William Rivers’s car was parked outside. The guest house was one of those seedy establishments that had a signboard boasting a sea view, but a sight of the sea could probably be achieved only by standing on a chair in the attic. Dave and I walked into the entrance hall and I banged a table bell on a desk that bore the optimistic sign ‘Welcome’. That the owner was a harridan in her fifties and as dowdy as the guest house itself came as no surprise. ‘We haven’t got any vacancies,’ said this vision of loveliness, viewing Dave with obvious distaste. ‘That’s all right, this is the last place on earth I’d want to stay,’ said Dave, who was quick to recognize a racist when he met one. ‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘I want to speak to Mr Rivers, one of your guests.’ ‘I don’t know as how he’s in,’ said the woman, obviously intent upon being as obstructive as possible. I got the impression that she didn’t like the police and idly wondered why, but it wasn’t my concern.
