The English School of Murder

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘Enough about Ahmed for the moment. I want to tell you about this joint. I wish you were with me, because it’s the kind of place one wants to discuss obsessively with someone like-minded. You’ll have gathered from what I told you about our reception that it’s a cross between a concentration camp, a prep school, a home for the feeble-minded glitterati and a five-star hotel whose cooker is out of service.

  ‘It’s astonishing how quickly one becomes institutionalised and utterly obedient (except for Ahmed that is) to the timetables and rules that abound. One’s world shrinks and the only things of interest are to do with the inmates.

  ‘I don’t know if places run on these lines are a purely English phenomenon. There’s an all-pervading Nanny atmosphere that makes Marriners especially right for the English: after all it’s England, not Britain, that elects Nanny Thatcher. My guess is that they might appeal to Scots but not Welsh and certainly not Irish; to Norwegians and Swedes but not Danes; to Germans but not French; and never never to Italians or Arabs. I could feel sorry for Ahmed if he weren’t such a shit that I’m delighted he’s having a horrible time.

  ‘What worries me is how quickly I fell into following orders. Late this afternoon four of us were sipping barley water in the Turkish baths (I loathe barley water, but I’d been told to drink it), and discussing the rival merits of dry and steam heat, when a chap called Mick (yes, he’s Irish—stereotypes follow me round everywhere these days) said, “Sod this, lads, enough is enough. What do you say we have a little drink before dinner in my room?”

  ‘All three of us mumbled with embarrassment and pleaded health reasons for turning him down. Now think about it: I’m here because of Ahmed; I’m perfectly healthy and I’m thin. So why did I refuse an invitation to a drink I sorely wanted? Answer: because it’s against the rules. I suppose I should be glad I didn’t find myself reporting him to Sister. The only thing I can say in mitigation is that I came to my senses around six and tried to find out his room number from reception, unfortunately unsuccessfully. They don’t know people’s first names—or perhaps they suspected what was going on.

  ‘The high spot of the day is, of course, lunch, made particularly attractive yesterday by the absence of Ahmed. He had his glass of hot water in the hall: I had lunch in the dining-room with a book and thought how nice it was to be without Ahmed. Unfortunately today he insisted on seeing Mrs Cowley-Bawdon and persuaded her that he should be put on the light diet. She must be one of those women who fantasises about a brutal sheikh riding off with them into the desert. So my peace was shattered and he came with me to lunch.

  ‘We sat down and were served with soup, which he slurped with every appearance of enjoyment. Then I took him to the table from where one can help oneself from five or six excellent salads. ‘Where is meat?’ Ahmed’s broken-hearted cry arrested the attention of every patient in the dining-room. I doubt if they’re over it yet: we don’t speak of meat at Marriners. Ahmed is in a terrible state: he’d been anticipating great big steaks and he hates salad. So even on the light diet he’s not a happy man.

  ‘Now we move to sex. Yesterday afternoon ended the honeymoon period with Mrs Cowley-Bawdon. She called me in at five and announced that Ahmed had propositioned the receptionist, two waitresses and four patients. I didn’t add the information that he’d tried me as well, nor that I’ve a shrewd suspicion he succeeded this morning with a chambermaid. “I am sorry, Mr Amiss,” she said, “but I have no option but to ask you to take that person away.”

  ‘This was a bit of a facer, but you know my resourcefulness. I assumed an expression of immense gravity and said, “Please, Mrs Cowley-Bawdon, let me explain.”

  ‘“There’s nothing to explain. He is simply unfit to have in residence at Marriners.”

  ‘“I realise that the prince’s manners are rather lacking, but he learns fast. It has not been easy for him to adjust to life outside the palace.”

  ‘“A prince. Really? Which royal family?”

  ‘“The Sauds.”

  ‘“And which branch of the royal family is he from?”

  ‘It was a cinch. I spoke of not being able to give details, Ahmed’s father being so close to King Fahd. It was absolutely crucial that there should be no scandal: for that reason Ahmed was incognito.

  ‘“Poor man,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “What terrible pressures must be on him. We must be understanding.” We agreed that the staff would be asked discreetly simply to ignore his suggestions.

  ‘I thanked her for her great humanity, and withdrew and tried to explain to the libidinous little bastard why one didn’t make random sexual overtures: not a lot penetrated, if you’ll forgive the pun. The difficulty, of course, is that from his perspective all Western women are what he calls “brostitutes” because they flaunt themselves.

  ‘We proceeded to the Tuesday night party. This is a bizarre occasion when everyone dresses up to the nines, drinks carrot juice and makes small talk about food and treatments. I was far too casually—and of course inexpensively—dressed, but Ahmed made up for me. He’s got a new jacket in yellow suede which he wore with mustard cashmere trousers and a gold-coloured silk shirt. It being an early evening party, he confined himself to only five rings.

