Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  The hotel manager, Dora Madibe, was waiting for him in the blandly beige reception area, where a notice proclaimed Courtesy, Consideration, Calm. They shook hands. Ms Madibe wasn’t quite as short as the couple he had just photographed but he felt like a giant again as he looked down at her small, heart-shaped face. She was wearing the Hays brand colours, pale blue skirt and a gold shirt with navy piping.

  ‘As I explained on the phone, I’d like to see the room Mr Merrell stayed in and where he was found.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve checked that it’s okay. I must stay with you while you look, though.’ She had a low voice, friendly. ‘It’s a small room we keep for staff in case of sickness or bad weather. I let Dominic stay there, given what had happened to his partner. It’s in the basement, if you want to follow me.’

  They took the lift down. He followed Ms Madibe past a kitchen and laundry rooms and along echoing tiled corridors busy with staff pushing trolleys of sheets, towels and cleaning materials. Swift noted the gold and blue pots of porridge with their pictures of the three satisfied bears on one trolley. Ms Madibe swiped her card on a door and preceded him into a narrow, windowless room with a single bed, a chair, a tiny bedside table, and tall fitted wardrobe. She stood against the cream wall, hands folded in front of her.

  ‘Please, do look. There is nothing here. The police took Dominic’s bag. I believe they were going to give it to his wife.’

  Swift looked in the drawer of the table and the wardrobe. They were empty, apart from half a dozen hangers in the wardrobe.

  ‘Where was he found?’

  ‘I found him. He was hanging from the wardrobe door. He had used some thick cord. He attached it to one of the hooks inside.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  She nodded, her face tightening. ‘Yes. I’ve been in the hotel business long enough to have dealt with some difficult situations and one other suicide — sleeping pills. That was a female customer and she looked peaceful. This was harder because I knew the person. Hanging is more violent, too.’ She crossed to the table and switched on the air conditioning above it.

  ‘Where was the note?’

  ‘On the bed, written on our notepaper.’

  ‘Did you read it?’

  ‘Oh yes. It wasn’t in an envelope. I knew not to touch it, of course. It just said that he had killed Lisa and he was sorry.’ She shook her head, her tightly woven braids swinging, the orange and black beads clicking softly.

  ‘What did you think?’

  She sat on the edge of the bed and gestured to the chair. Swift sat. The room was stuffy, cell-like, and he was glad that the air conditioning had kicked in. He looked at the bare, featureless walls and thought that the place would depress you even if you weren’t already sad.

  ‘I found it hard to understand. Dominic was such a nice man, very kind. He wasn’t always based here, you understand. He travelled between our hotels around London, doing maintenance work. He’d been working here quite a lot since Christmas because we’d had problems with heating and electrics.’

  ‘How long had you known him?’

  ‘About five years. He had worked for the hotel chain a long time and he had a solid reputation. I always found him polite and hard working.’

  ‘So he was working here when his partner died.’

  She had candid eyes and a slow, careful way of speaking. Swift could see her calming any troubled waters on her shift.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Dominic had done an overnight shift. It’s often easier to deal with maintenance that affects the main systems then. He came in at ten p.m. and finished at 6 a.m. He rang me that afternoon to tell me what had happened and to ask if he could stay here for a few nights.’

  ‘You didn’t find that strange? Usually someone would have friends or family to go to in a crisis.’

  ‘I thought it was a bit sad and I didn’t think this room was the best place for him. I wanted to help him in any way I could. He was very upset, obviously, and I didn’t want to ask too many questions. I assumed he had nowhere else to go.’

  Yet his wife had offered him a sanctuary with her and their children. Interesting that he had chosen this solitary, cheerless place.

  ‘How did he seem, during those days he stayed here?’

  ‘Deeply upset, quiet. He wasn’t working. We gave him compassionate leave. Nobody saw much of him, to be honest. I came down to see him on the second evening, just to check he was okay. He said he didn’t need anything. He was sitting on the bed and he looked . . . he looked like a man living a nightmare. He said very little to me, just that he had seen too much and everything was his fault. I could see he didn’t want to talk. He looked so pale.’ She frowned. ‘Though I would say that he seemed a bit low in himself for a while before all this happened.’

