As Good as Dead

by Ben Westerham

  “Someone,” she went on. “Has been stealing things from our customers. Watches, jewellery, sometimes cash. They even managed to grab a solid gold and emerald brooch that the horrified owner had only placed on the coffee table in her room while she went to the bathroom to have a wee. When she realised what had happened, she went ballistic.”

  “I suppose you called the police in?”

  “We did.”

  “And they’ve not had any joy?”

  “None. I was told it’s the kind of thing that goes on in hotels all the time, as if I didn’t already know thieves like to operate in places like this. They spoke to the owner of the broach and some of the staff who were on duty at the time, but all I heard from them after that was one phone call to say they would keep the file open for now.”

  “I sometimes think I’m in the wrong game. I could make a small fortune nicking other people’s hard-earned belongings. Almost no chance of getting caught, so long as you’re not an idiot, and, just to be clear, I’m not.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for that. How much will it cost to have you track down this thief, supposing it’s not too hard a job for you?”

  How could I resist when she was taunting me like that. You’d almost think she was serious about questioning my capabilities.

  “My bar bill.”

  She looked at me as if she’d misheard me.

  “Come again. Your bar bill?”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m already being paid, well paid, for my time here and that’s hardly going to be a difficult job. Finding this thief of yours will stop me from getting bored. Mind you, I’ll most likely have a few drinks every night. Might even finish up with a vodka and coke. You can’t call me cheap.”

  Angela laughed and, as she did so, shook out her shoulder length hair. In the soft light of the bar you could take her for being ten years younger than I guessed she really was.

  “Done. David,” she called over the barman. “All Mr Good’s drinks are now on the house. Keep a tab for me, so I can settle it when he leaves.”

  Dave the barman acknowledged his instructions, picked up our empties then toddled off to stick them in the washing up crate.

  I extracted a few more details from Angela about the thefts before the conversation moved on to other things, like which film was best, Grease or Fame, and why she thought Marc Bolan was the hottest thing she’d ever seen live on stage. Me, I preferred them two women out of Abba, but then I’d never seen them on stage, worst luck.

  Before I knew it, we’d been nattering away for nearly two hours and most of the other punters had long since disappeared, off to their beds or maybe a late-night naked swim in the freezing cold English Channel. I was thinking of calling it a night myself when Angela stubbed out her latest cigarette and, calm as you like, asked me if I like to head up to her room with her.

  Caught me off guard, she did. I was about to yawn, then found myself sitting there with my mouth open, while staring at Angela’s lips. It was an odd thing to happen, under the circumstances, but I couldn’t help noticing that most of the soft pink lipstick she’d been wearing had transferred itself to the dozen or so ciggies she’d smoked as we’d chatted.

  “Well,” I stumbled. “I suppose I don’t have anyone else waiting for me and you’re grown up, so you can make your own mind up about these things. Will I need my toothbrush?”

  She looked at me over the top of her almost empty glass, a sparkle in her eyes and a very naughty tone to her voice.

  “I quite like my sex kinky, David, but I’m not sure what you’d use a toothbrush for. I’m wondering if I should be worried now about being alone with you.”

  I blushed and that doesn’t happen very often, I don’t think.

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out what use you can put a toothbrush to in the bedroom. Penthouse suite, is it, your room?”

  She laughed so much this time I’d have felt awkward if there’d been anyone else left in the bar, apart from Dave, the barman, and he didn’t count, because he was staff.

  “I should be so lucky.” She emptied her glass, then picked up her ciggies and lighter. “Come on. I’ve got a small flat at the back of the hotel on the first floor. It’s not anything luxurious but it’s better than plenty of the other places I’ve lived. I’m not on duty until ten tomorrow, so we can have a lie in.”

