An Unwanted Guest(68)

David has returned to the dining room, summoned again by Sergeant Sorensen. He wonders wearily what she wants with him. He’s told her everything he knows. What he wants right now is sleep.

‘Mr Paley,’ Sorensen says after a long pause.

Her voice has changed. It’s not quite as friendly as before and his body tightens automatically, as if expecting a blow.

‘I know who you are.’

The blow is delivered, exactly the one he was expecting. ‘I’ve told you who I am,’ he answers coldly.

She nods. ‘You gave me your name, yes. You didn’t tell me everything, did you?’

‘Why would I, when it’s not relevant?’

‘Perhaps it is relevant,’ she says.

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Candice White was writing a book.’

‘Yes,’ David admits. ‘That’s what she said.’

‘Do you know what it was about?’

‘I have no idea,’ he says, feeling uneasy. ‘She didn’t say.’ He adds, ‘None of us had ever heard of her.’ He feels his heart sink. Here it comes, he thinks.

‘You are still under suspicion for the murder of your wife, are you not?’

‘No.’

‘That’s not exactly true, is it?’ she prods.

He looks at her angrily. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say. I was arrested and the charges were dropped, as I’m sure you know. There was insufficient evidence to proceed. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. I don’t consider myself under investigation any longer.’

‘Oh, but you are, of course. These investigations don’t just stop, do they? Just because they don’t have enough to nail you now, doesn’t mean they won’t have enough to nail you down the road.’ She pauses. ‘A good police officer never gives up. You must know that. They just go about it more quietly.’

‘What’s your point?’ he asks angrily.

‘I’m just wondering if you might have been in mortal fear of someone writing a book about you – and what Candice might have had to say about the murder of your wife.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I told you – I’d never heard of her. She wasn’t writing a book about me.’ His head feels light, and his heart is beating far too quickly. He knows he didn’t murder Candice. Or anyone else. She’s barking up the wrong tree.

‘I hope not.’ She adds, ‘But it’s been brought to my attention that Candice White is known for writing true crime books.’

David feels himself go pale.

‘In any case, it’s just a matter of time until we get into her laptop, and then we will see,’ she says. ‘That’s all for now. You may go.’





Chapter Thirty-four


Sunday, 1:45 PM


SERGEANT SORENSEN SITS back heavily. She doesn’t know how much longer it will be until the crime team gets here. She looks impatiently at her watch. After spending hours in chilly rooms, drinking endless hot coffee, she’s starting to appreciate what it must have been like to be trapped in this godforsaken hotel for the weekend with no power. She can’t even imagine the rest of it.

But the evidence is there. At least three people have been murdered. Another has probably died from exposure, having fled the hotel in terror. And a fifth has died under suspicious circumstances. The survivors are clearly traumatized.

She calls in Ian Beeton, the one they’re afraid of, the one some of them seem to think might be the killer. Ian appears pale and apprehensive as he enters the dining room. He regards her warily. She wonders what he thinks is worse – being accused by the others in the middle of the night when their fear and paranoia were at their greatest, or being questioned by the police in the cold light of day.

He must be under the most terrific strain, she thinks. She says, ‘Please have a seat.’

He sits down and looks at her as if he’s expecting to be arrested. She wonders if he will be the first one to refuse to talk to her after she cautions him.

But he nods assent and glances nervously towards the lobby where the others are gathered; the glass doors are closed. Haltingly, guided by her questions, he gives his own account of the weekend. He denies ever having met or heard of Dana Hart or Candice White. He tells her he’s as shocked by the murders as everyone else.

‘The others think you did it,’ she says.

‘They’re crazy. I didn’t kill anyone,’ he says defensively. ‘It could have been any of them.’

‘Who do you think did it?’

He’s silent for a moment, and then says, ‘I don’t know.’

She raises her eyebrows deliberately. ‘No idea at all?’

‘I’m not a detective,’ he says stubbornly. ‘But whoever did it must be crazy. This whole situation is crazy.’ He licks his lips nervously. ‘Honestly, last night I was scared for my life. If it wasn’t for David – if it hadn’t been for him, they might have murdered me. That asshole Henry suggested it. David managed to calm him down.’

She looks back at him impassively. ‘And now Henry is dead, too.’

He looks up. ‘I had nothing to do with that, either, I swear!’

‘We don’t know how he died yet,’ she tells him. ‘There will be an autopsy, of course. That’s all for now. You may go back to the lobby.’