Hello and welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,
A romantic bedtime podcast guaranteed to help you drift off into a calm and restful sleep.
Come with me as we travel into the heart of the Bridlington Hotel,
The most prestigious enterprise on the coast of East Riding.
Meet the characters as they go about their everyday lives,
Albeit amongst scandal and intrigue.
Not a day goes past at the Bridlington without something happening.
But before we begin,
Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.
Take a deep breath in through your nose.
That's it.
Then let it out on a long sigh.
It is time to relax and fully let go.
There is nothing you need to be doing and nowhere you need to go.
This is your time.
Feel your shoulders melt away from your ears.
Feel the pressure seep away from your cheeks.
And let all the muscles in your face relax.
As you sink into the support beneath you,
Let the pressures of the day seep away.
The Bridlington.
A series set in an English hotel.
Written and performed by Stephanie Poppins.
Episode 20 As the fierce north wind whipped across the ferry terminal,
Harold Cunningham glanced nervously at his watch.
The evening ferry to Rotterdam was scheduled to depart in 20 minutes' time.
And his new life ahead felt tantalisingly close.
Standing beside him in a soggy wet shawl,
Mallory Monks clutched a weather-worn tote bag.
It contained their forged travel documents and enough money to see them through until their foreign contact paid for their loot.
This was it,
Their one chance to escape.
Every minute that passed,
The more nervous they became.
Not long now,
Cunningham assured her,
But Mallory wasn't convinced.
She could see his polished demeanour was cracking under the pressure.
The San Juan sunscape was now carefully wrapped and hidden in Harold's oversized luggage.
After years of managing the hotel's affairs and being at the beck and call of Lady Perklington's smithe,
He had planned every detail of this theft with meticulous precision,
And he didn't feel guilty in the slightest.
He knew the insurance money would eventually compensate the Bridlington.
And if he was honest,
He relished the opportunity to throw that hotel into turmoil.
The idea that in the not-too-distant future,
Emily Croft and that idiot of hers,
J.
Tin,
Would be the ones telling him what to do,
Was not something he could ever see himself putting up with.
And what did he care anyway?
He would be living comfortably in a non-extradition country in a matter of days,
Starting a new story with the love of his life.
He looked out across the ferry terminal.
It stretched ahead like a concrete pier into the grey embrace of the harbour.
Through rain-wash windows,
The sea appeared restless.
Its surface was dimpled by countless raindrops that created an ever-shifting texture like hammered metal.
Upon the terminal's railings,
Lines of seagulls huddled together,
Occasionally crying out in voices muffled by the weather.
The few hardy souls who did venture outside moved quickly.
We'll have to rush to get on,
Said Mallory,
As the ferry began to pull in.
Inside the terminal,
Condensation was fogging the lower portion of the window.
It was getting more difficult to see,
So they turned away and waited for the announcement.
That would be the go-ahead for their new life.
But unbeknownst to the two of them,
Inspector Dankworth was on his way.
As his screaming car screeched into the terminal parking lot,
The boarding announcement echoed across the concrete platform.
The disgruntled detective had just spent the last six hours following a paper trail that now finally made sense.
The breakthrough came from an unlikely source,
The hotel's recently installed digital keycard system.
Cunningham had been clever,
Too clever,
While he disabled the obvious security cameras,
He'd forgotten about the electronic locks on the hotel's storage rooms.
And every time his master keycard accessed the climate-controlled art storage facility,
The system logged the precise time and date.
All was left to do was cross-reference those entries with Cunningham's supposed alibis.
To reveal a pattern of late-night visits that coincided perfectly with his plan to remove the San Juan landscape without being detected.
Through thorough investigation,
Dankworth had discovered over time Cunningham had been gradually repositioning the cameras.
And the fact he had disappeared without trace shortly after the painting was gone was the biggest red flag of all.
Harold Cunningham!
Dankworth's voice boomed across the terminal.
Stop where you are and move away from the ferry.
Cunningham's blood ran cold.
He grabbed Mallory's arm and he yelled,
Run!
But it was too late.
Two police officers were sprinting towards him,
Up the boarding ramp,
Their footsteps echoing off the metal walkway.
As they came closer,
Other passengers scattered in confusion.
But Harold Cunningham was not one to give up that easily.
Come on,
He stumbled,
His carefully constructed plan unravelling with every word.
He'd been so sure of his plan.
He'd overlooked the willingness of every member of staff at the Bridlington to comply in the investigation of the removal of the painting he now considered his own.
Mallory,
Meanwhile,
Was struggling and suddenly stopped.
He was moving too fast for her.
It's over,
Harold.
Harold,
Harold,
It's over.
I can't do this anymore.
She cried and dropped the bag,
Raising her hands in surrender.
Harold turned,
His face a mask of desperate calculation,
For one moment he seemed he might just be able to leap over the railing and down into the waters below.
But as Dankworth approached him,
Handcuffs glinting in the harbour lights,
His shoulders sagged in defeat.
As much as he wanted to,
He couldn't leave Mallory behind.
How did you work it out?
He muttered as the cuffs clinked shut and Dankworth smiled grimly.
It's all about technology these days,
Mr Cunningham.
Those very hotel systems you managed so well became the witness to your crime.
Every electronic lock,
Every digital time stamp,
They all told the story you tried so hard to hide.
And as the ferry departed without them,
Harold watched his dreams of escape disappear into the North Sea mist.
The Sanwa Sunscape would return to its rightful place and he would face justice.
But for the knife attack on the innocent bystander,
Chef.
