The School of English Murder (19 page)

‘Then what happened?’

‘I rolled a joint, of course. What option did I have?’

‘I didn’t realise you could. I’d have expected you to make a pig’s ear of it.’

‘I didn’t go to university for nothing, you know. Mind you, I’m not much good at it. It’s been six or seven years since I last tried. But fortunately Galina was so determined to help me that any clumsiness I might have shown was obscured.’

‘Did you get stoned?’

‘Well obviously I tried very hard not to. It was hardly the company in which to let oneself go. I pretended to, of course, but in fact I did quite well on expelling the smoke rather than ingesting it. Dope never did much for me anyway. It used to put me to sleep while my hop-head friends took off on obscure paths of mental exploration.

‘However, I digress. So there I am, forced to sit beside her on the swing, and she says, “Bobby, come inside, I wish to make love with you.”

‘I looked around and saw no vantage point where I might claim a private detective was lurking. The bloody woman had outsmarted my fiancée: ostensibly I was on school premises presumably doing school business.’

‘Surely the private detectives I hired have infra-red lenses, or whatever it is the paparazzi use.’

‘They’d have had to be on the roof to get us in their line of fire. And remember, we were going inside, to a room overlooking the garden.’

‘A tight corner, all right,’ said Rachel, who was feeling decidedly less insouciant than she sounded. ‘What did you do?’

‘Guess.’

‘You seem to have had only four options: give in; refuse; pass out or run away. What else is there?’

‘You won’t like this.’

He couldn’t have, thought Rachel. She felt suddenly very cold. He couldn’t be about to tell me he actually did it with that whore.

‘I told her I’d just discovered I had VD.’

Relief made her burst out laughing. ‘Did it work?’

‘Christ, did it work? She let out a scream that attracted the attention of the whole gathering, snatched up her handbag and marched out. When the others had gone, Rich asked me what had happened. When I told him he said, “Congratulations, my boy. Most inventive.” ’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to say no?’

‘I didn’t know how to do that and still keep on as the Good Time Boy. Perhaps when all this is over I’ll invest in some assertiveness training.’

‘Robert.’

‘Yes?’

‘I should hate to seem self-centred or less than supportive, but I’m getting the tiniest bit concerned about my image. I mean, I had accepted being insanely jealous happily enough, but now I have to assume I’ve got VD too. It won’t go down big with my next promotion board.’

‘It’s entirely your own fault, my dear. If you’d married me when I asked you to, none of this would have arisen.’

‘Your strategy is to continue blackening my name until I yield.’

‘Certainly not. I’ll blacken it until I know no one else will have you. Then I’ll throw you aside like a soiled glove and marry Galina.’

‘I need to clarify something, Jim.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’m at the school to help solve what might be two murders.’

‘Right.’

‘Not to report on minor misdemeanours.’

‘Wrong. You don’t necessarily know the significance of minor misdemeanours, so you do need to report them. They might be the cause of major ones.’

‘What I mean is I don’t want any part in having Rich done for a minor offence if he hasn’t committed a major one.’

Milton tried to suppress his rising irritation. ‘Robert!’

‘What?’

‘Do you trust me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then explain to me what you’re talking about, for Christ’s sake, and stop drivelling. I promise you, my interest in Rich Rogers has to do with his murderous potential. If he’s been shop-lifting or propositioning on the Earl’s Court Road, he may continue to do so with impunity as far as I’m concerned. You know the score perfectly well. What’s got into you?’

‘Marijuana, I expect. Sorry, Jim. I must still be stoned.’

‘Ahmed ibn Mohammed ibn Abdullah, please.’

‘Putting you through.’

‘Room twenty-three. Hello,’ said a female voice.

‘May I speak to Ahmed, please.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Bob Amiss. I think we may have met at lunchtime.’

‘Oh, we did. This is Di.’ She went off into peals of laughter. ‘You certainly upset that countess.’

‘Very excitable, Italians. Is Ahmed there?’

‘Sort of. He’s asleep and snoring hard.’

‘Will you be staying?’

‘I think so. He’ll probably wake up soon.’

‘Could you give him a message?’

‘Sure.’

‘Tell him we have to be at Marriners by three. It’ll take three hours to get there, so I’ll pick him up at the hotel at twelve.’

‘OK.’

