Dying to Read

by John Elliott

  ‘To please me, ma petite. Simply to enact one of my remaining foibles. Anyway time for elevenses. Care for a cold artichoke heart in alioli and some of yesterday’s taramasalata? It’s been back in the fridge since then so should be relatively lurgy free. They’re lurking somewhere under the bed. Don’t be shy. The po is long removed by Madame de Po-Petrie.’

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it. Even though declining disgracefully you’re still capable of going to the toilet on your own. You might want to épater les bourgeois, but you won’t épater me.’

  ‘What a self-assured young creature you are. Ever thought of becoming a detective? No? Well snacks are downstairs in the kitchenette. Be a love and bring them up.’

  Geraldine descended to the aforementioned place. Three small plates of salted sliced radishes with a helping of butter, blinis spread with lumpfish roe and six slices of saucisse de montagne sat on a tray accompanied by half a pain rustique, two empty wine glasses and a corkscrew obviously prepared before by Alison, the saintly friend and neighbour. Artichoke hearts, alioli and vintage taramasalata, however, were nowhere to be seen. Using her famous or perhaps now infamous initiative she fished a chilled bottle of white wine out of the fridge: Coulee de Serrant 98.

  Once upstairs she drew the cork and was about to pour Norma a stiff one but Norma demurred. ‘I do not partake of alcohol while in decline alas, but please drink up yourself. It’s time you tasted good wine.’

  Geraldine complied, taking first a tentative sip and then an appreciative glug. She tore off pieces of bread and proceeded to attack and chew the radishes with evident relish.

  Norma, forsaking sustenance as well, looked on in genial admiration. ‘Have one of the blinis. They’re scrumpt. Us old gels never forget the pleasure of tuck in the dorm after lights out.’

  Geraldine laughed. ‘Been sneaking a read of that old misery Philip Larkin with a torch under the bedclothes? I do like you Norma.’

  ‘And I like you young Geraldine Mycroft even if you are a new girl and a terrible swot. Pass me the bottle. A sniff won’t break the rules of engagement.’

  Geraldine retrieved the bottle and helped herself to a second glass. The thinly sliced saucisson now followed the way of several radishes and a hillock of blinis and lumpfish roe. ‘What’s with this decline of yours?’

  ‘I suppose you mean why. Let’s leave sultry California and the Sternwood mansion and return to English shores. The role of Philippa Marlowe doesn’t entirely suit you, but to answer your question, I have a sense of history. Our forebears on the distaff side frequently came down with the vapours and sometimes, if circumstances warranted, a full-scale decline. Henrietta and I carried on the tradition bi-annually. Now she is gone I observe it alone. A kind of retreat. A form of abstinence. Call it what you will. It keeps others generally up to the mark. Now your hunger and thirst have been slaked shall we discuss our client?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s something about Augustin I want to tell you first. He spanked women. Mr Pereira, a musician friend of his, told me when he knew I was sympathetic to Augustin’s interests.’

  Norma thought before she spoke. ‘Ah! The so-called English disease. Flagellation. Of course, there’s a whole sub-genre of fiction revelling in it. Secret lives etc. Like the decline it was something of a Victorian speciality.’

  ‘More a form of sexual fore-play my informant said. He implied female guests at the hotel where Augustin worked encouraged him.’

  ‘So a Ken Tynan syndrome perhaps. We may have to rethink our Mr Cox, a Bedfont-based proletarian hired for particular sexual favours. But to return to Joan Oliphant.’

  ‘She was horrified when I told her. Vehement that Augustin would never do that. According to her he was always the putting women on a pedestal type, always courtly and too . . .’

  ‘Much the Galahad and perfect knight,’ Norma interrupted. ‘To return to your American hard-boiled trope Messrs. Hammet, Chandler and Macdonald often made the client not only partial in their outlook but suspect, and even in some instances the guilty party. Etiquette strikes me as a fringe occupation. The money trail leads us to ask where exactly her spondulicks come from.’

  ‘Spondulicks?’

  ‘The moolah, the dosh, the bread that allows one to eat brioche. You saw her. Tell me again your impressions.’

  ‘Sveltely turned out. Careful of her appearance. Confident. Evasive. Didn’t like Lacenaire.’

