by Lynda Renham
‘We’re not holding a bloody séance, unless you were thinking of making contact with the victim.’
‘We don’t know who he is,’ I say. Not that I believe in séances and all that nonsense. Then again, Madam Zehilda was pretty spot on wasn’t she?
‘Was,’ Sylvie corrects. ‘We have to refer to him in the past tense.’
I shudder again.
‘Ah,’ Felix says. ‘I do know who the victim is, I mean, was.’
‘What?’ Sylvie says.
‘I looked up the address from the electoral roll on 192.com.’
‘Does it tell you if he’s deceased?’ Sylvie asks.
‘Don’t be mental. Its 192.com, not find-a-corpse.com.’
I refill my glass. This is getting too gruesome for me. The past few days have been hideous, apart from winning the lottery of course, which was far from hideous but it would have been much more enjoyable had there not been a murder in the midst of it.
‘His name is …’
‘Was,’ corrects Sylvie.
‘Actually we don’t really know if he … well you know?’ I say nervously, wishing we could move off the subject of the victim. It’s enough I’ve got my mum’s problems on my mind not to mention my own relationship break up.
‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell me how unhappy he was,’ Mum had sobbed. ‘He said it was the Sting stuff.’
That’s understandable. Who could cope with having tantric sex and chickens rammed down their throat? I don’t mean literally of course, having chickens rammed down your throat would be awful.
‘He said the chicken shit is ruining the garden and the tantric sex books are an embarrassment when Duncan comes round.’
I don’t imagine Duncan even knows what the missionary position is let alone the ‘lust and thrust’ position. He’s not a bachelor at fifty-seven for nothing.
‘Apparently Duncan picked up my copy of The Galloping Horse thinking it was a Dick Francis novel. Your dad said it’s my fault that he’s now on blood pressure pills.’
‘Dad is taking blood pressure pills?’ I’d said alarmed.
‘No, Duncan. I do wish you would keep up.’
‘All because he looked at one of your books?’
‘The Galloping Horse is a graphic description of that sex position dear. Don’t you read any of the books I give you?’
I’ve probably been far too busy to indulge in the galloping horse or any other animal type sex position. I didn’t think it was the time to tell her about Darren, or about the lottery win come to that. I drag my mind back to Felix.
‘His name is …’ Felix says, pausing for dramatic effect as if announcing an Oscar winner, ‘Victor Wainwright.’
‘Victor?’ Sylvie and I whisper.
The door to the kitchen creaks open and Sylvie and I scream, scattering latex gloves over the carpet. Polly, Felix’s cat, strolls in and rolls on them.
‘She loves latex,’ says Felix, ‘but then don’t we all?’
Sylvie scoops the cat into her arms.
‘Don’t let it near the evidence,’ she cries, throwing the cat at Felix.
‘Christ Sylv, I’ll have to give him a double portion of cat treats now,’ says Felix.
‘We don’t actually know if Victor was the victim though, do we?’ I say. ‘He could have been the murderer.’
‘She has a point,’ says Sylvie. ‘You need to find out more about Victor.’
‘Why me?’ asks Felix petulantly.
‘Because you do it so well.’
Half an hour later, we have consumed the bottle of wine and worked our way through two bags of tortillas while sifting through the contents of the bin, which much to Sylvie’s disgust consist of two takeaway menus, a card from a local electrician, a Waitrose receipt, a torn letter and the remnants of two tickets for the Fun Palace. The disjointed letter is now crudely sellotaped together and sits pride of place on the floor. We stare at it with bemused expressions on our faces. It’s on headed notepaper but it’s impossible to see the whole address.
‘All I can see is Chelsea. It could be anywhere.’
‘It says Mansions,’ I say.
‘There are loads of blocks in Chelsea that have Mansions in the address,’ says Sylvie.
‘These tortillas are fab darling. Where did you buy them?’ asks Felix.
Sylvie looks angrily at him.
‘Please remind me why you are here?’ She asks.
‘You tell me love. If I could get out of it I would.’
I study the torn pieces of the letter. It’s impossible to decipher. The figure of one thousand pounds is mentioned.