But that was nothing to do with me,
He complained.
All right,
Said Dankworth disbelievingly.
Well,
You can tell us all about that when we get back to the station.
And as for your fine lady here,
She'll be coming with you.
I'm sure it won't take much to make her sing.
And what if I should have some information about something else happening at the hotel?
Would that do me any favours?
Inspector Dankworth looked at Harold Cunningham with an eager eye.
He'd been looking into the extortion racket at the Bridlington for some time now and he desperately needed answers.
Hmm.
Well,
Let's just see what you have to say.
And you and your fine lady,
If you come up with anything of interest,
Might well be looking at a reduced sentence,
Considering this is your first.
And with that,
Harold Cunningham and Mallory Monks were tumbled into the back of the police car.
Off to the police station,
At each station,
At each riding,
To tell Inspector Dankworth everything they knew.
Lady Perklington Smythe adjusted her silk gloves with the practice precision of someone who'd spent 69 years perfecting the art of appearing composed whilst orchestrating chaos.
She caressed her phone with her long manicured fingers as the amber glow of late afternoon cast long shadows across her drawing room,
The very same room that had witnessed decades of her carefully calculated conversations.
Gloria,
Darling,
She purred into the telephone.
How lovely to hear your voice.
I do hope you're well.
This was the tone reserved for requests that weren't really requests at all.
On the other end of the line,
Gloria Hartwell recognised it immediately.
She'd known Jane ever since East Riding Ladies College.
Those school years they had spent together devising plans and manipulating friends in order to get what they wanted.
After 45 years of friendship,
Gloria could well distinguish between any genuine warmth and a strategic charm which was used in times of chaos.
What do you need?
She drooled,
Settling into her favourite armchair in her sea view flat.
She learned long ago that with Jane,
It was better to cut through the pleasantries and get straight to the point.
You always were refreshingly direct,
Gloria.
Very well,
I find myself in need of your particular talents.
Gloria raised an eyebrow,
Though her friend couldn't see it.
Particular talents usually referred to her uncanny ability to extract information from men without them realising they were being interrogated.
It was a skill that had served her well throughout her life and had been called upon more than once over the decades.
It concerns Emily,
Jane continued.
Her voice took on that steely undertone that appeared whenever she discussed her daughter's welfare.
More specifically,
It involves that dreadful lawyer she's going to be using.
Ah,
You told me about that,
Said Gloria.
Johnson,
I think his name is.
That's the one.
I've been making inquiries,
Gloria.
Discrete ones,
Naturally,
And I've heard the most disturbing things.
This tweaked Gloria's curiosity.
She loved a scandal and she was more than happy to help Jane in her endeavours.
Oh,
What sort of rumours might these be?
The Polish connection.
Years ago,
You represented some rather unsavoury characters,
I've heard.
Those that solve their business disputes with more than just litigation,
If you take my meaning.
I see.
And you want me to find out if this is true,
Do you?
I want you to find out everything.
Both Emily and her uncle Tom are completely besotted with the man.
They speak of him as though he's some sort of crusading hero and they think he's going to be the answer they need in the court case.
The one where you say the will's unsafe because of your husband's suspected Alzheimer's.
That's the one.
She never had a right to be in it in the first place.
Everything my husband left,
He left to me and me alone.
The Bridlington Hotel is mine.
She's always been disrespectful and she does not deserve such a responsibility.
Oh,
You're right there,
Jane.
I feel for you.
I really do.
And the fact they're getting someone to represent them,
Who's built his entire career on blood money.
Will only work in my favor.
I'm counting on you,
Gloria.
Gloria sat quiet for a long moment,
Watching the shadows as they lengthened across her room.
At the grand old age of 29,
A young woman in her battle to reclaim her rightful inheritance had now found someone who made her happy,
By all reports.
She had found someone who occupied her thoughts and time in a way that didn't revolve around her mother's approval.
And she fancied Jane Perklington Smythe had never been very good at sharing.
So how exactly do you propose I find out everything?
You know perfectly well how,
Said Jane.
The same way you found out about Charles Pemberton's gambling debts in Monaco.
The same way you discovered the Weatherby boy was embezzling from his father's firm.
You have a gift for making men feel comfortable,
Gloria.
For making them do what you want them to.
And in this instance,
That's confiding you.
So you want me to seduce him?
Such a vulgar word.
I prefer to think of it as strategic befriending.
And by all accounts,
This Johnson chap is lonely after his wife died.
So why not?
Gloria closed her eyes.
She was long past the age where she should be playing honey trap for her oldest friend's machinations.
And yet there was something about Johnson that intrigued her.
Perhaps it wouldn't be entirely unpleasant.
But what if I discover he has no such connections,
And he's actually an honourable man?
At this,
The silence stretched between them,
Filled with decades of shared secrets and mutual understanding.
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,
Said Jane firmly.
I know you'll do what's right,
Gloria.
You always have.
And I suspect you won't need to go too far.
Men like Johnson always have secrets.
He's a lawyer,
For goodness sake.
And once I know more about exactly what his secrets are,
You can turn your attentions back to your favourite waiters,
Or builders,
Or carpenters,
Or whatever it is that takes your fancy.
Are we in agreement?
They said their goodbyes,
And Gloria remained in her chair as the room grew darker around her.
She pictured this man Johnson with his intense eyes and careful smile.
She was looking at his profile now.
He was very smart,
By all accounts.
Not beyond the realm of possibility.
And she found herself wondering whether she was about to save,
Or become complicit in destroying any chance Emily might have of happiness.
