But the hotel he was employed at now was rather more upmarket than the Light House had ever been, not to mention much easier to find. It stood on a rise overlooking Edendale town centre, with a view over Victoria Park towards the town hall and the market square. It was favoured by the more well-heeled tourists, and by production companies filming at locations in the area.
Lane was polishing glasses in a plush lounge bar behind the lobby. A few hotel guests sat around on sofas drinking coffee, rather than anything alcoholic. Cooper couldn’t recall the Light House ever serving coffee. Anyone who asked for it would have been pressing one of Mad Maurice’s red buttons.
It smelled very good, though, and Cooper was pleased when Lane offered him one.
‘Latte?’
‘Thank you.’
‘A pleasure.’
Cooper sat on a high stool at the counter to drink his coffee. Lane was older than he’d expected. Another mistaken preconception perhaps. He’d imagined a young man in his twenties, maybe Australian, doing a bit of bar work before finding a real job in marine biology or whatever his degree had been in.
But Lane was probably in his late thirties, a little over-weight, a discreet piercing in one ear, his hair gelled into short blond spikes.
‘Yes, I remember Merritt,’ he said when Cooper opened the subject.
‘Was there ever any trouble?’
‘With Aidan Merritt? No.’
Cooper detected a subtle hint there. He felt he should take that reply as an invitation to ask a different question. There was a bit of information that Lane wasn’t going to volunteer, but it was there to be obtained if he persisted.
‘Who, then?’ he asked.
‘There were other customers who weren’t so well behaved as Aidan Merritt.’
Okay, so that was the deal — Cooper needed to produce a name. He tried the first one that came to mind.
‘Ian Gullick?’
‘You’re close,’ said Lane.
‘This isn’t a guessing game,’ snapped Cooper.
He immediately regretted losing his patience. Many individuals would clam up when they were spoken to the wrong way.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Lane. ‘I’m just … well, I know we’re not exactly doctors or priests, but if people thought we were gossiping about them, it wouldn’t be good for business. I like to chat to my customers a bit — it makes them feel at ease. So they often end up telling me things they wouldn’t want to be passed on.’
‘Vince Naylor?’ said Cooper.
Lane visibly relaxed.
‘So there was trouble involving the two visitors, the Pearsons?’ asked Cooper.
‘A customer who’d had far too much to drink started trying to chat up … what’s her name? Trisha. I’d rather not be too specific, but you’ve mentioned the name already, so you’re halfway there.’
‘Okay.’
‘Anyway, he became a bit persistent, and it turned nasty very quickly. Her husband got into an argument with him. There would have been punches thrown, but Maurice stepped in.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He threw the drunk out, along with a couple of his friends who stuck up for him.’
‘But not the Pearsons.’
‘No, he let them stay. It wasn’t their fault, what had happened. Not at all. Though I think her hubby had a bit of a temper on him, you know. He looked like a man who’d try to sort out a problem with his fists, even if he was likely to come off worst. You understand what I mean, don’t you? You can see it in their eyes sometimes. You can tell someone who is a little bit too close to the edge, and won’t take much pushing to go over.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve seen people like that, especially when they’ve got a bit of alcohol inside them. Do you think Maurice Wharton could see it too?’
Lane shrugged. ‘He’d run pubs for a long time. He must have seen plenty of customers like that. You develop a nose for trouble after a while, I reckon. You learn to spot the type.’
‘He had a pub over in Chesterfield for a while, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, and in a pretty rough area, not far from the football ground. Now that place was never known for its food and accommodation. It’s a real drinker’s pub.’
‘So Maurice had enough experience to judge the situation and step in at exactly the right moment.’
‘Yes, I reckon that would be a fair summary. His word was enough to sort it out at that point. He didn’t need to call the dogs.’
‘Dogs?’
‘He had two Alsatians that lived out the back of the pub. He’d call them if there was real trouble. Not that it happened often at the Light House. They came with him from the Dragon.’
‘From where?’
‘The pub in Chesterfield. He needed them there.’
‘I see.’
‘I wasn’t up there at the Light House when it all kicked off, of course,’ said Lane. ‘I mean, the fuss about that couple going missing in the snowstorm. When the police arrived, it was Christmas Eve, as I recall — a Thursday. I’d done my last shift on the Tuesday night.’
‘Tuesday? Oh, and the pub wasn’t open after that, am I right?’