‘Do you think it’s a blackmail letter?’ I ask, looking at the words failure to deliver.
‘It’s usually the heavies they send round darling, not letters on headed notepaper,’ laughs Felix.
‘She could be right though,’ says Sylvie, nodding in agreement. ‘The words unforeseen circumstances and failure to deliver could all be considered threatening.’
‘You’ll be saying Break clause is code for break a leg,’ he laughs.
‘Or kneecap,’ says Sylvie animatedly.
‘If you ask me it’s simply a demand for money, legal money that is. Like a tax bill or something. Frankly I think you should stop reading Ruth Rendell, darling,’ says Felix. ‘And maybe read the local rag instead. Has anyone considered doing that?’
‘Ah yes, I thought of that?’ says Sylvie and I have to agree with Felix that she is sounding more like Columbo by the day. ‘Nothing on the local news, so I don’t imagine there will be anything in the local paper but we need to check that on Friday. That can be your job Felix.’
‘Everything seems to be my job,’ he moans. ‘Don’t forget I have a real job love, as an air steward. EasyJet won’t accept my part-time activities with project That Night as an excuse for a day off.’
‘I think Felix is right,’ says Sylvie.
‘Yes, it wouldn’t be good if he lost his job,’ I agree.
‘I’m not talking about his job. I’m talking about the letter. I think we should dismiss it as evidence,’ Sylvie says before slapping her hand to her head in the manner of Columbo.
Felix winks at me.
‘I think we should buy her a rumpled raincoat, what do you think?’
‘We need to go to the local shops. Find out if a lot of bleach has been bought recently.’
‘Bleach?’ says Felix.
‘Why bleach?’ I ask, feeling sure I should know the answer. After all, I watch just as much CSI as Sylvie, or at least I did when Darren was around. I come over all melancholy again. I’m in my early thirties. I don’t even have a mortgage. Not that I want one of course. I mean, who wants a mortgage? But I should have one by now right? I should have a husband and stretch marks. I should really have huge leaky boobs with a baby hanging off the nipple while I’m watching CSI. That’s what women my age are doing isn’t it? Not watching CSI with babies hanging off their nipples, I don’t mean, but settling down to married bliss. I’m not sure how bleach led me to married bliss, but I’m sure there must be a connection somewhere.
‘The fact we didn’t find the body leads me to suspect someone of speeding up the decomposition of the …’
‘The de what?’ questions Felix.
‘The decomposition.’
‘I’m still none the wiser love,’ he says, offering round custard cream biscuits, reminding me again of Darren’s infidelity.
‘It means the decaying of the body. Bleach can speed up the process as well as disfigure the body so it is unrecognisable.’
He lowers his custard cream.
‘There are lots of things I don’t need to know before I die and that was one of them.’
I am about to confess about the hole in my sock and the lost earring, when Sylvie says,
‘And on the subject of being unrecognisable I think we must congratulate ourselves for not leaving any trace of our visit. We have some good fingerprints and the Starbucks card too, and I’ll lift those prints fr
om the card and see if they match the ones on the glasses.’
She has a short memory. I somehow think she is overlooking the lopsided painting and the water stain on the carpet. And I’ve not even mentioned my big toe print, which the police could be lifting as we speak. I really don’t have the heart to tell her.
‘Right, on that Starbucks note, who’s for coffee?’ asks Felix. ‘Who’d like a dot of cream in theirs?’
Dot, oh damn, I forgot to clean her flat. That’s all I need.
If only it was Ark Morgan’s flat. Just imagine …
‘Miss Brown, can you please come here?’
I walk slowly towards Ark Morgan, my heart pounding.
‘Did you deliberately miss this bit, Miss Brown?’
He points at a thin layer of dust on the huge dining table.
‘Are you wanting me to punish you, is that it?’
I blink rapidly, praying that he will be kind to me.
He whips his tie off, almost whipping himself in the face with it. I almost remind him it is me he is punishing not himself but think better of it. He fastens it around my wrists. Holy Moses, he’s knotting it a bit tight.
‘I have scissors,’ he says.
‘But your tie,’ I whisper huskily.
