The School of English Murder (21 page)

Pooley thanked him when he rejoined him in the office a couple of minutes later. ‘Not at all, Ellis. Can’t have pricks like that telling us how to organise ourselves. Now let’s talk things through over lunch and this afternoon we’ll split them between us and try to see the lot of them.’

By five thirty the job was done and all alibis checked. They looked in on the Pimms party in the garden in order to double-check a few details, politely refused to stay for a drink and left the building.

‘Hellish afternoon, wasn’t it?’

‘Certainly was, sir.’

‘None of mine took very kindly to being suspected of beating poor old Nurse over the head.’

‘Nor mine.’

‘Well, we certainly did a good elimination job.’

‘Certainly did, sir.’

‘So if Ahmed turns out to be in the clear as well, we’re back to square one.’

‘Maybe he won’t, sir.’

‘We should know tomorrow morning. The locals have promised to go along to Marriners first thing. I hope to hell they act sensitively: I delivered a long lecture on the importance of patience and tact. Went down badly.’

Pooley said nothing.

Milton stopped suddenly. ‘What’s wrong, Ellis? You’ve been down ever since I joined you at the school.’

Pooley was so close to tears that for a moment he did not trust himself to speak. Then he said, ‘I’m fine, really.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Milton. ‘Is it personal or professional?’

‘Personal.’

‘Serious?’

‘Feels that way.’

Milton looked at his watch. ‘We’re both off-duty now. Would you like to have a drink and talk it over?’

Pooley had never spoken to anyone about Pardeep and his training in hiding his feelings had been of the best. He hesitated for a moment and looked at the pavement. Then he raised his head and looked squarely at Milton. ‘Yes, please, Jim. I’d appreciate that very much.’

27

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‘What is quite extraordinary,’ wrote Amiss to Rachel, ‘is being in circumstances where the environment is geared to maximum relaxation while events place one under maximum stress. All around me are people who have shed all their everyday worries and are talking at about half normal speed. I have moments of feeling like them — in the sauna or when being massaged especially — but then a knot of tension rises in me at the thought of what devilry that cretin is likely to be up to now.

‘At the moment I feel peaceful. He’s left me alone for an hour, claiming to be tired and to need sleep. In fact he’s probably found someone to screw, but I’m past caring. The last two evenings were awful. On Monday night everyone disappeared immediately after the seven o’clock feast so Ahmed and I were thrown on our own resources. He decided he wanted to play games, so we sat in his room, sipping water and working our way through the stockpile provided by the management.

‘First we played Ludo, something I haven’t done since I was ten. He lost and became petulant: I shrugged and said Insh’allah and got my head bitten off, I have to say on this occasion quite rightly. Ahmed found out sometime last week that I’m an atheist so he now holds me in contempt (apparently it’s infinitely worse than being a Christian or even a Jew), and considers me beyond saving. (Mind you, I find it a bit thick being dismissed as a hopeless case by Ahmed. Compared with him I’m a saint.) That means I’m not entitled to make any reference to any deity, since they’re not my property, so to speak.

‘Anyway, Ludo was condemned as unfair, so we tried Snakes and Ladders. His problem there was that he could never grasp that the point of the game is that one has to take the rough with the smooth. Ahmed is only interested in a life full of ladders — preferably if someone else carries him up them. We never finished that game: he got so cross when confronted with his second snake that he upset the board. The next game on offer was Trivial Pursuit, at which I drew the line. Even if he understood the questions, he wouldn’t know any of the answers, Allah having willed him to be so lazy that he’s never acquired any knowledge of any kind other than how to drive a car and where to dip his wick. Then he said he wanted to play cards, which he’d never done. Very astutely, I thought, I introduced him to Snap. He became so hooked on it that we had to play it for hours on Tuesday night as well. It has two major attractions: it requires no skill that might have to be learned and if I say Snap first he can say I didn’t.

‘Enough about Ahmed for the moment. I want to tell you about this joint. I wish you were with me, because it’s the kind of place one wants to discuss obsessively with someone like-minded. You’ll have gathered from what I told you about our reception that it’s a cross between a concentration camp, a prep school, a home for the feeble-minded glitterati and a five-star hotel whose cooker is out of service.

‘It’s astonishing how quickly one becomes institutionalised and utterly obedient (except for Ahmed that is) to the timetables and rules that abound. One’s world shrinks and the only things of interest are to do with the inmates.

