Killing Cupid (30 page)

‘Here you are, miss,’ said the cabbie, a tired-looking middle-aged man with a droopy moustache.

‘Are you sure?’ Mareliese had said she was taking me to lunch, and so I was expecting at least a place with white linen on the tables and a maitre-d’. Not formica and a queue at the till.

It seems that my capacity for optimism is stuck on ‘high’, in the face of repeated disappointment. This was indeed our venue for lunch. Mareliese was a dumpy lady in her mid-forties with an unfashionable mass of out-of-control corkscrew curls which kept shedding into her egg salad sandwich. She seemed to begrudge me even a paltry three quarters of an hour of her time, and banged on continuously about how busy she was with her surprise ‘hit’ of the year, a novel written by a man who’d had a sex change called
Kicking the Balls Into Touch
. Yawn. I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu – a seafood salad (which turned out to be a couple of crabsticks and some barely defrosted prawns, hidden in a huge bowlful of lettuce) and kept trying to turn the conversation back to
TLA
but she didn’t seem that interested, beyond saying that the bookstore round the corner had four copies which I could sign – if I liked. And that it had done ‘OK’ in Holland, but it would have been much better if I could have come over and done one of the literary festivals or a reading some months ago when she first suggested it. Now people had forgotten about me and moved on to the next big thing…

Oh please, I felt like saying. Contain your enthusiasm for me and my book, all this fawning is quite embarrassing. My thoughts kept drifting back to Alex, with a sort of appalled anticipatory thrill. I even had an image of me at his hospital bedside, his face pale and bruised on the pillow, a sickly puppy, wan with gratitude and overcome with emotion at my presence. (Emily of course was out of the picture, as Alex had seen the error of his ways and ditched the bitch long ago.)

Mareliese made her excuses and escaped, after pointing me in the direction of the bookstore, without even offering to accompany me to the signing. I did walk over there, and searched long and hard along the shelves for both the English version of
TLA
and the Dutch translation, but failed to find either. I asked a lanky male assistant, who brightened.

‘Yes,’ he said, in heavily accented English, after consulting his computer. ‘We have it. Please follow me.’ He strode purposefully across to the back of the store, to a crate on the floor full of dog-eared books with torn or stained covers. Kneeling down with an expression of intense concentration, he plunged his hand into the crate, right down to the bottom, rummaged around and triumphantly pulled out one rather battered copy of
TLA
.

‘Here!’ he beamed, thrusting it at me.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said abruptly, turning around and walking out of the shop. Bloody great. What a waste of time.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and the water in the canals sparkled, superficially disguising their murky depths. I strolled alongside one for a while, past a small, fragrant flower market, where I bought two packets of tulip bulbs, and several gift shops. I stopped in one and bought Paula a money-box Dutch clog, as a thank-you for agreeing to feed Biggles while I was away (I hope he’s OK. I hope she hasn’t forgotten), and then walked on further.

I’m now in a coffee shop – having actual coffee this time – writing this diary and wondering if Alex’s bloated body is being dragged out of a canal somewhere. I can’t stop thinking about it, although whether out of mere curiosity or concern I still haven’t quite decided…

No. It’s no use, I’ve got to know.

Later

I remembered the name of Alex’s hotel and got a cab over there, wishing that I’d thought to bring my disguise. My heart was pounding as I walked into the dingy little lobby with its smeary faux-marble counter, and my head was practically swivelling 360 degrees in my attempts to keep an eye out for Alex or whatsherface – Emily.

‘I’m here to meet a friend of mine,’ I whispered to the receptionist. ‘Alex Parkinson. Is he – um – all right, do you happen to know?’

Her face instantly settled into creases of sympathy. ‘Jah, it was very bad,’ she said, tutting. ‘They took him off in an ambulance last night.’

‘An ambulance?’ Oh God, it wasn’t just my imagination working overtime. Evan really had done something to him. ‘Is he in hospital?’

The receptionist looked at me with dual suspicion and guilt, realizing that she had been less than discreet. ‘I am sorry, I thought you knew what had happened.’

