Darkness Falls (Kate Marshall, #3)(32)

The row of shops curved sharply to the right and turned into Walpole Street, which was more residential and made up of terraced houses. At the end of the road was a large four-story house painted crisp white with a new roof of slate blue. The beautiful sash windows shone, and written on a sign above the door was a silver number 11 and JESPER’S EST 2009. There were five stars under the sign, indicating it was a hotel.

There was an elegant outdoor terrace on the pavement, and every table was occupied. Clear glass space heaters warmed the diners with the flicker of tall flames. Tristan found a parking space farther down the road and pulled over.

“How does a squatter end up having his name above a five-star hotel?” he said. Kate took her phone out of her pocket and googled “Jesper’s hotel commune.”

“Here we go, fifth result down: ‘Exeter squatter wins right to prime property,’” said Kate, holding up the article on her phone. “‘A local squatter has become the legal owner of an eighteenth-century townhouse on Walpole Street in Exeter, where he has lived for more than twelve years. Max Jesper, forty-five, was handed the title deeds to the townhouse, thought to be worth over one million pounds, after developers threatened to evict him. Mr. Jesper made a successful claim under squatter’s rights, a Land Registry spokeswoman said. The property was previously owned and run as a boardinghouse. The owner died in 1974, and her descendant, who lived in Australia, inherited, and the property fell into disrepair. The property was sold to developers in 2009, and they sought to evict Mr. Jesper. He was able to prove he had been the sole occupier of the property for the past twelve years and made a successful claim under what is called squatter’s rights.’”

Tristan moved closer as they peered at the photo. “He looks like a real hippie,” he said.

The photo of Max Jesper had been taken on a gray, overcast day in front of the building. He had both thumbs up, and in one of his hands he held a lit cigarette. He was a wild-looking man with spiky black hair and ripped jeans. The building in the photo looked nothing like its current splendor. It was half-derelict with broken windows and big holes in the plaster, and there was a small tree growing out through a hole in the roof.

“Do you want to go inside and have a coffee?” asked Kate. “I’m intrigued to see what it looks like and if Max Jesper is there.” Tristan nodded.

As they got out of the car, there was a rumble of thunder in the darkening sky, and it started to rain. The rain quickly turned into a downpour, and Kate and Tristan made a run for the hotel. Kate hooked the collar of her jacket over her head, but she was instantly soaked by the heavy rain.

The people who had been happily dining on the terrace were hurrying into the front entrance with bags and coats—some of them carried their plates of food and glasses, and a group of six handsome young waiters were helping to move people inside.

The main entrance opened out into a small reception area with a staircase. High above the desk was a stained-glass skylight that cast colored light across the pale-blue carpet. Tristan stood for a moment, dripping, in shock at the sudden downpour. He shook his head and wiped his face with his sleeve. Kate found a tissue in her bag and wiped her face. She watched as several heavily made-up women hurried through the reception area to the bathrooms to fix their hair and makeup and was glad for her low-maintenance look.

A door led into a large restaurant and bar. The crowd of people who’d come rushing inside barely filled a quarter of the tables. They passed a long glass bar backed by row after row of bottles all lit up in different colors. There looked to be every kind of alcohol under the sun, along with vintage champagnes and wines. Kate felt overwhelmed by it for a second and had to force herself to keep moving. She followed Tristan past the tables to a seated area next to a fireplace where a row of glass windows looked over a walled garden and, beyond, the river. They sat down in a couple of comfortable armchairs, close to where a large fire blazed in a stone fireplace.

A dark-haired waiter approached where they were sitting. He had a smoldering beauty and looked like he’d stepped out of a perfume advert.

“Blimey, it’s chucking it down out there,” he said in a sibilant cockney accent, his voice not quite matching the impression his looks gave. “What can I getcha, love?”

“Two cappuccinos, thank you,” said Kate.

“Back in a jiffy.” He smiled, pausing to look Tristan up and down, and went off back to the bar.

“This place is posh,” said Tristan, looking around. “I’ve never been in a five-star hotel.”

“Does Ashdean have a five-star hotel?” asked Kate, looking around at the opulent bar, trying to work it out.

“No. The only four-star hotel, Brannigan’s, lost a star last year when they found rats in the rotisserie . . . How do squatter’s rights work?”

“If a squatter is able to enter an empty or uninhabited building without breaking in and then lives in the building uninterrupted without legal challenge for twelve years, the squatter can apply for the right to own the property,” said Kate.

“So when Max Jesper became the legal owner of this place, he would have been able to borrow money against it?”

“Yes, but to turn a derelict property into this would mean a huge investment,” said Kate, looking up at the crown moldings on the ceiling. “And he did it so fast—in two years.”

Tristan got up and went to look at a display of photos on the wall next to the bar. Kate followed him. The photos were of famous people who had visited the restaurant, ranging from the worlds of sports, acting, and reality television, and there were some politicians too.