  At the time, I didn’t take any more notice about the kinky sex comment, mainly because, until she’d propositioned me, I hadn’t been expecting anything other than an early night all on my tod. But, twenty minutes later, as I lay there starkers on her enormous king-size bed, waiting for her to come back after powdering her nose, I knew she was absolutely for real. She stood there in the doorway, lit softly by the standard lamp in the far corner and the light in the hallway, wearing nothing more than an unbuttoned shirt, that struggled to keep her generous breasts from my view, and a pair of skimpy black knickers.

  She was holding something in her hands. At first I wasn’t sure I was looking properly and pushed myself up on to my elbows so I could see better. I hadn’t seen things wrong. In her hands, hanging down to her knees, was a length of rope. She must have seen the worried look on my face.

  “I hope you don’t mind, David,” she started, gently swinging the rope from side-to-side. “But I like to have my men tied up, to start with, at least. It’s a control thing, you see. I promise I’ll only do the most depraved and outrageous things to that delicious body of yours, unless you’re very bad of course.” She lets the words trail off.

  I hesitated, she stepped fully into the room and pushed the door closed behind her. She smiled; a wicked smile that made it clear just how much she was looking forward to our little get together. I went funny all over and gulped. But it was the look she had in her eyes that got me, it gave me goosebumps. I wasn’t used to being all tied up with nowhere to go, as it were.

  “Worried I might run off?” I asked, all innocent like.

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll be doing that. Not tonight, lover boy. Now, arms up against the bedstead,” she ordered as she strode across the room.

  I obeyed, as I always do when a bossy woman tells me what to do, and she wasted no time swinging into action, tying my wrists to the metal frame so tightly the rope cut into my skin.

  “Ouch,” I whimpered. “That’s a bit on the tight side.”

  “Mmm,” she purred, bringing her mouth up close to the side of my face, so she could murmur huskily into my ear. “That’s just the way I like it.”

  As she set about my other wrist, I couldn’t help noticing her eyes were little pits of fire, flames leaping in all directions and I wondered if I’d ever see London again. Or the outside of her flat, for that matter. Maybe she had bodies piled up in her wardrobe.

  “Now spread those skinny legs of yours,” she demanded.

  “Skinny? Whose legs you calling skinny?”

  The cheek of it. I was going to point out I took good care of my legs, but I must have hesitated without realising it, or perhaps she just fancied a bit of the physical stuff, but either way she grabbed hold of my left leg and pulled it out towards the corner of the bed before displaying her knot-tying skills all over again.

  As the rope bit into my flesh, making me wince, I yawned. Odd thing to happen, under the circumstances, I know, but I guessed it was all that sea air I’d been taking in. Then I wondered what Angela would do if I fell asleep before she’d finished with me. Best not to risk it, I decided, as I felt my right leg being pulled across the bed.

  *

  After a night to remember, I’d woken up to find bright sunlight pouring in through the windows, the curtains already open. My playmate wasn’t in the bed any more. I made the not unreasonable assumption she had probably de-camped to the kitchen in order to make me breakfast. God, I needed it. Every muscle in my knackered body ached like mad. She hadn’t let me off lightly, had my mistress. She made sure she got everything she wanted and then some; which, it turned out, was a lot. I
thought I was a pretty experienced bloke in the bedroom department, but she showed me things I hadn’t even heard rumours about. For a moment, I wondered how it was I’d managed to survive the night. It was easy to imagine other men hadn’t been so lucky; there were probably bodies all over town, waiting to be unearthed.

  “Are you going to stay in that bed all day?”

  I looked over at the doorway to see her standing there, all dressed and ready for a day’s work. There was no sign of the sex maniac from the night before. It was like I’d been handed about between two different women. That was a thought worth lingering on.

  “That a problem?”

  “It is if the cleaner finds you.”

  “You have someone to clean your flat?”

  “I do. She gets paid for it, out of my own pocket. Housework isn’t my thing.”

  “I’d better get dressed then. Any chance of a cuppa? Bit of toast wouldn’t go amiss too.”

  I attempted to dazzle her with the old David Good smile.

