“...always forgets to put the teaspoons in the right compartment,” Dr Rachel was saying.
“I told you we should have gone for the Bosch,” Dr John replied. So much for deep, meaningful conversations!
“Er, excuse me,” I began. “I’m Chris Martin from the Herald and I’m just trying to — you know — get some reactions from people on what they think might come out of this Conference.”
They both stared at me blankly. Dr John was well over six foot, white-haired, and distinguished-looking. He was probably fifteen years older than his wife, who had a harassed, nervous air about her. He held his glass up to the light.
“Damn stuff’s revolting! Typical De Broux — he ought to be forced to drink a couple of pints of it!” He spoke venomously, as though he would have liked to add, “...laced with several milligrams of arsenic.” Perhaps he, too, would have preferred a real drink.
Rachel said nothing. She glanced at her watch.
“Would you say the drug problem in this town is increasing?” I asked bravely, smiling at Dr Rachel.
“Why should she say that?” demanded Dr John, belligerently.
“Well —”
“I’m certainly not going to say anything like that!” snapped Rachel. “You won’t trap me that easily!”
“My wife is very tired,” said Dr John, testily. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t badger her. She was up all last night, totally unnecessarily, with a woman in labour —”
“I don’t desert my ladies, John, as you well know,” she said, sharply. The veins in her neck were distended, her voice strained. I thought, not for the first time, that only women were able to commit themselves to others to the point of total exhaustion, and that I aught to make allowances for her unnecessary outburst. I smiled.
“But you must have a pretty good idea from what you do see, particularly of young people —”
“And why should I know anything more than anybody else about what you call the drug problem? A nice, tidy phrase, that, isn’t it? So much suffering written off in three words — and no wonder, because people don’t want to know about the suffering, do they? They just want scapegoats — Pillorying doctors has become a national sport! Take child birth —” Here, Dr John tried to interrupt, but was ignored.
“Childbirth was designed as one of nature’s greatest joys — a reward for the female sex —” Baffled as I was at the turn the conversation had taken, I couldn’t help thinking that nature’s idea of rewards did not coincide with mine. She looked at her watch again, almost tipping her drink over my right foot. I jumped back.
“Sorry, sorry, “ she muttered. “This is an absolute pain, this whole thing. It has nothing whatsoever to do with medicine. It’s not what I trained for. I don’t know why we’re wasting our time here. I told you, John, there’s a patient I’ve simply got to see.”
“I don’t want to hear it!” said Dr John, irritably. “I’ve told you before, patients belong in the surgery — or better still, in their own damn homes. Don’t drag them out with us in the evenings. Or on to the golf course, or to Tenerife, if we ever damn well get there —”
I recognised an argument beginning to fall into a well-worn rut, excused myself, and moved on. If ever there was an example of an interview being allowed to fall completely apart, that was it. If I’d been Pete Schiavo I would have asked her quickly, “Are you concerned at the crisis within the NHS?” To which she would have been bound to reply “yes”, and then I would have written a nice little piece about a well-known local doctor being on the verge of crack-up over the underfunding of the NHS. At least I would have had something. In fact, I should have had something anyway; I remembered now that Pete had worked on a story about one of Dr Rachel’s patients dying of a heroin overdose — if only I’d done some homework on the Herald’s archives this evening instead of arguing with my butcher about the fat on his lamb chops!
I spotted the Reverend Harlow entering the bar and quickly turned my back. He was the father of Carolyn, with whom Richard was probably at this very moment enjoying none too spiritual pleasures. It was just my luck that he had come along to represent the Church. I gripped my notebook purposefully and walked towards two men leaning on the bar over a tray of assorted cheese biscuits. As I approached the younger man placed his arm in front of the tray defensively, as though it was the only food he’d seen all day and he’d no intention of sharing it. In his late forties, he wore a neatly-pressed shirt and tie over which he’d defiantly thrown a badly scuffed leather jacket. He could have done with shaving and combing his hair, too; no doubt his poor wife despaired of him. The other man I knew by sight as Major Duncton, Chairman of the Planning Committee, and “elder statesman” of local politics. The Herald sometimes referred to him reverentially as the “Father of Tipping’s Town Plan”. I didn’t like him. He’d turned down our application to build a carport with the comment that it would be a “visual aberration on an otherwise well-ordered street”. Well, maybe, but it was my Mini that was rusting. Not only that, but some streets in Tipping fairly bristled with carports — when was a visual aberration not a visual aberration? Perhaps when you have a relative on the planning committee, I had suggested, but Keith had told me not to be cynical.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I wonder if you could spare me a moment?”
They stopped talking and gave me the vacant, slightly indulgent smile men reserve for women over forty who have let their appearance go, then saw my Press badge.
