4. A Matter of Life and Death #2
Sash windows stretch right the way throughout the six hundred square feet of space, bestowing panoramic views of the grey sky blurring into the grey sea.
A few boats—private charters and fishing vessels—rocky islands, and a lighthouse pepper the horizon.
Branches from nearby trees gently rap on the panes, but they’re not tall enough to spoil the endless vista from this third?storey room.
In my thirty-nine years, it’s by far the poshest place I’ve stepped foot inside, and now I know where the “from four hundred pounds per night” price tag comes into play.
I doubt this is an expense Gerald will happily cover, but I’m not about to mention anything just yet, lest I get shunted to an airbed in a cleaning cupboard under the pool heater.
“When you say activity, what exactly do you mean?” I ask, peering my head into the bathroom. A clawfoot bathtub larger than my entire kitchen back home sits proudly in the centre. I wish I’d had enough foresight to buy some bubble bath on the trek here.
“Sightings mostly, unexplained noises, objects moving about, but there are . . . other things. For example, this room is always two or three degrees cooler than the rest of the hotel.”
I nod along like I’m actually paying the slightest bit of attention, and begin unpacking my recording kit onto the dressing table.
Helga’s eyes rake over the equipment. Hopefully she assumes it’s some sort of ghost hunting shit.
I take out the EMF walkie-talkie and the PolterPulse pew-pewer and place them next to my laptop, DJ controller, microphone, and headphones.
She smiles to herself. “Most people who’ve spotted The Phantom were in this room. We’ve had apparitions in this corner . . .” She points to a cuck chair beside the window. “Sometimes sightings outside. A figure hovering above Enys Marow—”
“What’s that?”
“Enys Marow’s that little rock there. It means Dead Island.”
The sceptic in me rolls my eyes. No wonder they’re all ascribing the deaths and disappearances to supernatural causes. With names like Dead Island and Hell’s Cliff, the seeds of superstition were sown centuries ago.
I don’t roll my eyes, though. For the sake of my investigation, I keep my composure. “Ah, yes, of course.”
Helga continues. “Doors will open and close on their own. Lights turn on and off. Lightbulbs explode. Electrical items failing. Fuse boxes burning themselves out. I’ve had reports of hearing children’s laughter in the middle of the night.”
Okay, yeah, not gonna lie, that one’s creepy if it’s true.
“I mean, the list goes on and on. Meals going bad moments after they’ve been served. Water temperatures suddenly plummeting, unexplained creaking noises and footsteps.”
But almost everything she tells me brings a ready explanation to mind.
Out of date food, poor hygiene in the kitchens, faulty boilers.
A one?hundred?and?twenty-six?year?old building is bound to have a few creaky floorboards now and then, and subsidence and Atlantic storms are also very plausible reasons for the phenomena.
“And of course there have been the disappearances . . .”
Less explainable, obviously.
“And the deaths . . .”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. To solve the . . . uh, sort this out,” I say.
“I hope so.” Helga whispers the next part, as though it’s not just her and me in the hotel room.
“The spirits can be a menace at times. They’re .
. . putting guests off from staying here.
You know, I’m sure that’s their intention, to have the building all to themselves, but .
. . if they don’t pack this nonsense in soon, nobody’ll book with us, and we’ll have to shut the doors forever.
Imagine that. All this history, the town’s livelihood, eventually crumbling into the sea. ”
“Your husband died here, didn’t he?” I want to slip Imogen into the conversation, but starting with something closer to home might be the best angle for now.
That way I can work through each of the “mysterious deaths and disappearances” without going straight for the jugular.
“Do you attribute his death to the spirits here?”
Helga shrugs. She sucks in a deep breath and puffs it out slowly.
“All I know is that I didn’t marry a clown .
. . well, okay I did, but what I mean is that my Pete was a professional.
It was a stunt we’d done hundreds of times before.
Thousands. It’s all a con, fake swords, and trick angles, and secret chambers.
Smoke and mirrors, and yet . . .” She holds out her hands, palms up, as though she’s inspecting them.
“Like I told the police officer at the time, there was no resistance when I pushed that sword in. Surely if I’d driven it through flesh and bone, I would’ve felt . . . crunching, you know?”
“It’s certainly strange circumstances, that’s for sure. And you’re convinced spirits had something to do with it?” I ask. If she’s written Peter’s death off as a ghost-related fatality, there are likely pieces of evidence nobody’s bothered to look into, and the same can probably be said for Imogen.
“I didn’t at first, but I don’t know what other explanation there is.”
“So, Peter died in 1984. Were there any other mysterious deaths before or after his?” Hopefully we’re done talking about her ex-husband. Now’s my chance to move the conversation towards matters concerning my investigation.
“After, yes . . .” She chews on her bottom lip and gazes out the window.
“Before? I’m not so sure. I’ve tried to look into it, but you have to know I was so young when Peter died.
He was my entire world. We met in Sweden in seventy-nine when I answered an ad to be his glamorous assistant.
We toured Europe together, did shows every night.
” When Helga looks at me her eyes are unfocused, landing some way over my head.
“After he died, I started working at The Paragon as a room attendant because I just felt like . . . God, how can I explain this without sounding like a crackpot? I felt like his soul never left this place. Like he’s waiting for me.
Like he has other things he needs to say to me. ”
“Unfinished business?” I’ve watched enough ghost stories in my life to understand how desperately the mind clings to the promise of closure.
“I guess so.”
“So, you believe Peter to be one of the six and a half ghosts of The Paragon Hotel?” I ask.
“It’s seven and a half now,” Helga says, almost absentmindedly. “That form should’ve been updated a while ago.”
She doesn’t answer my question. Perhaps she doesn’t want to. If she really believes I can get rid of these “ghosts” with my necro-Nerf gun, maybe it’s because she’s not ready to say goodbye to him.
I understand. She’s torn. Between wanting to keep the hotel afloat and keep her job and livelihood intact, and the knowledge that her husband is still nearby.
“Do you think Imogen Savona is one of the seven and a half ghosts?” I ask.
Helga startles. “Imogen’s body was never found. It took the police seven years to finally declare her death.”
I say nothing, just let the awkward silence press against her brain, demanding a better answer.
Eventually she obliges. “I’ve only counted the bodies that have been discovered on the hotel premises.
The official count since Peter died is seven and a half.
But there were others. Missing persons. People who have been working at The Paragon, or visiting for a vacation, and have simply .
. . vanished, just like that. Never to be seen again.
I have a tally in my office if you want the list of names? ”
I nod. “That would be great.”
If I can find a uniting thread between the inexplicable deaths and the missing persons, I could be one step closer to figuring out what happened to Imogen. We might be looking at a serial killer here, or organised crime, or people traffickers.
I’m desperately trying not to get too excited, but it’s difficult. Imagine uncovering a mass murderer. Imagine my findings leading to a conviction. Imagine seeing my face in national news outlets. Swindon lad solves scandal of the century. I think I’d probably orgasm myself to death.
“When was the most recent missing persons case and body discovered?”
“Body was . . . ooh, about eleven months ago, but you should know about that. Missing person . . . just before that, I guess.”
Eleven months . . .