‘And this is the ballroom,’ said Louise. ‘It would have been laid out with tables and chairs for the bridge thing, though.’
Huge chandeliers hanging from an ornate curved ceiling, balconies overlooking a highly polished dance floor, red velvet curtains, a stage at the far end.
‘Sad, isn’t it?’
Dixon spun round to find them being watched by a dog walker standing at the barrier.
‘It’s been like this for a couple of years now,’ she continued. ‘An eyesore, it is, when you consider what it once was.’ Jeans and a green coat, an umbrella in one hand, two small terriers in the other. ‘Are you from the builders?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Shame. I’d like to give the useless lot a piece of my mind.’
‘Do you live locally?’ asked Dixon.
‘Those flats over there,’ she replied, gesturing to the other side of the road.
‘How long?’
‘Twenty-five years.’
‘So, you remember the fire in the ballroom?’
‘That was terrible,’ she said, grimacing at the memory. ‘It was the next day before they put it out. And the smell. The smell was the worst part; it lingered for months. It was worse when it rained, for some reason. The ballroom was rebuilt, though, and it all went back to normal. For a while.’
‘What’s happening to the site now?’
‘It was derelict for a couple of years, then it was bought by investors and the demolition took another couple of years. They got planning permission to build houses on the leisure centre bit, and the idea was that the proceeds from that would pay for the hotel to be rebuilt. Grand plans, they had. It was going to be five-star, no expense spared, luxury spa, rooftop bar, conference centre, you name it. The jewel in the crown of the English Riviera, they called it – huge bloody fanfare, there was. But it’s no longer financially viable, apparently.’
Dixon waited. He’d obviously touched a raw nerve and she was building up a head of steam.
‘Now an application’s gone in for more houses instead; sixty-seven of them.’ She scowled at Louise. ‘You’re not from the planning department, are you?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘They’re a useless bunch of—’ She stopped herself mid-sentence, glancing at Dixon’s Land Rover, the hazard lights flashing. ‘Who are you then?’
Dixon had been wondering when she would get around to that. ‘Police.’
The woman hesitated, unsure whether she could or should ask the obvious question.
‘We’re looking again at the ballroom fire,’ he said, putting her out of her misery.
‘He’s due out soon, the bugger who started it. It said so in the Torbay Gazette. On licence, or whatever it is they call it.’
‘Did you give a statement at the time?’
‘Yes, but there wasn’t anything I could say, really. I watched it from my window; never saw how it started or anything like that. First I knew about it was the sirens and flashing lights. He admitted starting the fire, so what bit of it are you interested in?’
‘It’s an unrelated case,’ replied Dixon. ‘Four victims, all of whom were here for the bridge tournament going on in the ballroom. We’re just exploring whether there might be a connection with what happened that night.’
‘I remember there was a bridge thing going on.’ Her dogs were sitting down on the wet pavement, waiting patiently to continue their walk. ‘But I don’t think it had anything to do with the fire, as such. It was a waiter; he’d been sacked and was getting his own back, and it all got a bit out of hand.’
A cheery wave and a ‘Good luck’ over her shoulder and she was gone.
‘Show me that photo again,’ said Dixon, turning back to Louise.
Green, with white detailing around the windows, four storeys, the ballroom off to the right, pine trees curving around behind it. A figure in a top hat and tails visible by the grand entrance, waiting to greet guests. It was a scene from a bygone age.
Now it was just rubble and abandoned building materials, delivered before they’d changed their minds about building the new hotel, probably; piles of breeze blocks wrapped in plastic, sections of huge concrete drainpipes, rusting steel girders.
Even the terrace had been torn up, the remains of the golf course behind it evidenced only by several flat sections where the greens would have been.
‘Makes a sorry sight,’ said Louise. ‘In more ways than one.’
‘The Palace Hotel Ballroom,’ said Dixon. ‘It sounds like something out of The Blues Brothers.’
‘Where are you supposed to park?’ asked Louise. She was looking all around while Dixon waited at a set of traffic lights outside Torquay Police Station.
He’d been round the one-way system twice already, looking for on-street parking, but finding none. There was no visitors’ car park either.
‘One way of keeping people away, I suppose,’ he said, watching a vehicle waiting at the electric gates to the staff car park at the side of the station. ‘Those gates are even slower than ours. We can nip in there when she’s gone.’
A dog van was turning out while he put the blue light on the roof of his Land Rover, the light slowing the approaching jobsworth long enough for Dixon to get his warrant card out of his pocket.
‘Someone said you were coming. Just give me a shout when you’re leaving, Sir, and I’ll let you out.’