“Inspector Franks,” said the younger man, adding with an air of disbelief. “You from the Herald?”
I smiled and nodded.
“Blimey!” He laughed. “You live and learn! You know Major Duncton here? Right — get your notebook out, love.” I produced it obediently, no longer smiling. He took an exaggerated breath, and began, “I am here today representing the local police-force. We in the police intend to work in the community and with the community to combat the menace of drugs in our society. Got that? Not too fast for you?”
“No. Not too fast for me. Are you representing the Council, Major?”
The Major looked at me over his glasses. They reflected the lights of the bar, as did the brass buttons on his blazer. “Got my own views on drugs, as on other things. People have to look out for themselves. Self-discipline is the answer, and plenty of it. You got children?”
“Yes.”
“You should look out for them then. Nobody else will. It’s the parents’ responsibility. Put down good groundwork and you won’t go far wrong.” He leaned forward, and there seemed to be whisky on his breath. “Ladies like you would be better employed maintaining home rule rather than interfering in the machinations of authority.”
The words “supercilious bastard” came unbidden to my mind — I was beginning to tire of negative reactions. I smiled with difficulty and made a few careful notes. The Inspector handed me the tray of biscuits.
“Take some of these, love, and then perhaps you’d toddle off. We’re trying to have a serious business discussion here.”
I refused the proffered biscuits and turned hastily away, almost bumping into a tall man in his mid-twenties carrying a full glass of tomato juice. He was quite stunningly good-looking. He had blue eyes, dark hair, and a slim, muscular build. In fact he looked a lot like Keith when I first met him, and I experienced the sort of odd little twinge midway between pain and pleasure one gets when confronted unexpectedly by an old photograph. He apologised unnecessarily, smiled automatically, and walked away without registering my presence. I felt another little twinge, because this was exactly the way Keith reacted to me nowadays.
Someone else was watching Keith’s look-alike, too: a dark, intense girl with glasses. She seemed to be expecting him to speak to her, but he didn’t. She slumped visibly at this rejection and clumsily topped up her orange juice with mineral water before gulping it compulsively.
None of the delegates I approached had anything very startling to say on the subject of drugs and alcohol abuse,
and I was beginning to think I could have made up most of their quotes myself in the comfort of my own living room. Then there was a sudden ripple of interest in the bar at the arrival of Mr Sylvester Munroe. He was the editor of a gay magazine based in Hudderston, and knew how to make a theatrical entrance. He doffed his wide-brimmed black hat, threw down his suitcase, and swallowed with audible gulps a tall glass of a striped fruit and egg concoction.
“Exquisite! Exquisite!” He gasped. “Oh, such a hot night!”
Everyone smiled politely and then turned away to make amused and derogatory remarks. I took the opportunity and approached him.
“Mr Munroe? I’m from the Tipping Herald. Do you think you could tell me what you hope to see being achieved by this Conference?”
“Call me Syl, dear,” he said. “Just look at this room! What do you think of it? My friend Bernie did the décor. It’s not to my taste, you know — more yours, is it? Well, we’re not all the same. Bernie always says, get to know the customer, and you’ll know what he wants. It’s very important, putting the right person in the right setting.”
“And the Conference? Your views on that?”
“Ah. Yes. Understanding, I hope. The more we talk the more we understand — provided we listen too, of course.”
He broke off suddenly, appearing to concentrate his attention on someone behind me, but when I half turned to look he began to speak again. “And why are you doing a job like this? You look such a kind sort of person.”
“Oh! Well — I’m quite new to it actually — I just wanted to give it a try.”
Sylvester shook his head at the cocktail waitress and placed his empty glass on her tray.
“Well! Don’t leave it too late to find out you’re doing the wrong thing. I’m going to unpack. I’m booked into the Clocktower Room. Couldn’t miss the opportunity to watch the sun come up over the Downs.” He lifted his suitcase, taking another long look which I interpreted as yearning, at the person behind me. “When did you last watch the sun come up? Bet it was a long time ago. I’d do it every day if I could — it’s a sort of daily renewal process. ‘Bye now, dear.”
When he’d gone I turned and saw that it was the tall, handsome young man with the blue eyes who was standing behind me. It gave me a rather odd feeling; I’d led a very sheltered life.
I didn’t think I’d done at all well with the interviews and decided it was time to go home. I almost collided in the doorway with the Goodburns, who were also leaving. Rachel was fanning herself with a piece of paper, despite the air-conditioning, and John looked angry.
“Just leave it, darling,” said Rachel. “It simply isn’t worth it.”
“I think I’m the best judge of that,” replied John, scowling, but he followed her out of Reception.
It was on my way back from the Ladies’ Room, as I passed the message board, that I spotted the note. It was written on turquoise notepaper and said, “M. Hi! After all this time! Hickory Dickory Dock, little mouse!” I stood and stared at it. Of course, it was none of my business, but it seemed the most interesting thing that had turned up all evening.