‘Well, um, yes and no. Not exactly. I just got a message that he was hurt.’ I felt sick with nerves now. What if Emily walked in? Or Alex – unless he was in traction somewhere. How could I explain my presence, or worse, what if the receptionist let on that I knew Alex had been hurt? Or – horrors – what if Evan had said in Emily’s earshot, right before plunging a six inch knife into Alex’s heart: “this is from Siobhan”…

‘So – could you tell me if he’s here or in hospital?’ Or dead, I thought in a panic. Sweat was actually running down the side of my face, even though it wasn’t at all hot. That bloody Evan. What had he been thinking? I could go to jail!

‘He’s not in hospital. He stayed here last night. After he’d talked to the police.’

Not dead. But talking to police. Oh God.

‘He and his friend have checked out. They are going home this afternoon. I think they went to have some lunch first. Would you like to leave a message for them?’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think I know where they went for lunch. I’ll catch up with them there. Thanks for your help. By the way, is there a Ladies’ I could use first?’

I did actually really need the toilet. It must have been nerves. The receptionist pointed me in the right direction, and I shot off, on legs of jelly. Locking myself in a cubicle, I tried to shepherd my straying, panicked thoughts into some sense of cohesion.

Right. Alex wasn’t dead, but bad enough to have needed an ambulance. He couldn’t be in too bad a state though, because he’d gone out to lunch with Emily. So his injuries were clearly more superficial than had at first been believed. Probably just a black eye, maybe a couple of stitches. I heaved a sigh of relief, then instantly began to panic again. He’d been talking to the police. I just had to pray that Evan had the sense not to mention my name, otherwise I really was in trouble.

Still on the loo, I delved in my handbag for my compact, to powder my terror-shined face. My fingers closed around an unfamiliar plastic bag, which I pulled out, puzzled. I was holding a small Ziploc bag containing a rather large amount of cannabis, a mess of leaves and stalks compacted into a clump the size of a squashed tennis ball. How the hell had that got there?

Then I remembered. Evan, mid-snog last night, had murmured ‘Here’s a little present for you.’ I’d thought he was referring to his large and frankly intrusive tongue, but he must have slipped the pot into my handbag then. I was momentarily touched – how sweet of him! Giving me drugs and beating up Alex for me. Bless. I considered writing him a little thank-you note, and then decided against it. Better for me to disassociate myself, and deny any knowledge of him. I’d have to dump the pot, too. Thank goodness I’d found it before I went through Customs!

I was about to tip it down the loo when I thought, no, while I’m still in Amsterdam I don’t need to worry. I pocketed the bag and decided that I might as well indulge myself a little before going home. I could just leave it in the hotel room for the cleaners to enjoy – if I hadn’t finished it all by then.

I flushed the toilet and emerged, repairing my make-up at the mirror before cautiously opening the door back into the lobby. It was still deserted, but I slunk out with great trepidation and hid behind a large luggage rack with two rucksacks on it. I still had to make extra sure I didn’t bump into Alex and Emily coming back in.

A label on one of the rucksacks caught my eye: Emily Norris-Bottom, it said. I sniggered out loud, stifling it quickly. Could that really be Emily’s surname? Oh, how I’d have enjoyed writing that on the jiffy bag with the magazines/rat, if only I’d known it before. To double check, I looked for identification on the other rucksack and, sure enough, there it was: Alex Parkinson.

Well, I could deal with coming face-to-face with their luggage, just as long as I didn’t have to see them in person. A door across the lobby opened and a very elderly-looking porter emerged, meandering slowly towards me. I was surprised – I didn’t think a hotel this grotty would run to a receptionist and a porter – but still, never mind. Checking that the coast was clear, I was about to make a dash for it when I had a sudden flash of inspiration.

Before I could think it through, I’d pulled out the bag of pot and stuffed it into the side pocket of Emily’s rucksack. Then I scurried out of the hotel, thankfully unobserved.

If she got home without being stopped, she could call it a little gift from me. If she got caught by Customs – well, then she could call it revenge.

I got a cab back to my hotel, determined to relax and enjoy the rest of my holiday on my own. No Alex, or Emily, or Evan. Just the pleasure of my own company, a couple of art museums, a nice restaurant or two, and some good books.

But I was still on tenterhooks, waiting for the knock at the door saying that the police wanted to speak to me on a matter of intent to cause GBH, or worse, attempted murder. How did my life suddenly get to be this dramatic?