‘I have hundreds,’ he whispers, ‘hundreds to tie you with. Now lean over the table Miss Brown. I’m going to take you hard from behind.’
‘Oh God,’ I groan.
‘Roxie, are you okay?’
I shake myself from my fantasy and come back to reality.
‘I forgot to clean Dot’s flat,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Better go.’
‘I found this in the flat,’ says the man at the bar. ‘Nothing to do with you is it?’
The other man laughs.
‘Do I look like the earring type?’
He takes a sip of beer and studies the earring.
‘Although, it does look kind of familiar but I couldn’t tell you where I’ve seen it.’
‘Well I can assure you it wasn’t there before Saturday, so this could be a clue as to who broke into the flat …’
‘And rearranged the furniture …’
‘The burglar’s calling card perhaps?’ he laughs, dangling the earring between his fingers.
‘So we’re looking for a woman then?’
‘One who cleans carpets and pick locks,’ says the other man thoughtfully.
They sip their beers in silence.
‘Another?’ says the man before pocketing the earring.
Chapter Nineteen
His finger is poised over the lift button, his eyes meet mine and my legs almost give way. If it wasn’t for Henry I don’t think I would still be upright.
‘Going down?’ Ark Morgan asks.
Now there’s a thought I daren’t dwell on. My heart is pounding as I step in beside him, his delicious fragrance wafting over me. The doors slide shut and I’m alone in the lift with him. He exudes power, wealth and oh God, sexual tension that is so potent that I’m feeling heady. Damn, I’m only wearing my chambermaid overall with Morgan Hotels neatly embroidered on it and my name badge over my left breast. My hair is scrunched up into a bun. I’m carrying a Henry and a bucket of cleaning supplies. He’s certainly going to notice me isn’t he? He’ll probably have me in the lift any second now. Let’s face it, how can he not find me irresistible? The lift moves slowly and I fiddle with Henry’s hose and feel my breathing quicken as he moves closer to me, his musky fragrance making me heady.
Suddenly he lunges towards me, the paperwork in his hand flying around the lift like confetti. His hands are pinning me to the wall of the lift, his hips grinding against mine.
‘Henry,’ I mumble, as the hose is pushed against my breast. I know Henry and I are quite intimate but this is taking things too far.
‘Fuck Henry,’ he says. ‘I’m having you now Miss Brown.’
Holy shit, Ark Morgan wants me. He wants me right here in the Crescent Hotel lift. He must have remembered me from our meeting at the Fun Palace.
His lips move closer to mine. I’m so wet. At least the front of my overall is wet. Oh God, what is he doing to me? I can feel his erection hard and stiff pushing against me. My breath is coming in short sharp gasps. His eyes are burning into mine and his hardness is pressing against my hip bone. He removes his tie, licking his lips slowly as he does so.
‘Loosen your top,’ he demands.
I’m so afraid the doors will open and people will see us. Ark Morgan and me doing it in the lift.
‘Did you hear me,’ he says sharply. ‘Your top is loose.’
His arm shakes me by the shoulder and I’m dragged out of my fantasy. Ark Morgan is pointing to my overall. Holy crap, I’m covered in Johnson’s floor polish and Henry’s hose has somehow got hooked under the hem. Holy smoke, what must Ark Morgan think of me? I look like a lactating mother jerking off to a hoover hose. I feel myself grow hot.
‘The top of the floor polish bottle has come loose,’ he says, his voice abrupt. ‘I hope it isn’t going to stain the carpet. You’ll need to see to this before you do anything else.’
‘I …’
‘In future can you use the stairs? It really doesn’t create a good impression if cleaners use the same lift as the guests. I’ll have a word with someone about it. We have top-class clientele here.’
Use the stairs? He surely isn’t serious. I couldn’t possibly carry all this up fifteen flights of stairs. I’m not a bloody female Russian commando. The doors slide open and he marches out. I’m left standing with Henry between my legs. Maybe this is the only thing I’ll have between my legs from now on. The doors slide shut again and I fight back my tears. I look at myself in the lift mirror and cringe. My overall is soaked and my face is redder than a beetroot. The doors open again and I drag Henry with me. I’m sick to death of this job. I spend half my life with my hand down a shower drain pulling out other people’s hairs and when I’m not doing that I’m replacing bog rolls. What kind of job is that? I’m always being judged by what I do for a living. It’s not fair. I bet Ark Morgan wouldn’t have spoken to me like that if I wasn’t a cleaner. Just because I wear an overall and carry a feather duster doesn’t mean I’m stupid does it?
