by Tommy Dakar
hotel rooms cools into... into... whatever.
Whatever, she repeated, hoping to thwart the return of that first floor bedroom with its inherited furniture impregnated with the souls of long dead aunts or the unknown daughters of rich businessmen, who had combed their beautiful locks in the self same mirrors of the dressing table that needed so much care but could not be removed or replaced or put into doubt for one instant without Alice Haute frowning and tut-tutting at dear, obedient Sydney, the protector of the Family Legend. The furniture stays put. The wardrobe is too small, but it will have to do. The basin is ancient and noisy, but it is not to be touched. The room is cold, and draughty, with its own personality, and I hate it. Hate House.
As the pill at last began to do its job of numbing Andrea into semi consciousness, Harvey checked his phone and his watch. Bang on schedule and no hitches in sight. Soon he would pull up before the wrought iron gates and the double H would part and swing open, revealing his estate, his achievement. The idea was to get there a full half hour before the film boys turned up, get the cars out onto the forecourt and warm them up a little, get them purring. He had told Brendan Jr. to wash and wax them so that they would shine in the evening light as they deserved to shine. That should impress them if they had any idea what they were talking about.
He had to congratulate Sydney and his forebears for the collection. Here were cars made for kings and magnates, mythical vehicles that archdukes would be proud to be assassinated in, cars fit for a triumphal drive through conquered European capital cities, roadsters from which Hollywood filmstars could fly to premature deaths, to celluloid immortality. They were unique, with an air of eccentricity, and all beautifully maintained by Mint Condition, a local firm of enthusiasts and retired mechanics that specialized in vintage cars. Perfectly roadworthy, with all their papers in order, they were irreplaceable. At first he had not been able to memorise their names and numbers, but by now they sounded like the names of friends or family. Amongst others there was the extravagant 1931 Lancia Dilambda with Viotti coachwork, a cream and tan work of art which had appeared in films before Harvey had even met Andrea. The black 1935 Duesenberg SJN, ready to pounce, its thin windshield like narrowed eyes. The red 1947 Buick Super with its Botero lines, and, Sydney's favourite, an olive green 1938 SS100 Jaguar racing car. Superb beasts suitable for only the most exquisite owners.
He had rented the Jaguar out before, again to a film company, and had struck a hard deal. He knew its worth, especially in tip top condition. Now they wanted the lot. They would have to be prepared to pay for it, and so far they seemed more than willing. He would demand additional insurance too, it would give him more bargaining power.
He turned off the classical music; the racing up and down of scales was beginning to irritate him. Music to him was something to accompany a feeling, an ambience. It was nothing in itself, and out of context could even send him into a fit of anger. The nonsense Andrea listened to at full blast in the kitchen as she played at being a housewife, sporting an apron and a glass of white wine, putting onto plates food that Anne had no doubt prepared the day before, would fill him with rage, making him turn it off with a brusque gesture, swearing it made him unable to think. She would suggest then that he find another room, or stop thinking, and turn it back on. She was not afraid of Harvey and his tantrums, and could play that game all day if he wished. You turn it off, I’ll turn it back on, hour after hour. She was as stubborn as he was if put to the test. Finally he would leave, muttering ‘women!’ under his breath, hoping by that to convey to Andrea that the incident could not be understood as a minor victory on her part, but rather a gracious retreat on his. She did not even consider it. Now he drove on in silence as she drifted off into the arms of her narcotic protector.