  ‘He got on very well for the first half hour and I thought my sermon had worked. Then as I was engaged in an animated conversation about aromatherapy with the owner of a Chelsea boutique, I heard the unmistakable sound of a slap: a young woman who I had been told had a small part in a BBC soap was marching away from Ahmed, who was feeling his cheek and looking furious. Most of those present being English, everyone affected not to notice. I grabbed him and dragged him out and demanded to know why he had bropositioned this woman after all I had said to him. Aggrievedly he pointed out that a) she was an actress and b) she was showing a lot of cleavage (or as he put it, “she show me tits”).

  ‘With all that as background, guess what he inferred this morning about a woman who for a living stands beside a bath in which a naked man is immersed in water and points a high-pressure hose at all parts of his body, having politely asked him first to protect his organ with his hands? The problem was that he didn’t simply broposition this lady; when he had hurtled forth rampantly from the bath he assaulted her. Mrs Cowley-Bawdon was so unamused that I thought I’d have to claim this time that he was the heir to the throne. Instead I soothed her with the offer of a hundred quid to compensate the girl for hurt feelings.’

  Amiss looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was already nine and Ahmed hadn’t phoned to summon him to the next phase of their Snap marathon. He surely couldn’t still be napping.

  He wasn’t answering his phone, so Amiss went down to his room: the door was locked and his knock met with no response. He instituted a thorough and fruitless search for him in the public areas. Cursing, he went back to his room and changed out of his dressing-gown into outdoor clothes. Without any real expectation of success, he went out to check the terraces: the night was so balmy that even Ahmed might have been tempted to take a stroll.

  He returned by the route that passed by Ahmed’s windows and was disturbed to find them open. He went back to his own room and rang reception. No messages. I don’t like this one bit, said Amiss to himself. He looked up a number in his address book and dialled Jim Milton.

  Chapter 28

  ‘I don’t know how worried we should be,’ said Milton. ‘We haven’t really got much on those death threats. Ahmed eventually admitted to our lot that he’d had three but said nothing useful at all about the caller—just that he wasn’t a Saudi. The switchboard operator thought his accent was very peculiar and felt he mightn’t have been an Arab at all.’

  ‘If he thinks a killer might be lurking, could even he be fool enough to open his french windows?’

  ‘Search me. You’re our Ahmed specialist. You’re quite sure they weren’t forced?’

  ‘As positive as I can be, but I’m no expert.’

  ‘And he’s said nothing to you
about being afraid of anything?’

  ‘I tried pumping him this afternoon. I couldn’t admit to knowing anything, so I picked up on a revolting conversation about executions that he’d initiated the other day and asked if he had ever met a murderer.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘He went all coy on me. Said he knew things he couldn’t talk about. I think he’s indiscreet only when he’s been drinking or snorting.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Amiss took a cigarette from the case his students had given him and lit it with his matching lighter. He felt momentarily ashamed of being so hard on Ahmed: at least the fellow was generous with money. ‘Any other news?’

  ‘Sorry, Robert. I forgot that we haven’t talked since Sunday. Most important news is that of the eight people who could have laced Nurse’s drink, only one could also have mounted that attack on him in the alley.’

  ‘Ahmed?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I was afraid so. The others really don’t seem the type.’

  ‘It could still be coincidence.’

  ‘Sure. I still can’t think of a motive, can you?’

  ‘No, unless he was acting as someone else’s agent.’

  ‘You haven’t got anything on his background? I mean he isn’t a card-carrying member of some international terrorist brotherhood or anything useful like that, is he?’

  ‘Not to the knowledge of Interpol. They haven’t found out a damn thing about him.’

  ‘You’d think they’d have something on a prince, even if there are thousands of them.’

  ‘That’s why they think he probably isn’t one.’

  ‘Well for Jesus’ sake don’t tell Mrs Cowley-Bawdon that.’

  ‘Mrs Who?’

  ‘The Ubergruppenfuhrerine. Tell you about her some other time.’

  ‘What are you going to do now? Give up the search and go to bed?’

  ‘You don’t think I should ring the local Old Bill?’

  ‘I think you’d get very short shrift. They wouldn’t get too excited by a grown man being out at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, sod it. He’s probably in someone’s bed. Or maybe someone with a car took him off to the bright lights. This afternoon he was on at me to take him out tonight, but I refused for his health’s sake: he seriously needs to lay off the food and booze.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone off by himself.’

  ‘Couldn’t without a car: it’s miles and he hates walking. That’s another reason he’s so furious about not being allowed to drive… Hang on a minute.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Amiss put his cigarette in the ashtray, went over to his jacket and tried the pockets. He went back and picked up the receiver.

  ‘I’m an idiot.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The turd’s pinched the keys to the car.’

  ‘Which is not insured for him?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Look, there’s absolutely nothing you can do, so if I were you I’d go to bed.’

  ‘Will do. You too. How’s Ellis?’

  ‘He’s all right. Got a bit of personal trouble that he’ll no doubt tell you about sometime, but I’m keeping an eye on him. He’ll survive.’

  ‘I won’t pry. OK. Good-night. We’ll talk when there’s any news.’

  ‘Good-night, Robert. I hope your encumbrance comes home in one piece.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t. I don’t know how I can face another four days with him.’