I hate men. They’re arrogant sexist liars. I’m going to become one of those self-sufficient women. Perhaps I’ll even take a course in plumbing. Yes that’s it. I’ll become an emancipated woman, free from the restraints of men. I’ll be empowered and eat as many Nutella-tipped sponge fingers as I like.
‘Where have you been?’ asks Sylvie when I finally arrive on floor eight. ‘I think I know who that frigging biscuit thief is. I saw …’ she stops at looks at me, ‘What happened to your overall?’
‘Ark Morgan had me in the lift and during our sexual tussle I spilt the floor polish,’ I say facetiously. ‘In a nutshell I had a run in with Ark Morgan and ended up with the moustache up my skirt and Johnson’s polish down my front. He’d prefer it if the chambermaids used the stairs in future. We’re an embarrassment apparently, and he doesn’t want their clientele to see us.’
Especially not with Henry hoovers up their skirts, it does after all give the wrong impression doesn’t it?
‘The moustache?’ she asks curiously.
‘The dusting brush attachment,’ I explain.
‘I suppose we should be grateful it wasn’t the extended nozzle,’ she giggles.
‘I think that would have got me the sack.’
‘And more,’ she laughs. ‘Anyway, he is a stuck-up prick. Don’t let it bother you. Now you’ve won the lottery you can chuck his job in his face if you want to.’
She’s quite right of course and it is something I’ve been thinking about. In fact only today the money was transferred into my account. But I’ve already decided to use it as a deposit to buy my own flat. I can’t just chuck in my job. I’ll have a mortgage and will have to keep up the repayments. But I could take some classes and maybe eventually get a better job.
Sylvie points to
the trolley which carries biscuits, teabags, bottles of complimentary shower gel and shampoo.
‘I found this among the biscuits,’ she says holding a toy train. I expect her to add, ‘Mark as exhibit B.’
‘I’m not sure I get it,’ I say. The truth is I’m not getting much at all since Darren revealed his big indiscretion. How do I tell my parents? I haven’t even told them about my lottery win yet. Do you want the good news or the bad news? The bad news is Darren has been shagging the redhead in Eastlea Towers and the good news is I’ve won the lottery. Winning the lottery hasn’t eased my pain at all, and now Ark Morgan has turned on me. I’m beginning to know how Jesus felt. It’s too much betrayal at once isn’t it?
‘It’s obviously that Horrid Henry brat in number six. You know the ones. The parents get through shower gel like no tomorrow, not to mention teabags. I bet all your lottery money that they’ve got bottles of the stuff stashed in their Primark suitcase. Either that or they spend all day in the shower. It’s easy to work out that’s not happening because their room never smells that great,’ she says self-righteously.
‘Right,’ I say, following her into number eight. The bed is a jumble of sheets.
‘Dirty weekenders,’ says Sylvie.
I’m not sure how she has deduced that and really don’t want to ask. I change my overall and chuck the other one into a bin liner before stripping the bed.
‘Ooh Jo Malone, Earl Grey and Cucumber, how weird is that?’ she squeals as she sprays it onto her wrists.
‘You’ll get caught one day,’ I say, sniffing the air and realising I could afford to buy a bottle for myself if I wanted. A little thrill runs through me.
‘I’ll do the shower in this one,’ Sylvie smiles. ‘I’m sure there are all sorts of goodies in here.’
An hour later we are at Lady Harle’s penthouse suite where she lives for half of the year. I wait as Sylvie unlocks the door before saying,
‘I really fancy Ark Morgan.’
There, I have finally admitted it.
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she says.
‘You knew?’ I say dropping Lady Harle’s post beside a pile on the hall table.
‘You dribble every time you mention his name. You know he’s available?’