worried glance.
‘I’m from the North West Division of Bradford Police,’ he told her, showing his warrant card.
‘Oh!’ She bit her lip.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Swift reassured her. ‘But I would like to speak to him. Do you have a register of names here?’
Her face showed relief at being able to offer some help. ‘Yes, we do. Would you like me to look at it?’
He followed her through to the bar where she took a leather diary from a drawer in an oak dresser. She placed it on the bar and opened it up to show the current week. ‘There!’ she said with some triumph, finding the name for him. ‘They’re in Room 6.’
Swift looked over her shoulder. Brunswick had signed in on the previous Monday. Mr and Mrs Brunswick, he had written, in barely legible script, consistent with a doctor’s writing. It seemed clear what the scenario was. He felt a pang for the fiery Harriet.
He spoke again to the girl, who was waiting wide-eyed. ‘Could you ring through to the room and ask him to come down to speak to me?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes, of course.’ She fiddled about a little with the small switchboard on the bar and eventually raised an answer from Room 6. ‘He’ll be with you in just a minute,’ she told Swift.
‘Would you like to sit in the snug?’ she said gaining confidence now. ‘It’s nice and quiet in there at this time of day.’
Swift duly followed her and settled himself on a dark-red velvet sofa which was a paler dusky pink on the arms and cushions from the pressure of numerous hands and bottoms over the years. The girl offered him coffee and newspapers. ‘I’m quite happy just to wait,’ he told her, smiling.
‘Right, I’ll tell him where you are when he comes down,’ she said, heading back to the dining room.
Charles Brunswick did not keep him waiting. Within a couple of minutes he was striding into the parlour, a sharp-featured, flame-haired man who had to duck his head in order to avoid the oak beam over the entry door. He homed in on Swift, extending his hand and greeting him with cheery camaraderie. ‘Charles Brunswick. How can I help you?’
Swift shook the offered hand and showed his warrant card.
‘A DCI, no less,’ Brunswick exclaimed. He sat himself in a sofa opposite the one Swift had been sitting in and looked at him expectantly. ‘I’m assuming this is about Christian Hartwell. I spoke to Harriet on the phone last night and she told me the sad news.’
And plenty more besides, Swift judged. ‘What do you know so far, sir?’ Swift asked, thinking that if Brunswick was in any way worried about this turn of events he was making a very good job of hiding it.
‘Harriet said he had been found dead in some woodland area not too far away from here. Fallen off a crag, apparently. What a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Yes,’ Swift said.
‘I can’t pretend I’m devastated by the news,’ Brunswick said. ‘I hardly knew the guy. And when we did meet we’d very little in common.’
Swift thought of Harriet’s desert story and noted that Brunswick was being economical with the truth.
‘So why are you contacting me?’ Brunswick followed up.
‘We’ve reason to believe we shouldn’t rule out foul play regarding Christian’s death. We’re treating it as murder.’
‘Is that so?’ He frowned. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. So, you’re contacting all Christian’s friends and enemies, eliminating them from your enquiries. Is that it?’ His tone had become ironic and faintly patronizing.
‘Yes,’ said Swift, noting that he wasn’t actually wielding the shining sword of truth himself.
‘Are you on the search for alibis?’
‘That could be helpful,’ Swift said, noting the way Brunswick was trying to get the upper hand by taking it upon himself to ask the questions.
‘What was the estimated time of death?’ Brunswick asked, brisk and business-like.
‘We don’t have a very precise estimate, sir. However, it would be helpful if
‘I’m from the North West Division of Bradford Police,’ he told her, showing his warrant card.
‘Oh!’ She bit her lip.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Swift reassured her. ‘But I would like to speak to him. Do you have a register of names here?’
Her face showed relief at being able to offer some help. ‘Yes, we do. Would you like me to look at it?’
He followed her through to the bar where she took a leather diary from a drawer in an oak dresser. She placed it on the bar and opened it up to show the current week. ‘There!’ she said with some triumph, finding the name for him. ‘They’re in Room 6.’
Swift looked over her shoulder. Brunswick had signed in on the previous Monday. Mr and Mrs Brunswick, he had written, in barely legible script, consistent with a doctor’s writing. It seemed clear what the scenario was. He felt a pang for the fiery Harriet.
He spoke again to the girl, who was waiting wide-eyed. ‘Could you ring through to the room and ask him to come down to speak to me?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes, of course.’ She fiddled about a little with the small switchboard on the bar and eventually raised an answer from Room 6. ‘He’ll be with you in just a minute,’ she told Swift.
‘Would you like to sit in the snug?’ she said gaining confidence now. ‘It’s nice and quiet in there at this time of day.’
Swift duly followed her and settled himself on a dark-red velvet sofa which was a paler dusky pink on the arms and cushions from the pressure of numerous hands and bottoms over the years. The girl offered him coffee and newspapers. ‘I’m quite happy just to wait,’ he told her, smiling.
‘Right, I’ll tell him where you are when he comes down,’ she said, heading back to the dining room.
Charles Brunswick did not keep him waiting. Within a couple of minutes he was striding into the parlour, a sharp-featured, flame-haired man who had to duck his head in order to avoid the oak beam over the entry door. He homed in on Swift, extending his hand and greeting him with cheery camaraderie. ‘Charles Brunswick. How can I help you?’
Swift shook the offered hand and showed his warrant card.
‘A DCI, no less,’ Brunswick exclaimed. He sat himself in a sofa opposite the one Swift had been sitting in and looked at him expectantly. ‘I’m assuming this is about Christian Hartwell. I spoke to Harriet on the phone last night and she told me the sad news.’
And plenty more besides, Swift judged. ‘What do you know so far, sir?’ Swift asked, thinking that if Brunswick was in any way worried about this turn of events he was making a very good job of hiding it.
‘Harriet said he had been found dead in some woodland area not too far away from here. Fallen off a crag, apparently. What a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Yes,’ Swift said.
‘I can’t pretend I’m devastated by the news,’ Brunswick said. ‘I hardly knew the guy. And when we did meet we’d very little in common.’
Swift thought of Harriet’s desert story and noted that Brunswick was being economical with the truth.
‘So why are you contacting me?’ Brunswick followed up.
‘We’ve reason to believe we shouldn’t rule out foul play regarding Christian’s death. We’re treating it as murder.’
‘Is that so?’ He frowned. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. So, you’re contacting all Christian’s friends and enemies, eliminating them from your enquiries. Is that it?’ His tone had become ironic and faintly patronizing.
‘Yes,’ said Swift, noting that he wasn’t actually wielding the shining sword of truth himself.
‘Are you on the search for alibis?’
‘That could be helpful,’ Swift said, noting the way Brunswick was trying to get the upper hand by taking it upon himself to ask the questions.
‘What was the estimated time of death?’ Brunswick asked, brisk and business-like.
‘We don’t have a very precise estimate, sir. However, it would be helpful if
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