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.
“Who would know that so many famous people come to Exeter?” said Tristan. Max Jesper was in each photo. He was still recognizable but was now well groomed, with a full head of dyed brown hair, a tan, and a tailored suit. He looked to be in his fifties, and there was an old rock star vibe about him.
“Max Jesper has cleaned himself up,” said Kate.
“New teeth too,” said Tristan. “He didn’t have those pearly whites in the other photo.”
The waiter approached with their coffees on a silver tray. Kate and Tristan went back to where they were sitting.
“Is that the owner in the photos with all of the celebrities?” asked Kate, indicating the wall.
“Yes, that’s Maximillian Jesper, the owner,” he said reverently, taking two cappuccinos off the tray. The foam on each coffee sat four inches above the rim. “We had Joanne Collins in last week.”
“Do you mean Joan Collins?” asked Kate.
“Yeah. She was nice. But all of those people are happy to have their photo taken if they come to stay or come for a function.”
“What kind of functions do you do here?”
“All sorts: weddings, parties, conferences.”
“Have you met many celebrities?”
“Loads. I’ve been here for three years while I study,” he said, setting their cappuccinos down. The towering froth on their cappuccinos was now spilling over.
“Is the owner here? I’d like to talk to him,” said Kate.
“Is there a problem? The steam arm is a bit unpredictable on the new coffee machine.”
Kate smiled. “No. I’m trying to track down someone that he might know.”
“I can ask. He’s got a lot of meetings today, though,” said the waiter. “What’s the name of the person?”
“It would be great if we could talk to him,” said Kate, not wanting to give Jesper the excuse to say he didn’t know David Lamb before he saw them. The waiter looked nervous.
“Okay. I’ll go and ask,” he said and went off toward the back of the bar. Kate and Tristan got up and resumed looking at the wall of photos.
Tucked away in the corner, next to a light switch, were a couple of larger frames. One held a group photo of the staff in their uniforms with Max, standing in front of the bar. The second was taken at the front of the building. A crowd of people stood around Max, who was cutting a red ribbon across the main entrance. The obligatory mayor in his gold chain was standing next to Max, beaming. Kate peered closer, recognizing one of the faces in the crowd—a man, standing to the right and smiling broadly, his face a little red, presumably from drink.
“That’s Noah Huntley,” said Kate. She got out her mobile phone and took a photo of the picture and then another of the photo of Max with all the waiters.
“What’s Noah Huntley doing in the photo? If the hotel opened in 2009, that was seven years after he got kicked out of Parliament,” said Tristan.
They heard someone clearing their throat. They jumped and turned around. Max Jesper was standing behind them with the young waiter. He was taller than he looked in the photos. He wore tight black jeans, a white shirt open at the neck, and brightly colored trainers. A mobile phone and a pair of glasses hung around his neck on lanyards.
“Hello,” he said in a fruity, refined voice with a rasping edge of cigarettes. “Bishop here said you were looking for someone?” He smiled, flashing a brilliant white set of veneers. He made no secret of looking them both up and down, almost as if he were scanning a bar code. “Who are you?”
“I’m Kate Marshall, and this is Tristan Harper. We’re private detectives.”
“Oh yes?” he said. His blue eyes had a hardness to them. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
“We’re trying to find a young man called David Lamb. He lived here between 1996 and around June 1999, when this was a commune.”
Tristan had his phone ready with the photo of David and held it out. Max slipped on his glasses, taking the phone from Tristan and peering at the screen.
“Blimey, that’s a few years ago. Hmm, handsome lad, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“His friend Shelley Morden lived here with him between 1996 and 1997. They were from Wolverhampton,” said Kate.