‘And Di?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you please tell him they were very insistent that we have to be there on time.’

‘Sure, honey. But don’t count on him listening.’

‘Do your best. Thanks, Di.’

‘Good-night.’

Amiss replaced the receiver and lay back on the bed. His head still felt rather fuzzy from the alcohol and dope. He kicked off his shoes and fell fast asleep. Half an hour later, he was woken by the phone.

‘Robert?’

‘Yes, Rich?’

‘I’ve been thinking. I should come clean with you.’

‘About what?’

‘This health farm business. It’s not as straightforward as it looks. I think part of the reason Ahmed’s been under the weather is because he’s been getting death threats.’

Amiss felt suddenly very awake. ‘Any idea why?’

‘Not really, unless they’re connected with some stuff he was going on with last week about having killed someone. When he was low, when the coke was wearing off, he muttered something about blood demanding blood.’

‘Has he told you the details?’

‘No. He doesn’t really want to talk about it at all. I only discovered it because the hotel manager keeps an eye on our people and tips me off when there’s something funny going on. Apparently the switchboard operator is a Muslim and can speak some Arabic. She overheard Ahmed being told that Mahmout’s death would be avenged by his brothers.’

‘So you taxed Ahmed with it?’

‘Yes, but for all the information I got, I needn’t have bothered. He just came out with slogans: “Nobody frightens Ahmed ibn Mohammed ibn Abdullah”; “I am ibn Saud”; all that sort of stuff.’

‘Have you told the police?’

‘Ahmed was very insistent that no one should be told.’

‘Rich, you’ve got to tell them. Supposing something does happen to him? You’d be blamed if you’d done nothing.’

‘I suppose you’re right. I get too used to doing what the BPs want.’

‘Does this mean that we’re going to be followed to Marriners by a horde of Islamic assassins?’

‘I doubt it. I really can’t take this at all seriously. But he’ll be safer at a health farm than in London. I’ve told him not to leave a forwarding address.’

‘What do you make of it, Jim?’

‘I wish you weren’t going.’

‘I’m not going to back out now. No one frightens Robert ibn Amiss.’

‘I’ll give Rogers an opportunity to tell me all this first thing in the morning. Then I’ll have a word with the local force and ask them to keep an eye on Marriners. For heaven’s sake, be careful, Robert. Take precautions like checking under your car.’

‘OK. I’ll think paranoid.’

‘And do try to enjoy yourself. Maybe you’ll come back with your VD cured.’

‘Not if Galina’s still in the school, I won’t.’

25

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At eleven forty-five Amiss parked the hired Renault in the carpark and walked into the hotel which for a week Galina had been urging him to visit. He was impressed. The lobby was large and luxurious; the carpet was deep; the sofas were leather; the flowers were lavish ; the porter was alert ; and the receptionist was pretty and competent.

‘Mr Abdullah, sir. Just a moment, I’ll ring his room.’

After a minute or two she shook her head. ‘He’s gone out or not answering, sir.’

‘Try again,’ said Amiss grimly. ‘He’s probably still asleep.’

Ahmed answered after another minute.

‘Ahmed, it’s Bob. Are you ready?’

There was a brief silence. ‘Hello, Bob. No.’

‘Are you up?’

‘I do not understand.’

Preposterous oaf, thought Amiss. Who does he think he’s kidding? ‘Have you risen, Ahmed?’

‘Yes. I have risen.’

‘I’m coming up.’ He put down the phone before Ahmed could object.

‘You’re from the school?’

‘Yes. I’m representing Mr Rogers.’

‘Right, sir. You may go up. Second floor, room twenty-three.’

Ahmed opened the door reluctantly and barely awake. Mindful of Rich’s advice, Amiss concentrated on keeping his temper.

‘We must hurry, Ahmed. We have a long way to go.’

‘I do much. I eat. I wash. I dress. I back.’

‘Wash. Dress. I will pack. We can buy something to eat on the way. We should be off in fifteen minutes.’ As he spoke, he knew he was talking nonsense. Ahmed would be ready in his own sweet time.

He was ready by one thirty, but insisted on having lunch before leaving. In the hotel dining-room, Amiss fretted through his omelette while Ahmed addressed himself stolidly to the three-course table d’hôte. At one fifty Amiss excused himself and rang Marriners to explain that they would be about two hours late. The response was extremely chilly.