  Amiss finished his letter, went to bed and slept until woken by a young woman bearing muesli and China tea. He immediately telephoned Ahmed. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes…no. My head is sick.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ He pulled on his dressing-gown and hastened downstairs. Ahmed opened the door looking sheepish. He had a large gash on his forehead. It took Amiss ten minutes to extract from him the information that he’d run the car into a wall (the will of Allah), but had not otherwise been hurt (Praise be to Allah). The car was not bad.

  When Amiss had arranged for him to be visited by Sister, he went back to his room, showered, dressed and went out to look at the car. He guessed that at a rough estimate, the bodywork had sustained several hundred pounds worth of damage. Bugger it, he thought. I’ll drive it back to London and Rich can sort out the compensation.

  He returned to find Ahmed bandaged up, complaining about his sore head and sitting in bed guzzling chocolate.

  ‘Where did you go last night, Ahmed?’

  ‘Restaurant. I have meat and wine.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I find a club and a woman. We have sex and I come here.’ He took another bar of chocolate out of his pocket and tucked into it noisily. Amiss looked at him with only barely concealed distaste. ‘Ahmed, why did you come to Marriners in the first place?’

  ‘I cannot understand.’

  ‘Why did the doctor say you must come here?’

  ‘I am sick.’

  ‘Do you want to be well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why did you drink wine and why are you eating chocolate?’

  ‘Because I want to.’

  ‘But if you have those things, you will not get better.’

  ‘I bay a lot. They must cure me.’

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ said Amiss. He turned on his heel and went back to his own bedroom.

  To avoid the trouble with the management that ensued from missed appointments, Amiss had been making a practice of delivering Ahmed to his various treatments. On this Thursday morning there was no need, as Ahmed decided to stay in bed and skip his massage and his herbal bath. However, in mid-afternoon he consented to join Amiss for a Turkish bath. Relations were tense between them and conversation perfunctory. Ahmed, knowing himself to be in the wrong, sulked. Amiss, weary from holding back from telling Ahmed what he thought of him, found it a great strain to be civil.

  They sat opposite each other naked and alone in the Turkish bath until after five minutes two figures came in and joined them. The steam was so thick that it was impossible to recognise faces, but their first few words identified Amiss’s neighbours as the Irish contingent. Amiss was overjoyed to meet them again, and enthusiastically took up Mick’s renewed invitation to a small party in his room. ‘And you’re very welcome too, gentlemen,’ said Mick into the steam in which were buried Ahmed and a third newcomer. Two grunts came back, but Mick ignored the incivility and chatted to Amiss and his compatriot of the horrors of the exercise programme for which he had incautiously signed on. He had pulled a calf muscle on his first day and strained his wrist on the second. He stretched out his injured leg for relief and almost tripped up the invisible man opposite who was just leaving. Mick apologised, but this time the man did not even grunt: the only sound was of him opening and shutting the door.

  Mick’s friend also left after another few minutes, but Amiss, who had a high tolerance for heat, sweated happily and enjoyed Mick’s conversation. After spending so many hours with Ahmed it was a pleasure to talk to someone who merely wished to be entertaining. He had no idea how much time had passed when Mick announced his imminent departure. ‘Make sure you come along about six then. Room seventeen.’

  ‘I look forward to it. Thanks very much. Coming, Ahmed?’

  There was no answer. ‘Ahmed!’

  Nothing.

  ‘They didn’t both leave, did they?’ asked Amiss.

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘He must have fallen asleep. Ahmed!’

  Amiss stepped carefully over towards the bench opposite and felt around. ‘Ah, got him. Ahmed, wake up.’ He patted him vigorously on the knee. There was no reaction.

  ‘Mick, I think he must be ill. Will you get the attendant and leave the door open so that the steam clears a bit?’

  Mick went off without a word and Amiss waited uneasily. It took three or four minutes before visibility was good enough for the three men to see that Ahmed had a stab wound in his chest, that blood had mixed with the sweat
on his body, and that he looked very dead. ‘May God have mercy on his soul,’ said Mick. ‘Now Robert, throw on your dressing-gown and come on upstairs with me. We’d need a quick one to recover from this.’

  Chapter 29

  ‘This is appalling, utterly appalling. It could have a disastrous effect on business. I knew I should have insisted on expelling him from Marriners, but through sheer good nature I allowed myself to be talked out of it by that plausible side-kick of his.’

  It was eight that evening and Milton and Pooley were listening to Mrs Cowley-Bawdon. They let her go on talking until she came to a natural halt. ‘Now, ma’am,’ said Milton, ‘we have every sympathy with you and we’ll be just as quick as we can, but you must understand that we have to make full inquiries.’

  ‘But I won’t have any of the patients upset. They are all busy and successful people who come here to rest. They must have no stress. It undoes all the good.’

  Pooley admired the mantle of stolidity Milton donned on these occasions. He seemed able to detach himself from the gibberish and think about practicalities while saying that which had to be said. Mrs Cowley-Bawdon was given her head for several minutes more and then Milton became firm.

  ‘I appreciate all you’ve said, ma’am, but we have to stay here until we’ve done our work. We’ll need an office and, if possible, accommodation for the two of us.’