Chapter 32

Alex

Amsterdam (Continued)

Right on cue, as soon as the brick shithouses had vanished into the Amsterdam night, a member of the hotel staff came running out to find me lying on the ground, Emily kneeling beside me. I looked up and saw the young woman who had checked us into the hotel; she was followed by a couple of other members of staff; and – predictably – a number of guests who had made their way from the hotel bar to gawp at me. Something for them to mention on their postcards home. I closed my eyes again. I didn’t want to get up. I was starting to feel quite comfortable lying in the gutter.

‘Is he okay?’ asked the hotel receptionist.

Emily said, ‘Call an ambulance.’

I opened my eyes and started to push myself onto all fours. ‘No, I don’t need an ambulance.’

‘Call the police,’ said Emily.

I shook my head, pushing myself to my feet. Emily held me by the elbow. She felt even shakier than I was. I said, ‘Don’t worry. I don’t need the police.’

‘Alex, don’t be an idiot. What do you mean, you don’t need the police?’

I tried to think of a reason that would make sense. ‘It’s too much hassle. I just want to go to bed.’

Another member of the hotel staff, a guy my age, came over. He told us he was the assistant manager. ‘I think we need to call the police. We have to think about the safety of our guests.’ A murmured chorus of approval came from the crowd.

Emily was looking at me very strangely. I said, ‘Okay. Whatever. But I didn’t see much. I won’t be able to tell them anything.’

The assistant manager went inside to call the police and we followed. The warm air in the lobby made my head spin. I sat in a big armchair with saggy upholstery. Emily sat beside me and said, ‘Well, I saw everything. I got a really good look at them. They were big and muscular and looked… Dutch.’ She trailed off, biting her lip.

The onlookers shuffled away, bored. Nobody had died or been consigned to a wheelchair. The assistant manager came back and said, ‘The police will talk to you at the hospital. I called an ambulance as well.’

‘But I told you I don’t need one,’ I moaned.

He looked at me like I was a stubborn and stupid child. ‘We don’t want people saying we don’t look after our guests, do we?’

The ambulance didn’t take long. The paramedics put me into a fold-up wheelchair and pushed me out to the ambulance. The pain in my chest was getting worse and I wondered aloud if something had been fractured or broken. Emily sat in the back of the ambulance, still chewing her lip and looking worried.

‘Alex…’ she started, but I groaned and said, ‘Please, not now… it hurts to talk.’ The paramedic guy beside me nodded and Emily fell quiet. I felt guilty, knowing how anxious she must be, remembering all the secrets I had, but right then it honestly did hurt to talk. In several ways.

We reached the hospital and they wheeled me off to a room where a doctor checked me over, then they took a couple of X-rays and told me I was going to be fine. ‘Nothing serious – no need for worries,’ said the doctor, patting my arm firmly. ‘Looks like you got on the wrong side of someone?’

I closed my eyes and looked at the pretty patterns.

‘Anyway, the police will be here soon, then you can go back to your hotel room.’ He winked at Emily. ‘He’s okay, but you’d better leave him alone tonight. No, how do you say, bone-jumping for a day or two.’

A pair of policemen turned up shortly afterwards. I had expected a couple of uniformed hippies with big moustaches, but they looked like policemen the world over. Bored and superior. They asked me my name, address, the purpose of my visit to Amsterdam, etc. Their English, like everyone in this city, was excellent.

‘Do you have any idea why these men attacked you?’ the older policeman asked after Emily and I had described the brick shithouses. (I think I actually used those words.)

‘No,’ I replied.

Emily was looking at me from over the policeman’s shoulder, her eyes narrowed.

‘I guess it was just a random mugging.’

‘But they didn’t steal anything,’ said the other cop.

‘No. Maybe they heard someone coming out of the hotel and got scared. We were lucky.’

‘Hmm. And they didn’t say anything to you?’

‘No. Nothing.’

Emily’s eyes became slits.

‘And they didn’t try to hurt you, Miss?’

Emily shook her head. ‘They didn’t touch me.’

The policemen looked at each other. The older one sighed. ‘Random violence. It is a growing problem everywhere, I think. Even in your country.’