“Detective Inspector?”
Fleet turned, caught unawares by the voice at the open door. He sat up straighter, and slipped the ring back onto his finger. Another futile gesture, it occurred to him.
“Anne,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. And it’s Rob, please.”
The hotelier was wearing pajama bottoms and a hoodie, her hair loose across her shoulders. It was such a change from her customary primness, Fleet almost hadn’t recognized her. Certainly she looked younger than he’d assumed her to be. Perhaps early rather than late forties. Her coloring—dark hair, gray eyes—was similar to Holly’s.
Anne took a step into the room. Her feet were bare, Fleet noticed. She had a tattoo that might have been a feather at the fold of her left ankle—another surprise.
“You didn’t wake me,” she said. “I didn’t even hear you come in. Would you like a light on?” Rather than switching on the overhead light, she moved to a corner and turned on a side lamp. Instantly the room felt warmer. It was the guests’ lounge, Anne had informed Fleet when he’d checked in, with half a dozen comfortable armchairs scattered around the room in pairs, and a television in the corner farthest from the door that Fleet had never seen switched on. In fact, he’d never seen any of the chairs occupied either, though he knew there were other guests staying at the hotel.
“What time is it?” said Fleet, even as he moved to check his watch. The hands on the dial showed him it was just before midnight. He’d left the station not long after ten. “God, sorry. I only meant to sit here for a minute.”
Anne tucked her hands into her armpits. “Tough day?” she said. Then, flushing, “You don’t need to answer that. They’re all tough at the moment, I would imagine.”
Fleet winced his agreement.
“I actually came down to get a drink,” Anne said. “A proper drink, I mean. Would you like one?”
Once again Fleet looked at his watch. “Well, I . . .”
Anne freed her hands and made a flustered motion. “I’m interrupting. And you already told me you weren’t much of a drinker.” Fleet had, when he’d checked in and Anne had offered him directions to the local amenities, which in this area amounted to a corner shop, a café and a pub.
Anne smiled awkwardly and turned away.
“You know what?” Fleet said, as she retreated toward the door. “I’d love a drink. I could do with something to help me sleep.”
Anne studied him for a moment, as though testing his sincerity. “Really? You’re certain you don’t want to be left alone?”
“Really,” Fleet assured her.
She smiled. “Brandy OK?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
She wasn’t gone long. When she returned she had a tumbler in each hand.
“May I?” she said, gesturing to the armchair opposite Fleet’s.
“Please,” he said, making room.
“To be honest, I’m not much of a drinker either,” said Anne, when she was settled. She’d tucked her feet underneath herself on the seat.
“So what’s the occasion?” said Fleet, raising his glass at her and then taking a sip. He didn’t care much for the taste, never really had, but the burn was exquisite.
Anne gave a lopsided shrug. “The same as you, I suppose. Can’t sleep. I rarely can when the place is empty.”
She tested her own drink and gave a slight grimace.
“Empty?” said Fleet. “I thought there was a couple in the room opposite mine? And I saw a third room key missing from the hooks.”
Anne smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you you’d make a good detective?” Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “They checked out this afternoon,” she said. “Both couples. The weather, you know?”
Fleet joined her in looking out of the window. If he was honest, he was surprised anyone would want to visit the town in the first place, rain or no rain. But with the weather what it was, and the beach no longer an attraction, there was certainly nothing else to keep them here. Other than morbid fascination, of course, which Fleet didn’t doubt would bring its own glut of visitors soon enough.
“Are you missing her?” said Anne, and for a moment Fleet’s stomach gave a lurch. “Or him, I suppose I should say. These days, I mean.”
Which threw Fleet completely. “Sorry, I . . .”
“Your wedding ring. I saw you playing with it. I’m prying again, I know, but it’s either that or ask you about your investigation. Or I suppose we could make small talk about the weather.”
Fleet looked down at his left hand. With relief, he realized, because he’d assumed at first that Anne had been asking him about someone else.
“It’s a her,” he said, with a smile. “And I do miss her. Although I should probably be getting used to it.” He looked up. “We’re separated. Soon to be divorced.”
Anne surprised him with her reaction. She didn’t seem concerned that she’d put her foot in it, or offer him the customary condolences. Instead, “I’d kind of figured,” she said.
“You had?”
Anne took a drink and shrugged. “I had you pegged as either a divorcée or a widower. My money was on widower.”
“What made you think that?” A widower, thought Fleet. Good grief. Was that really the persona he projected? At thirty-six years old.
“The fact that you’re staying here, for one thing,” said Anne. “And I field your phone calls, remember? If you were living with someone, I assume I would have spoken to them by now.”
Fleet couldn’t argue with the logic. “Maybe you missed your calling,” he said. “It seems I’m not the only detective in the room.”
Anne smiled at the drink in her lap. Sadly, Fleet thought.
“I almost did join the police force, as it happens. A long time ago now.”
“Oh?”
“But it was only to get back at my dad. A threat because he was such a bloody crook. Only small fry by your standards, I expect. Although everyone’s small fry in this town.”
Fleet gave a sniff at that.
“Anyway, my dad—he had a finger in whichever pie was cooking. A touch of fraud, a spot