Andrea lay drugged on her bed like a valuable jewel kept in a velvet-lined box. Despite her promising start in life, despite her birth right, life had not turned out as she had imagined. At school, in her language class, she had learnt about the if-clause, the third conditional as they had called it, an abstract idea that had not fired her imagination at the time. It was a grammatical term for dealing with the impossible, the hypothetical, she had been told. If. If she had not met Sydney. If she had not gone down to the park that day with the gang, but stayed in the hotel reading or listening to music. If she had not met Harvey. Or rather, if Harvey had not noticed her in that Indian restaurant and pestered her for a date. If she had only….. Pure speculation. Things could have been different, but they weren’t, and there was little or no point in dwelling on impossibilities. Smooth talking Gustave knew that, they all knew that. It was lesson one, or at least part of it. But it was also very difficult to avoid, this rewriting of the past, this reinvention of a life. If her father had not died, if she had not gone to Italy but to Istanbul, if she had had the foresight or the strength to resist Harvey’s advances, his ambition, his…... No, that was something she would not say, something she refused to accept or admit. That would be too much, far too much. The whims of fate could just about be tolerated, as long as it was all down to chance, to abstract third conditionals. If that was the case she would manage to carry on. The alternative, the idea that there had been some kind of interference, that the course of events had been deliberately manipulated, she would not be able to cope with, could not possibly live with. Such notions had to be driven out of her, or killed off by drugs and therapy. She was better off in her comfortable cocoon, safe and unaware.
As for Harvey, soon he would arrive at Haute House, at the destiny he had forged for himself over the years with so much tenacity and cunning. All his natural intelligence, all his innate strength of will and character, everything he had gained or learnt over the years, everything, had been used to achieve this marvellous symbol of power and wealth. And now that Andrea refused to even mention the place, it was, at last, all his.
3
Later the police would try to create a reconstruction of the incident, laying out things just as they had been on that unforgettable day, forcing people to re-enact their moves to the minute and the metre, positioning and timing their movements as in an over rehearsed play. They hoped that this piece of memorised theatre, along with the rest of their investigations, would give them an indication as to what really happened, who was to blame, if there were some obscure and hidden motive, who could be eliminated from their suspicions. But it was never going to be easy. Some apparently significant evidence turned out later to be no more than a red herring, and other valuable clues were missed in a deluge of minor detail. To really understand what took place that day they would need to spend long stretches of time at Haute House, living with the protagonists, interviewing and cross-examining them over and over again. That would not be possible, that belonged to the realm of the third conditional. So they would have to reach their conclusions like all of us, by picking through the information at hand.
How much information needs to be collected? How far back in time do we have to go to find the answers that help us understand a tragedy? Reasonable questions, but a police investigation cannot waste time on such philosophical niceties, it must be practical. They decided to start from when Harvey Paulson first became part of life at Haute House.
First impressions count, especially to the astute. A shrewd person with experience and an eye for detail is able to pigeon-hole a new acquaintance within minutes. A scan is run and the results analysed. Carefully interpreted, this data should define social class, as relayed through clothing and accessories, as well as any number of clues about that person’s habits. Do they practice sport, overeat, ever visit the dentist? A deeper scan seeks out more subtle traits. Are they submissive, arrogant, challenging? Taken one step further, many people will dress and present themselves in a studied manner to deliberately create the desired impression. That way they are telling their audience not necessarily who they are, but more who they would like to be, who they are prepared to be. Which was why Pet had made Ambrose wear his Sunday best for the interview with Stein and
Mrs Haute that hot August day. Nobody would really believe they felt comfortable dressed that way, Petunia in a frock she had worn to a wedding, Ambrose in a suit fit for other seasons, but at least they would give the impression of being willing to make the effort, to show respect, to behave themselves and try to blend in. Mr. Stein had been amused, Mrs. Haute had been pleased. If Ambrose had gone in his jeans and his favourite cartoon character T-shirt who knows what would have become of them?
Today it was her turn. Andrea would soon turn up with her new man, Harvey Paulson, who she had been dating for the last few months, and Pet would have the opportunity to size him up. There were mixed feelings in the household about this new affair of Andrea’s. Most agreed that after almost three years of grieving the fact that she had decided to start a new relationship was positive, a healthy sign that suggested that she had finally laid Sydney, and consequently Mrs. Haute, to rest. She needed to snap out of her lethargy, of her doting on little Sydney Jr,, because she was still young and attractive and had her