  ‘Interesting. Did he speak while she was with you and if so what did he say?’

  ‘I’m trying to remember. The usual. I’m certain he said, “the writer did it.” She looked round the room carefully after sitting down. She spotted him then but didn’t say anything until he spoke.’

  ‘More interesting for in a way she is our writer. The floppy disc she produced. Her character portrait of Mr Cox. Her disguising her real reason for choosing us to intervene on his behalf. Because being at school with Christabel is an invention. I’ve checked with Alison who was at school with my niece. Joan Oliphant is manipulative. You must be watchful, my pet. She’s one of our keys to unlocking the murder, but she may wish to keep the door firmly locked. I’m quite worn out now. Declines can be quite exhausting.’

  Norma closed her eyes. Geraldine returned the plates, her glass and the half-drunk wine bottle to the tray. When a strengthened beam of sunshine alighted on Norma’s face she crossed the room and lowered the blind. Retuning to the bedside she settled the pillows behind the declinee’s head and was about to go when, with her eyes still shut, Norma said, ‘Speak to your DC. Girls on the initiative needn’t wait for the slow uptake of the male. Fat. I wonder whether the bird will tell us more. No doubt I’ll find out post decline.’

  Geraldine, thinking to herself: he might be a DC but he’s not my DC, took her leave.

  Chapter 9

  As the Judge Said, Anyone Can Enter the Ritz Hotel

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Rudy,’ Jerzy said after he, Pat and Hamish had gone through the early morning update briefing. ‘A couple of things Leonie said still bother me.’

  ‘The dachshund,’ reminded Hamish in answer to Pat’s inquiring look.

  ‘That didn’t bark in the night,’ said Pat helpfully.

  ‘You know you never cease to amaze me, Pat,’ said Jerzy admiringly. ‘As well as being the walking encyclopaedia of Star Wars we now find you are a connoisseuse of Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Leave it out, guv.’ She raised her hands. ‘Okay, it’s only my second today. I might as well use up my ration and be done with it. No. It’s the telly. I had a thing for Jeremy Brett whether he was or wasn’t, as my old man used to say of Shirley Crabtree, better known as Big Daddy, if you follow what I mean.’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Kirkland,’ said Hamish and then wished he hadn’t, finding the Holmes allusions filtering back into the forefront of his mind his thing for Geraldine, the accursed private eye whose surname was the same as Sherlock’s brother’s forename.

  ‘Perhaps Rudy did or didn’t bark when Augustin played his music loud at night, but it’s not that. When Leonie described meeting him walking home she said it was as if his temper over Rudy and his bad relations with us had all been forgotten, and she used another unusual phrase: he was lighter in his body. A very curious impression to have.’

  ‘Lighter in his speech and manner. Appearing lighter-skinned under the street lighting,’ Hamish offered. ‘Simply jauntier after he’d been out clubbing, dancing, listening to the music he preferred. Isn’t it possible?’ Dancing, he thought bitterly. Dancing with the duplicitous female gumshoe only inches away up close and personal. It was time to move on and change the subject so he reminded, ‘The human resources manager at the Lincoln International is expecting you. She’s dug out what they’ve got on Augustin. As you know he quit in February. You still want to go, Jerzy?’

  Jerzy nodded. ‘We’re on our way. Look after the bridge, young Horatius. You drive, Obi Wan.’

  ‘Ooh. First names now. That seminar’s going to have a
lot to answer for. Me I’m resourceful but only minimally human. I preferred it when it was simply personnel we dealt with. But aren’t we wasting our time? She could have e-mailed us the details.’

  ‘Get a feel. There’s no substitute, even for a globally standardised outfit like Lincoln International.’

  Pat laughed. ‘Us young and not so young offenders like nothing better. If I didn’t know you so well, Jerzy,’ she paused, ‘I’d say you were becoming a dirty old man.’

  The continuing summer heat made the car roofs glisten and shimmer outside. Pat shaded her eyes from the glare. Even though it had been parked in the shade of the building the inside of the vehicle resembled a mini furnace. They moved off. Jerzy pressed his window down further than Pat’s.

  ‘Direct or scenic?’ It was her way of asking whether she should put her foot down.

  ‘Scenic. The hotel will still be there. We might as well enjoy the view.’

