accepting that I’m not going to find out what happened to Rick while I’m here, and that he’s not going to surprise me as I’d believed a few days ago. It seems ridiculous that I even thought that now, showing me that the time away has actually done me some good.

In our last session, Paula said something that stuck. ‘You’ll never forget your past, Gina, or the happy years you shared with Rick. But you’re going to have to parcel
that up and set it in a different place now. That’s the case whatever the outcome.’

I nodded, agreeing with her even though I didn’t want to.

‘And unlike the past, the present moment is the only thing you have control over. Make sure you enjoy each and every one.’

I stop, deciding to do just that – enjoy every moment. I look up at the hotel. The stone on the front façade is darker than the rest, having caught the earlier rain, and the windows are black and small – foreboding eyes tracking my progress. There’s a flash of something in one of the upstairs panes, perhaps Susan’s flat, but I don’t quite catch if it’s her or not.

I shake my head, walking on with my hands in my pockets. I take the path towards the car park, heading round the side and back of the building. An old stable block flanks what once would have been the servants’ entrance, with a small working clock tower on its roof.

The gravel crunches as I head over. I remember there was a back entrance to the hotel leading out from near the bar, and reckon it should be around here somewhere, saving me having to go through reception again. I don’t want to encounter anyone if at all possible.

I reach the stables. The old building has been converted to a triple garage, tastefully and sympathetically done. I imagine how it would once have looked, busy with grooms and horses, maids scurrying in and out of the kitchens.

I love old houses and through my work I’ve been lucky enough to visit many beautiful properties. Now I’m
thinking of Adrian again, and how he’s always made sure he takes the most prominent clients, grabbing the sure-fire buyers before Steph or I or anyone else in the office could have a chance.

Why has he written a letter to Susan and Phil?

I pull my phone from my pocket, dialling Steph’s direct line. I need to find out. While I’m waiting for it to connect, I peer through one of the stable block windows. It’s dark inside, though I’m still able to make out a few boxes stacked up at the back, as well as a couple of old bikes. At one end, small round tables are piled on top of each other, making a precarious tower, as well as some old bar stools taking up most of the left parking bay. The middle space is empty – just irregular stains of oil on the concrete floor.