They left at two thirty. By dint of exercising all his skill and quite a lot of his nerve, Amiss managed to reach their destination by five fifteen. It had taken all his reserves of patience not to lose his temper on the journey. As soon as they got out of London, Ahmed demanded to drive. Amiss explained about insurance. Ahmed said it did not matter. Amiss said it did. Ahmed then began to shout a lot and throw his arms about. As far as Amiss could gather, the gist of his argument was that a prince did not need insurance because he could do what he liked. Amiss explained that things were otherwise in England. He proffered the example of Princess Anne’s husband being fined for exceeding the speed limit. Ahmed thought about that and said it was stupid. Amiss said that nevertheless, that was how it was. Ahmed said he was so rich he could pay any fine. Amiss said mendaciously that he would probably be imprisoned. Ahmed shouted a lot more at that. He then pointed out that as a prince he would have diplomatic immunity. Amiss said not in Britain, he wouldn’t. Ahmed shouted some more.

In view of the language difficulties, and the fact that Ahmed interspersed his various tirades with abuse about Amiss’s driving and a great deal of rodomontade about his own, all this took a great deal of time. It was followed by a long period of silence, relieved on Amiss’s part and sullen on Ahmed’s. Then, when they were within a few miles of Marriners, he electrified Amiss with a new topic of conversation. ‘What day are executions?’

‘What are you talking about, Ahmed?’

‘What day you execute bad people?’

‘This is not Saudi Arabia, Ahmed. We execute nobody in this country.’

‘Someone kill someone. What happen?’

‘They go to prison.’

‘But for blood there must be blood.’

Amiss dimly recalled a magazine article of a few months previously. ‘But in your country don’t murderers sometimes pay money to the relatives of the person they’ve killed instead of being executed?’

That foxed Ahmed, but after Amiss rephrased it a couple of times he got it. ‘Yes, if relatives want money not blood.’

‘Ah, I see. It’s the choice of the relatives.’

‘Yes. But much times the relatives kill.’

Amiss felt slightly faint when his painstaking enquiries elicited the information that public beheadings were carried out by the relatives of the murderees if they so wished. Executions, he felt, were definitely an area where amateurs were to be discouraged.

As they finished their bloody conversation, they drove through the gates of Marriners and up a tree-lined, half-mile drive to the car-park beside the entrance. Amiss, who hated being unpunctual, took only the most cursory glance at the enormous Gothic façade. He jumped from the car, snatched his bag and two of Ahmed’s from the back, and ran up the steps, leaving his charge to carry the other two.

The door was opened by a liveried porter with a stern expression and a broad Glaswegian accent, who whisked their bags out of their hands. ‘I’ll take these upstairs, gentlemen, when I’ve shown you to the office. Mrs Cowley-Bawdon is expecting you and you are already very late.’

He led them through an enormous hall, lavishly furnished with velvet-upholstered sofas and easy chairs, which to Amiss’s fevered gaze seemed crammed to capacity with women in dressing-gowns drinking tea. They were led into an ante-room and waved to two straight chairs. The porter knocked at a door in the corner, entered and reported, ‘The two gentlemen are here, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, McIver,’ called an American voice. ‘Tell them to wait a moment while I finish my telephone call.’

McIver relayed the message ceremoniously and left. Amiss wondered if he should give Ahmed a warning about how he should behave, but concluded that an injunction to conduct himself like a civilised human being would hardly help matters. Ahmed took out his worry beads and clicked away busily: Amiss buried himself in a magazine about organic farming.

After five minutes, Mrs Cowley-Bawdon emerged. Slim to the point of emaciation, she was certainly a good advertisement for a fat-farm. Her hair was bright gold; her blue eyes glittered; her nails were long and enamelled crimson to match her lipstick. Her handshake was of the dried fish variety.

‘Very well, gentlemen. We mustn’t waste any more time. Which of you shall I take first?’

‘It might be advisable to take us together.’

‘That is not how we do things at Marriners, Mr Amiss. It is important that patients be able to discuss their condition in private.’

Amiss wilted. ‘Er… it’s just that my friend’s English isn’t too good.’

She smiled tolerantly. ‘You will find that this is a cosmopolitan establishment, Mr Amiss. We are well used to dealing with foreigners. I myself speak five languages.’