maybe he’d been inside all day too. Or perhaps he’d been trained to please. ‘Of course. That’s a splendid idea.’ Out in the light she realized he was even younger than she’d thought.
He led her away from the building down a narrow path to one of the terraces and a pond, sheltered by laurels and rhododendrons. The shiny leaves reflected the light, but the water was in shadow. They sat on a white wrought-iron bench with their backs to the sun, looking down at the sea. This was miles away from the grey houses in Hope Street, youths lurking at the end of the road, the Big Issue sellers and the homeless guy blank-eyed in his tatty sleeping bag. This was like a secret paradise.
‘How we can help?’
‘Have you seen the local TV news today?’
He shook his head. ‘We’re gearing up for the new season. I’m afraid I haven’t stopped since I came on shift at seven.’
‘A former employee of the hotel was found dead yesterday afternoon. We’re treating his death as suspicious.’ Jen couldn’t believe that word hadn’t got out through social media, through other colleagues.
‘Oh God! Who was it?’
‘A man called Simon Walden. He worked in the kitchen.’ She turned towards him but couldn’t read anything from his face. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘Simon. Yes.’
‘Well? Can you tell me anything about him? Like why someone might have wanted to kill him.’
He didn’t speak for a moment. Jen could hear waves breaking on the sand below them.
When he did speak, the old-fashioned politeness and gentility had disappeared. ‘There were times when I would have gladly killed him myself.’
‘Why?’
‘He was moody and people took against him.’ Another pause. ‘Managing the guests here is easy compared to managing the staff. When we took Walden on, I thought he’d fit in well. He’d been in the forces and people are thrown together in the army, aren’t they? It’s all about being part of a team.’
‘But Walden wasn’t a team player?’
Sutherland gave her a brief smile. ‘Unfortunately not. Some days he’d never speak. He seemed to suck the energy out of the kitchen.’ A pause. ‘And he was a drinker. That’s not unusual in this business. Your body clock gets thrown by the strange shifts, so it doesn’t seem wrong to keep drinking when everyone else is just about to wake up. He functioned, still turned up for work every day, but there was no attempt to get on with his colleagues.’
‘Did anyone specific take against him?’ In the distance, Jen heard a child laughing. She thought next time she had a free weekend she’d drag the kids away from their screens and their school work and bring them down here for a picnic.
Sutherland didn’t speak for a moment. He’d be reluctant to point suspicion towards an individual employee. She didn’t blame him. He was relatively young to hold a position of such responsibility. Some of the kitchen staff would be older, intimidating. Not the sort you’d want to offend when the hotel’s reputation depended largely on the quality of the food.
‘I could come in, demand to see all your staff records.’ She kept her voice reasonable. ‘That would be time-consuming just as you’re preparing for the season. Or I could check through Revenue and Customs … That would go down well with your employees.’
Sutherland shrugged. He knew when resistance was no longer an option. ‘It’s the chef. Danny Clarkson.’ He paused as if Jen should know the name. ‘He’s a celebrity if you know anything about this business; gets reviews that some people would die for. He’s the reason the restaurant is fully booked, even in the winter when we have fewer guests. Walden wound him up. Clarkson’s got a temper. He’s one of those quiet men who suddenly lose control if things aren’t right or what they expect. A genius but close to the edge. It’s Clarkson’s kitchen and he’s boss there. Maybe they were too similar to work together happily.’ Sutherland got to his feet. ‘I’ll take you through.’
‘Just one more question first. If Walden was such a nightmare, why did you agree to employ him again this season?’
Sutherland shuddered as if the idea was anathema. ‘But we didn’t. There was no way we would have had him back.’
* * *
Clarkson was small, wiry, a head shaved so closely that he looked almost bald, the skull obvious beneath the stubbled skin, gingery eyelashes. Chef’s whites that seemed as crisp as when they’d come out of the laundry. He was bent over