  ‘In what way?’

  There was a clatter in the corridor and a shout. She rose and stepped outside, holding the door ajar, speaking to someone and asking them to clear up as quickly as possible. Swift rarely found a chair that was substantial enough to accommodate his long legs. He shifted, imagining Merrell lying on the bed, staring at the off-white ceiling, listening to the drone of the air con, seeing a woman covered in blood.

  Ms Madibe came back in. ‘Sorry, one of the staff had overloaded a trolley. More haste, less speed.’

  ‘You were saying Mr Merrell had seemed a bit down.’

  ‘Yes. It’s hard to describe, really. He just seemed preoccupied at times. He was a quiet person anyway. His work was fine.’

  ‘Was he friendly with anyone in particular here?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He was courteous to everyone but he just got on with the job. He liked his work, and he would get absorbed in it. The staff were terribly shocked when they heard about his death. The nature of his work meant that he was always moving from one hotel to another so he didn’t really form friendships, and of course our staff change frequently. I wouldn’t know about the other hotels.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  She responded instantly. ‘Twenty-six.’

  ‘Did Dominic Merrell strike you as a man who could commit murder?’

  ‘He was the most unlikely murderer I’ve ever met. You know, you get a sense of someone and he was genuine, thoughtful.’

  Swift rose, handing her a card. ‘Thanks for your time. Please get in touch if anything else occurs to you.’

  She nodded. ‘I went to Dominic’s funeral. Those poor boys. A parent’s suicide must leave a lasting mark.’

  The market was bustling and full of noise as Swift crossed back through. The smells were heavenly, sour, sweet, and pungent. Steam rose from a spit holding a roast hog. He was spoiled for choice to satisfy his empty stomach as he sauntered between the stalls. Thai, Vietnamese, Balkan, Indonesian, Spanish, Ethiopian, Italian, Egyptian and French dishes — even sausages from Lincolnshire — were all on offer. In the end, he settled for Caribbean, a jerk chicken and salad wrap with a spiced carrot juice. He took his food into the grounds of the cathedral and sat on a bench, watching the world go by, wondering why Dominic Merrell had seemed preoccupied and down and why he had thought everything was his fault. Had he been regretting leaving his wife and suffering the remorse of a murderer or was there something else?

  He had a couple of hours before his meeting with Finbar Power. He entered the cathedral and took a seat, enjoying the thought that Shakespeare would have spent time there. Shakespeare’s brother, Edmund, was buried somewhere within. There was a free concert of Danish music underway and a racing polka was setting legs tapping. Tourists and locals passed in and out quietly, some stopping for a few minutes to listen. This was one of the many things that Swift loved about London: people of all nationalities and ages coming and going, hearing something surprising, something stimulating that lifted the spirits. So it would have been for centuries. A trio of violins started a slower, lilting air, a sweet tune.

  * * *

  Finbar Power owned a shop called Johnny Dory near
the Angel. According to his website, he sold tropical and freshwater fish and he had told Swift he lived in a flat above the shop. Swift avoided the dank confines of the tube as much as possible so made his way there on two buses. An Atlantic storm had arrived, the strong wind was whipping through the streets and lifting garbage from the gutters. A crisp packet had attached itself to the bus window and fluttered before flying away in the next gust.

  The shop was a large, softly lit room filled with tanks. Power was dealing with a customer when he arrived. He broke away to invite Swift to look around, saying he wouldn’t be long. Swift examined the tanks of wriggling, vibrantly coloured creatures. There was an eye-catching polka dot fish called a Peppermint Plecostomus and a beautiful black and yellow feathery-tailed one, a Queen Arabesque Pleco. It was an expensive hobby. Most of the fish were priced at around forty pounds or over. The quiet environment, the gentle light and the smooth gliding of the fish were soothing. Swift was sure his blood pressure had dropped.