  ‘Want some music on?’ Her hand moved towards the radio button and then retracted as he shook his head.

  ‘The boys always preferred things going full blast when they used to do their homework. Said it helped them concentrate. I’ve never got the hang of that. Silence and the passing scene suits me better.’

  His desired silence, however, was hard to come by as Pat cursed the dithering driver ahead in suitably Jedi invective. Jerzy leant back and closed his eyes momentarily. Deciding that the offending road-user had been sufficiently verbally chastised, Pat took the opportunity to ask, ‘That seminar of yours. Anything I should know?’

  ‘You’ve got it on the brain. Strictly routine management cascade and budgetary realignments. There will be more. It’s only one in the scheme of things.’

  She dropped the subject and eased out to pass the second Eddie Stobart wagon they had encountered. It only merited a low score in the spot-the-company name she and the family played whenever they were on a motorway. Jerzy had closed his eyes again. No doubt he would tell her what she suspected he was keeping from her when the time was right. Till then though she would do her own digging.

  ‘Ever think about the in between bits, Pat?’

  Checking in the mirror, she cast him a quizzical sidelong glance, waiting for another Turoism to be added to the annals. ‘I don’t follow. Is it a Polish thing?’

  ‘No more Polish than English than Western Samoan.’

  ‘What in between bits?’

  ‘Well, like now. I know you’re driving, but here we are leaving the factory going to the Lincoln International Hotel surrounded by the in between of London and Heathrow, the Bedfont murder scene and hopefully the arrest of the culprit. So much of what we experience is in between one thing and another that interests us or obsesses us. We blot it out. We become oblivious to it, but really it’s the state we’re mostly in. We don’t give it our full attention.’

  ‘Apart from the coppering, I’ve a family, husband and son. There isn’t enough time for the in between as you put it.’

  Jerzy smiled. The low-flying aircraft overhead were now omnipresent. Heathrow perimeter fence accompanied them on the left. On the right a line of large hotels distanced themselves in their own plots as best they could. Each one, however, both in size and style bore a remarkable similarity to its neighbours.

  ‘Got it.’ Pat turned off the road and pulled into the Lincoln International car park.

  The spacious hotel lobby was cool and air-conditioned. Like its competitors it catered mostly for air passengers in overnight or over-day transit. In between, as Jerzy had put it, somewhere and somewhere else. London and England here were simply words. Heathrow and globally customised accommodation were the reality.

  ‘You go and see Ms Human Resources. I’ll mosey around for a bit,’ said Jerzy, mentally counting the chandeliers above them and watching the movement of the few staff members visible. ‘Every workplace has someone who knows what’s really going on. No names, no pack drill. I may just get lucky.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’

  ‘See you back here.’ He moved off following a waiter, who had finished serving drinks, through to the bar. After a chat to the barman, too discreet for his own good, a kitchen porter enjoying a fag outside, a chambermaid encountered on the third floor, a concierge coming off duty and another waiter in the All Day Brunch Grill, he had two names one of which, a maintenance electrician, he should find doing a repair job in Room 649. Pleased that his time had not been spent in vain, he wended his way upwards and onwards.

  Catching sight of himself in the elevator mirror, he adjusted the knot of his red tie scattered with grey lozenges. As he was alone he rolled it up from the bottom in the manner of the late Oliver Hardy and silently mouthed the immortal words, ‘another fine mess.’ No sooner had the ‘mess’ died on his lips than the contraption stopped, a female voice intoned, ‘Fourth floor’, the doors opened and three dark-suited Japanese men started to move forward. ‘Going up.’ Jerzy smiled politely. They withdrew. The doors closed. He straightened his tie again. A sense of weariness crept over him. A stiffness in his neck muscles and the dull ache in his arms he had been experiencing lately brought a rueful grin. I’m overweight and over fifty, he thought, yet I love my wife as much today as I did when we first married, so in sum I’m not an entirely hopeless case. Momentary solitude in confined spaces invariably encouraged him to self-reflections. The important person, however, was not himself but Augustin Cox. He was owed a debt and it was his, Jerzy’s, obligation and indeed pleasure to see that debt repaid. ‘Sixth floor,’ said the helpful invisible female guide. ‘Thank you,’ said Jerzy, ‘and may your future recordings be many and mellifluous.’