  “Kitchen’s down the end of the hallway. Help yourself. I’m off to work. The cleaner will be here at ten, so you’ve got plenty of time for a shower and breakfast.” She turned to leave, then changed her mind and looked back. “Are you free tonight?”

  My body screamed at me to make an excuse, any excuse. Claim I had a dinner engagement with the Queen. Anything. I wasn’t sure I could cope with a second night of Angela’s fun and games, at least not without a month long break first.

  “Not sure yet. That’s the trouble with my line of work, you never know how things are going to turn out. Call you later?”

  “Chicken,” she smiled, then turned again and walked down the hall.

  I heard the door click shut, then looked up at the ceiling and puffed out my cheeks. My bit of rest and relaxation at the seaside had turned into something else altogether.

  Chapter Three

  I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. Four minutes to go, if the train arrived on time. I assumed it would. Opted to take a positive outlook. Glass half full and all that. A hippie wearing one of those tops made out of an old dirty rug walked past, giving off a strong whiff of patchouli oil. I thought his sort had gone extinct years ago, overwhelmed by the plague of punks that descended upon the Earth around 1976. Just for the heck of it, I tried asking myself why he might be there. Million quid business deal seemed unlikely. As did the idea he might be off to London to start a new job as an accountant’s assistant. No, he would be there to meet his woman. She’d be a skinny little thing with long hair, a permanent smile and an impressive collection of aromatic soaps.

  There was a kerfuffle at one on the ticket barriers, where it seemed someone hadn’t bothered with the hassle of buying a ticket before they set off and now the heard-it-all-before inspector was holding out for a penalty payment. I’ve always wondered if they get a bonus for every one of those they manage to squeeze out of such hopeful travellers. Could be a nice little earner if that was the case, because I knew loads of tight wads who tried to duck out of paying whenever they hopped on a train.

  Two minutes to go. I know, obsessive, but I was working. I’m bound to check my watch a lot when I’m on the job, so to speak. Perfectly normal thing to do. I got to my feet, stretched my arms out in front of me, then wandered in the direction of platform four where, the big board hanging above my head promised, I could expect to see the London train arrive at any moment.

  I studied the toes of my shoes, happy to find they were sort of clean and shiny, but gave them both a rub on the back of my trouser legs, just in case. Ran my fingers through my hair, had a quick twitch of the nose and I was ready. A little girl was being dragged across the concourse not far away by a bloke I assumed was her father. She looked at me, then scrunched up her face as if she felt suddenly unwell. Some women of an older vintage who’d known me for a while would probably say they agreed entirely with the sentiment.

  Only one minute late, the London train pulled into place alongside platform four. It must have gone like the clappers over the last few hundred yards to make up for the other two minutes it was supposed to have been running late when I’d last looked up at the arrivals board. It came to a stop with a judder that made it sound as if the whole train was about to fall apart. I crossed my fingers no one had got hurt as a result.

  Dozens of heavy, clunky doors swung open at more or less the same time and immediately started spewing out hordes of passengers, everyone of them, apparently, in a desperate hurry to get somewhere as quickly as their feet would carry them. Or maybe they’d sampled a British Rail coffee on the journey and now needed to get to the nearest loo before illness overwhelmed them. I stood my ground bravely, deflecting every attempt by the fleeing masses to sweep me off to some potentially exciting or, more likely, deeply dull destination. I considered it a major success to suffer just the one passing blow, from an unruly suitcase, and have just the one toe stomped on, though that did leave a dirty mark on my shoe.

  I clocked my latest employers as soon as I set eyes on the pair of them. He was a thin, well-groomed bloke with a briefcase in one hand and an umbrella in the other, walking with a confident stride that suggested he might own the place. She was a slender number wearing high heels, a posh skirt and a matching jacket, seeming for all the world as though she was trying to keep as big a gap as possible between the two of them. Her bag looked barely big enough for a trip to the toilet, let alone a few days away, especially taking into account her being a woman and all that. Then I noticed a porter walking behind her, dragging a huge green suitcase. That was more like it.

