“We were.” The woman spoke with regret.
“We bought in eighty-six when the economy was booming.” She took a pair of glasses from her pocket and popped them on her nose, leaning forward to examine the photograph.
“Oh, yes, I remember her very well. Big girl. She and her husband came most Sundays during that summer. Used to book the room for the day and go home in the evening.” She sighed.
“It was a wonderful arrangement. We were always able to let the room again for the Sunday night. Double pay for one twenty-four-hour period.” She heaved another sigh.
“Chance’d be a fine thing now. I wish we could sell, I really do, but what with so many of the small hotels going bankrupt we wouldn’t even get what we paid for it.
Soldier on, that’s all we can do.”
Roz brought her back to Olive by tapping the photograph.
“What did she and her husband call themselves?”
The woman was amused.
“The usual, I should think. Smith or Brown.”
“Did they sign in?”
“Oh, yes. We’re very particular about our register.”
“Could I take a look?”
“Don’t see why not.” She opened a cupboard under the desk and sorted out the register for 1987. “Now, let me see. Ah, here we are. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. Well, well, they were more imaginative than most.”
She twisted the book so that Roz could look at it.
She gazed at the neat script and thought: Got you, you bastard.
“This is the man’s handwriting.” She knew already.
“Oh, yes,” said the woman.
“He always signed. She was a lot younger than he was and very shy, particularly at the beginning.
She gained in confidence as time passed, they always do, but she never put herself forward. Who is she?”
Roz wondered if the woman would be so keen to help once she knew, but there was no point in keeping it from her. She would learn all the details the minute the book appeared.
“Her name’s Olive Martin.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She’s serving a life sentence for murdering her mother and sister.”
“Good lord! Is she the one who-‘ She made chopping motions with her hands. Roz nodded.
“Good Lord!”
“Do you still want the Belvedere mentioned?”
“Do I heck!” She beamed broadly.
“Of course I do! A murderess in our hotel. Fancy! We’ll have a plaque put up in the bedroom. What are you writing exactly? A book? A magazine article? We’ll provide photographs of the hotel and the room she stayed in. Well, well, I must say. How exciting! If only I’d known.”
Roz laughed. It was a coldbloodedly ghoulish display of pleasure at another’s misfortune but she couldn’t find it in her heart to criticise. Only a fool would look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Before you get too excited,” she warned, ‘the book probably won’t be published for another year and it will be an exoneration of Olive, not a further condemnation. Yeu see, I believe she’s innocent.”
“Better and better. We’ll have the book on sale in the foyer. I knew our luck had to turn eventually.” She beamed at Roz.
“Tell Olive she can stay here free of charge for as long as she likes the minute she gets out of prison. We always look after our regulars.
Now, my dear, anything else I can help you with?”
“Do you have a photocopying machine?”
“We do. Every mod. con. here, you know.”
“Then may I have a copy of this entry in the register? And perhaps you could also give me a description of Mr. Lewis.”
She pursed her lips.
“He wasn’t very memorable. Early fifties. Blond, always wore a dark suit, a smoker. Any good?”
“Maybe. Did his hair look natural? Can you remember?” The woman chuckled.
“There now, I’d forgotten. It never occurred to me till I took them in some tea one day and surprised him adjusting his wig in the mirror. I laughed afterwards, I can tell you. But it was a good one. I wouldn’t have guessed just by looking at him. You know him then?”
Roz nodded.