  ‘This is a very calming place,’ he said as Power saw his customer out and came up to him.

  ‘Isn’t it? I notice people tend to lower their voices when they come in. I certainly find it quiet after being a trader in the stock exchange. D’you want to come up to my place for a cup of tea? I’ve put the closed sign up.’

  ‘Thanks, yes.’

  ‘It’s through the back of the shop.’

  He led Swift through to a small back office. There was a door set into the wall, opening on to a flight of steep stairs.

  ‘You need to mind your head,’ Power warned him, ducking as he went through. He was as tall as Swift, who wondered if he ever forgot to bend and cracked his skull.

  He showed Swift into a living room at the back of the property and vanished to make tea. The room was painted white with pale green furnishings, the floor a whitish-grey wood. Stylish wooden framed armchairs stood around a glass-topped coffee table by the French window that looked out onto the garden. There was an iron balcony outside the window and metal steps down to a patio. There were no pictures or TV. The place was immaculate. Clinical, almost.

  Swift’s eye was drawn to an elegant aquarium that ran most of the length of one wall. The glass was rimless and ultra-clear and sat on a white, laminated cabinet. Tropical fish in glowing yellow, topaz, orange, scarlet and many hued stripes darted amongst rocks and ferns in their silent, illuminated world. A bookcase held books dedicated to fish and copies of National Geographic.

  Power came in with a tray of tea and a plate of thin biscuits. He was slim but well built, with flaxen hair receding in a V-shape from his temples. His eyes were an intense blue, deep set. In the full light from the windows, he looked tired and pasty. His jeans and shirt were immaculate and expensive looking, his watch a Philippe Patek. There must be serious money in fish. The tea was proper too, leaves poured from a pot through a silver strainer. It was black, slightly aromatic.

  ‘This is delicious,’ Swift told him. ‘Lovely flavour.’

  ‘It’s Vietnamese. I think they produce the best tea. I think you’ll appreciate my easy chairs too. They’re made for long legs.’

  ‘I do.’ Swift accepted a cinnamon biscuit. It melted on the tongue. ‘As I said on the phone, I’ve come about Dominic Merrell. His wife can’t believe that he murdered his partner and has asked me to take a look at what happened.’

  ‘Poor Dom. The whole thing has been a nightmare. I still can’t take it in.’ He spoke quietly, his voice laden with sadness. He broke a biscuit into two pieces and shifted the crumbs around.

  ‘I understand you were a close friend. I am sorry for your loss. Tell me about him.’

  ‘I’d known Dom since we were thirteen, when my family moved from Limerick to Stamford.’

  ‘He grew up in Lincolnshire?’

  ‘That’s right. My dad worked for an Irish bank and they were opening a branch in Stamford. It was quite a culture shock on all fronts. Limerick was a shabby, raucous, bustling city and Stamford is gracious and peaceful, something of a backwater to a city boy. I was lonely for a while, felt that I stuck out like a sore thumb. This was in the early nineties, when being Irish in rural England attracted some vitriol. Might still for all I know, although I think Polish and brown-skinned people have now taken over the status of worrying incomers. Stamford seemed very quiet and strange. I found it hard to read people. No one invited you into their home. I met Dom my first day at school and we clicked. He and his parents were friendly, very open, asked me round for tea straight away. We became best mates. He was a lifebelt for me, really. We used to go fishing together. I have him to thank for my enduring passion for the world of fish.’ He smiled sadly and sipped his tea.

  ‘It sounds as if you’d been in contact ever since.’

  ‘That’s right. We both left school at sixteen. I came to London to seek my fortune. I didn’t quite believe that the streets were paved with gold but as it turned out, I did become a wealthy man here. Dom worked in Stamford for a while, then London beckoned or him too. I encouraged him to make the move and he got an apprenticeship as an electrician. We shared a small bedsit in Manor Park for six months. I joined a large investment firm, studied economics at night classes and worked my way up. Dom and Georgie met when they were seventeen, so I’ve known her for a long time too. I suppose not a month went by in all those years without Dom and me meeting. Once he met Lisa, it was a bit less frequent. He liked to be with her as much as possible.’