  If I’d been wearing a tie, I would have straightened it, but I’d forgotten to put on the one I’d brought south with me. Well, it was only for show in the first place; I’d just have to rely on my impeccable manners and irresistible charm to make sure I made a good first impression. As they cleared the close scrutiny of the fussy ticket inspector, I stepped forward, wearing what I hoped was a welcoming but professional smile on my face. Not that I was sure what a professional smile ought to look like, but there we go; I’d made the effort.

  Of course, it would have made things a tad easier if me and the brief had met beforehand, in which case I would have had no doubts about recognising him, but I was confident and stepped into their path before they could slip by and disappear into the heaving, seething masses that whirled all around us.

  “Mr Scoular? David Good. Here to meet you, as instructed.”

  “Ah, Mr Good. Excellent.”

  Me and Scoular shook hands.

  “In which case, you must be Miss Rudd,” I said to the woman, offering her my hand.

  She looked at me as if I’d just stood on her hamster, which she underlined by leaving my hand hanging in mid-air. I decided it must have been the train journey that had upset her; being stuck in a carriage with Scoular all that time. I imagined he’d taken the time to tell her all about his stamp collection and the prize winning roses he grew in his garden. Enough to drive anyone round the bend.

  “Yes,” intervened Scoular. “This is Miss Rudd. Miss Alexandra Rudd.”

  He looked at her, clearly expecting his client to say something, but all she did was stare off into the distance. Her mouth stayed firmly shut.

  “Comfy journey?” I asked Scoular.

  “Tolerable. That would be the way to describe it,” answered the solicitor. “These carriages have seen better days, I think it would be fair to say. But at least we arrived on time, which makes a pleasant change. Do you have a car, Mr Good?”

  “Me? No, I don’t drive. No need to in London. More trouble than it’s worth.”

  “So, it will be a taxi then. I take it there’s a rank outside?”

  Scoular’s eyes were small and when his right eyebrow moved up his forehead it made his eye go round as a button, like one of them mad men in an old black and white horror film. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching.

  “Taxi rank? Oh, yeah, right out the front, it is.”

  The hug
e suitcase has been abandoned behind Scoular and I couldn’t see him having the strength to move it two feet, let alone all the way to the taxi rank and something told me Alex Rudd wasn’t the sort to carry her own bags either.

  “Like me to carry your suitcase?” I asked my new client.

  She looked down her nose at me and nodded her head just enough so I’d notice. I was already starting to get the impression the next few days were not going to be quite as bright and breezy as I’d imagined. I tried to pick up the suitcase, which hardly budged an inch, so had to try again, this time giving it all I’d got, which isn’t a great deal. As I looked up I found Scoular and his client already halfway to the taxi rank and I wondered if they’d even bother to wait there for me.

  Three minutes and a hernia later, our taxi driver complained, “Bloody hell, mate, what you got in here?” as he struggled to haul the suitcase into the boot of his Volvo. “Dead body is it?”

  “Belongs to her,” I said, nodding at Alex Rudd. “She’s not saying what’s in there, though you’re probably right. My guess is, it’s the mother-in-law.”

  The taxi driver liked that, though, from the look on his face as he closed the boot, I could see he was seriously contemplating the possibility I wasn’t joking.

  Since Scoular had already stuck himself in the middle of the taxi’s rear seat, I couldn’t get up close to Rudd, who was on the left, gazing out of the window at nothing in particular. But I was able to get a whiff of her perfume, a subtle little number that I quite liked. I can’t stand those strong, spicy ones that get right up your nose and leave you with a headache for days afterwards. Why women wear those, I’ve no idea.

  As the taxi pulled away, Scoular swivelled his head towards me.

  “Everything in order at the hotel?”

  “It is. Impressive place. It faces right out on to the beach too.”