  Room 649 was a standard en-suite double. A man in brown overalls, perched on a short stepladder, was unscrewing the light fitting of the central ceiling rose.

  ‘Sammy Deveraux?’ Jerzy moved across the floor to face him.

  ‘The same.’ The wiring above the fitting plate was now exposed.

  ‘DI Jerzy Turostowski.’

  ‘Blimey! No need to show me ID with a name like that as the lap dancer said to The Big Bopper. I knew you were after our jobs, but I didn’t know you had infiltrated the filth as well. Interpol?’

  Jerzy shook his head. ‘Glamorous Feltham CID. I’m told you’re the man who knows the man who knows the man who knows and the Lincoln here is your fief.’

  ‘I can’t imagine who told you that, but flattery will get you somewhere, as the laundress said to the Hoffman presser. This can wait. As it happens I’m dying for a smoke. Care to join me on the roof. It’s only two up.’ He dismounted and looking at Jerzy’s ample girth added, ‘We’ll take the stairs. You could do with the exercise.’

  ‘Smoking to die perhaps rather than the other way round,’ Jerzy replied with equanimity.

  Knots of dedicated nicotinephiles were already in situ when they gained the open air of the large, flat roof. Below them, beyond the road, stretched the ends of the runways with the distant line of cargo buildings on the far side. Sammy led the way to the shelter of a cowled ventilation shaft. He pulled out a packet of American cigarettes, drew one up between his lips, reached for his lighter, flicked it and inhaled his first drag with satisfaction. ‘I take it you don’t.’

  ‘K for correct. We’re investigating the murder of Augustin Cox. I’m hoping you knew him and have some salient facts to offer.’

  ‘Salient. You’ve a way with words, Chief Inspector. Yes, I was aware of Mr Cox and no matter how I might have perceived him I was sorry to hear of his demise. Break in and battery was it?’

  Jerzy left his rise in the ranks uncontested. ‘No. I’d say it was premeditated. Tell me your perceptions.’

  ‘Well, his wasn’t the ordinary story of hotel folk.’ Sammy took another deep drag and blew out a smoke ring. ‘Disgusting things really, but then life’s little pleasures sometimes are.’ He paused while a 737 lumbered slowly overhead before continuing. ‘Like many he came with agency work. Temporary kitchen porter. He could have been here on and off befo
re I was even aware he existed. Then he’s permanent. That in itself a tad unusual. Then lo and behold he escapes the lower depths and surfaces among room service. Rise and ascent instead of stay put and drudgery.’

  ‘Attributes?’

  Sammy smiled. ‘That I don’t know, but he played the Latin hombrecito as they say. Bedroom eyes. Neat and clean. Fitted the uniform.’

  ‘AC DC?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Opportunist certainly. Mostly the ladies and not always those of advancing years.’

  ‘So opportunities. Tips etc. Does a tronc system apply here?’

  ‘This is global capitalism, Superintendent. It’s devil take the hindmost.’

  At this rate Jerzy was going to be in charge of the Met before the interview ended. ‘Gossip. Tittle-tattle. Juicy bits to make the day more lively.’

  ‘You are prurient, Commander. You see I can trump your salient. Why not let the dead lie unmolested?’

  ‘A bit of molestation might lead to the killer. Go on, you want to tell.’

  Sammy stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Couple of stories as Scheherazade said to the sultan. Chambermaid goes in at wrong moment. Guest in bra and panties draped across Coxie’s, who’s sitting on the bed, knee. Similar incident when another girl getting out fresh linen hears the sound of loud smacks and muffled yells from adjoining gaff. Little later aforementioned exits with his trolley. It’s a class thing if you ask me. Working class women don’t ask poncey gits to tan their arses. They’ve better things to do.’

  So Pat was right with her emphasis on the hairbrush ad. Augustin had either been compliant or a fetishist. ‘Friend at court? Girlfriends among the staff? We guess there was nobody permanent considering how long the body lay undiscovered.’

  ‘Had to be someone. Who is beyond my ken. Answer to the second probably gropes here and there, maybe the odd knee-trembler and one night stands. Milly Simpson, attractive, blonde when she left, previously brunette, worked with dining room brigade, had a yen for him. Could have been reciprocal.’