  ‘Do you think he killed Lisa?’

  The response was immediate. ‘No, not for one minute, and I can’t understand why he said he did. It doesn’t make any sense. Nor does killing himself.’

  ‘Did you see him after the murder, before he committed suicide?’

  ‘Yes. He rang me and told me Lisa was dead. We met at a pub at Blackfriars, had a pint and a sandwich. He hardly ate, but I suppose that’s not surprising. I offered him a bed here but he said no. He said he’d prefer to stay at the Hays, told me he needed to think about what he’d seen.’

  Power had an immobile face that gave little away but his eyes were watery and filled with sadness, his voice tight with emotion.

  ‘Did he talk about finding Lisa?’

  ‘He talked a lot for Dom. He cried too. I had never seen him cry before. A kind of dry crying, awful. The police had been interviewing him and he was exhausted but he seemed to want to go over it. He said he had come home about half six and saw Lisa on the sofa. She often slept there after a party. It was dark in the flat and he thought she was asleep at first and went to kiss her. He said he put his hand in her blood before he realised she was dead. It was everywhere, he said, an ocean of blood, soaked right through the cushions and there was a puddle of blood on the floor. He put his arms around her and held her for a while. Said he knew that once he called 999, she would be taken away and never be his again. I remember he said, there was a never-ending nightmare of blood and horror. He repeated that a couple of times. He seemed stunned, to be honest, out of it. We just sat in silence then. It’s hard to find words to say to someone in that situation, no matter how well you know them. I was so sorry for him.’ Power took a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  Swift left a pause. ‘That was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yes. Then Georgie rang to tell me what had happened.’ He shook his head. ‘I still haven’t taken it in. I can’t take it in. It’s all unreal.’

  ‘Mrs Merrell said she’d lost contact with you after her husband left.’

  Power held his hands out. ‘You know how it is. You feel that you have to stay loyal to your friend. I was very fond of Georgie. I was best man at their wedding. It was difficult but in the end, Dom was my friend first and I couldn’t see a way to stay in contact with her too without making things awkward for him. Dom never asked me not to see Georgie, he wouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘What did you think of him leaving his wife?’

  Power looked at him, then out
of the window, holding in emotion.

  ‘Well, he’s gone now so words can’t hurt him. I saw how mad he was about Lisa and I could see why. She was very beautiful, charismatic. When she walked into a room, it lit up. It all happened very fast, him getting together with her. Too fast. He didn’t really know her. I didn’t know anything about it until he had moved into her flat. I thought he was playing out of his league, maybe having some kind of mid-life crisis. I never said that to him. You can only be so honest with your friends if you want to keep them.’

  Swift finished his tea, savouring the last mouthful. ‘Can you be more specific? Out of his league in what way?’

  ‘Every way. Look, Dom was an average bloke. Bright, but normal. He had no great ambitions in life. He qualified as an electrician, and then joined Hays hotels. He stayed for years in a steady marriage. I didn’t see that much of Lisa but she came across as a lovely social butterfly and a dreamer with a rich, indulgent father. She had flitted from one relationship to another and had all kinds of notions about exploring life to the full. I got the impression that meant exploring men to the full as well. She did love Dom, for a while anyway, but I don’t think loyalty and settling down was her thing.’

  ‘She was unfaithful to him?’

  He took a breath, linked his fingers together and cracked the knuckles. ‘I would think so.’

  ‘Did he think that?’

  ‘I reckon he suspected it but he didn’t want to believe it. He had too much invested in her. He worshipped the ground she walked on. She could do no wrong in his eyes. There is a song with lyrics to that effect, isn’t there?’

  ‘You mean When a Man Loves a Woman.’

  ‘That’s it. Percy Sledge. It goes on about how a man would leave his best friend if he criticised the woman. So I was careful. He meant too much to me and anyway, I don’t believe in interfering.’ His eyes filled again. ‘Sorry. I don’t usually blub.’

  ‘That’s okay, you don’t need to apologise.’