When I got home to my surprise the garage doors were open and Keith’s car was missing. In the living room, Julie sat alone watching a French film with subtitles which she hastily switched off as I entered. I thought, oh, it was that good, was it?
“Where’s your father?” I asked.
“He went out, just after you did.”
“Where to?”
“He didn’t say. He was a bit cross. How were the non-alcoholic cocktails?”
“Awful. If you’re not watching that I think you ought to go to bed.”
We both took glasses of water and went up to bed. I experienced a sort of sinking feeling. Even when Keith and I had really bad rows we always went to bed together and slept with our backs touching. We’d had a row this evening and now he wasn’t here. I lay awake for a while, listening for his car. I pushed back the covers, enjoying the slight cool breeze on the skin of my thigh, where my nightdress stopped. Oddly, despite Keith’s absence — perhaps even because of it — I felt the slight stirrings of sexual desire. I pushed his pillow to the far side of the bed and waited for the feeling to go away. Some time later, I drifted off to sleep.
Over night the air turned humid and by the time I arrived back at the Clocktower Hotel the following morning, I was already perspiring. The hotel reception area was deserted except for the red-haired receptionist, who was fanning her self with a copy of the Daily Express.
“Would you believe it? The air-conditioning’s broken down,” she said, as I passed. “Mr De Broux is doing his nut!”
I slipped into the Conference Hall at the back. This was going to be easy. Just make a few notes of the salient points of the speeches, then pad out the story with observations on the packed and attentive audience, bursts of appreciative applause, etc. Mr Heslop said I was a good “bread-and-butter” reporter; I was always careful to spell people’s names correctly and I got verbs in my sentences — well, most of them. What he was really saying was that I’d never uncover Watergate, but I’d do for the Tipping Herald. Looking around the softly-lit Conference Hall, alive with gently flapping agenda papers, and remembering last evening’s debacle, I thought perhaps I’d better be satisfied with that.
“And now,” announced a new speaker, “we’re pleased to be able to show you a film from America. It shows how a community in a very poor area of Chicago —”
A pall of cigar smoke had descended on the back row of seats. I got up. There was to be a discussion of the film after the coffee break so I’d soon pick up what it had been about, and now I was too hot and uncomfortable to concentrate. On my way out I passed the message board, and noticed that the turquoise note had disappeared — had it meant anything to “M”? I wanted fresh air, but the main doorway was blocked by men in overalls unloading dusty boxes and pieces of piping.
“You can’t leave them there!” called the redhead, frantically, looking around as though she feared the wrath of Mr De Broux.
“We’re not leaving ‘em, love!” called one of the men reassuringly, and promptly left, accompanied by his mates.
The redhead looked despairingly heavenwards. I gave her a sympathetic smile and considered hitching up my skirt and climbing over the obstruction. I decided against it. At the rear of Reception were double doors marked “Fire Exit”, which ought to lead out into the open. I had to put quite a bit of muscle into opening them. They gave with a crash on to the yard at the back of the hotel. A strong odour of decaying vegetable matter filled the air, emanating from an enormous overfilled dustbin, and I suddenly remembered that I’d forgotten to empty the bin in my kitchen. Oh damn, I thought, why can’t anyone ever do anything around the house except me? And that’s when I saw him, hanging around on the fire escape. Literally, I mean. By his neck. His feet dangled almost directly above my head, one floor up. He was wearing new black stick-on soles on brown soled shoes, and that’s what stopped me screaming. You don’t scream when you look at a pair of stick-on soles. He was swaying a bit in an air current, his dead fingers stiff and white at his sides.
“Oh God,” I said aloud, but very quietly. “Oh God!” I’d have to go up and have a look. I wasn’t a housewife now, but a reporter, and I’d have to go up there. The metal of the fire escape was warm and flaky, in need of a coat of paint. My legs carried me leadenly upwards, each wooden crump of my sandals carrying me closer. He was hanging from the landing beneath the Clocktower and I stopped opposite him, my hand to my mouth. It was the attractive young man in whom both Sylvester Munroe and the dark-haired girl had been interested. He looked very different now. Blue eyes wide-open, fixed, expressionless — mouth crookedly open too, a trickle of dried froth, like a slug’s trail, running down the chin. His face was an odd greyish-yellow suffused with purple from the neck up, where the rope held him. Instinctively I waved a fly away from his cheek. Beginning to feel decidedly queasy, I forced myself to read his name badge — Michael S
toddart, Teacher. A voice inside my head declared in sombre tones, like those of a railway announcer: “You are looking at the work of a murderer”.
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Thicker Than Water (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 1) Page 26