‘I don’t know if places run on these lines are a purely English phenomenon. There’s an all-pervading Nanny atmosphere that makes Marriners especially right for the English: after all it’s England, not Britain, that elects Nanny Thatcher. My guess is that they might appeal to Scots but not Welsh and certainly not Irish; to Norwegians and Swedes but not Danes; to Germans but not French; and never never to Italians or Arabs. I could feel sorry for Ahmed if he weren’t such a shit that I’m delighted he’s having a horrible time.

‘What worries me is how quickly I fell into following orders. Late this afternoon four of us were sipping barley water in the Turkish baths (I loathe barley water, but I’d been told to drink it), and discussing the rival merits of dry and steam heat, when a chap called Mick (yes, he’s Irish — stereotypes follow me round everywhere these days) said, “Sod this, lads, enough is enough. What do you say we have a little drink before dinner in my room?”

‘All three of us mumbled with embarrassment and pleaded health reasons for turning him down. Now think about it : I’m here because of Ahmed; I’m perfectly healthy and I’m thin. So why did I refuse an invitation to a drink I sorely wanted? Answer: because it’s against the rules. I suppose I should be glad I didn’t find myself reporting him to Sister. The only thing I can say in mitigation is that I came to my senses around six and tried to find out his room number from reception, unfortunately unsuccessfully. They don’t know people’s first names — or perhaps they suspected what was going on.

‘The high spot of the day is, of course, lunch, made particularly attractive yesterday by the absence of Ahmed. He had his glass of hot water in the hall: I had lunch in the dining-room with a book and thought how nice it was to be without Ahmed. Unfortunately today he insisted on seeing Mrs Cowley-Bawdon and persuaded her that he should be put on the light diet. She must be one of those women who fantasises about a brutal sheikh riding off with them into the desert. So my peace was shattered and he came with me to lunch.

‘We sat down and were served with soup, which he slurped with every appearance of enjoyment. Then I took him to the table from where one can help oneself from five or six excellent salads. “Where is meat?” Ahmed’s broken-hearted cry arrested the attention of every patient in the dining-room. I doubt if they’re over it yet: we don’t speak of meat at Marriners. Ahmed is in a terrible state: he’d been anticipating great big steaks and he hates salad. So even on the light diet he’s not a happy man.

‘Now we move to sex. Yesterday afternoon ended the honeymoon period with Mrs Cowley-Bawdon. She called me in at five and announced that Ahmed had propositioned the receptionist, two waitresses and four patients. I didn’t add the information that he’d tried me as well, nor that I’ve a shrewd suspicion he succeeded this morning with a chambermaid. “I am sorry, Mr Amiss,” she said, “but I have no option but to ask you to take that person away.”

‘This was a bit of a facer, but you know my resourcefulness. I assumed an expression of immense gravity and said, “Please, Mrs Cowley-Bawdon, let me explain.”

‘“There’s nothing to explain. He is simply unfit to have in residence at Marriners.”

‘“I realise that the prince’s manners are rather lacking, but he learns fast. It has not been easy for him to adjust to life outside the palace.”

‘“A prince. Really? Which royal family?”

‘The Sauds.’

‘“And which branch of the royal family is he from?”

‘It was a cinch. I spoke of not being able to give details, Ahmed’s father being so close to King Fahd. It was absolutely crucial that there should be no scandal: for that reason Ahmed was incognito.

‘“Poor man,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “What terrible pressures must be on him. We must be understanding.” We agreed that the staff would be asked discreetly simply to ignore his suggestions.

‘I thanked her for her great humanity, and withdrew and tried to explain to the libidinous little bastard why one didn’t make random sexual overtures: not a lot penetrated, if you’ll forgive the pun. The difficulty, of course, is that from his perspective all Western women are what he calls “brostitutes” because they flaunt themselves.

‘We proceeded to the Tuesday night party. This is a bizarre occasion when everyone dresses up to the nines, drinks carrot juice and makes small talk about food and treatments. I was far too casually — and of course inexpensively — dressed, but Ahmed made up for me. He’s got a new jacket in yellow suede which he wore with mustard cashmere trousers and a gold-coloured silk shirt. It being an early evening party, he confined himself to only five rings.

‘He got on very well for the first half hour and I thought my sermon had worked. Then as I was engaged in an animated conversation about aromatherapy with the owner of a Chelsea boutique, I heard the unmistakable sound of a slap: a young woman who I had been told had a small part in a BBC soap was marching away from Ahmed, who was feeling his cheek and looking furious. Most of those present being English, everyone affected not to notice. I grabbed him and dragged him out and demanded to know why he had bropositioned this woman after all I had said to him. Aggrievedly he pointed out that a) she was an actress and b) she was showing a lot of cleavage (or as he put it, “she show me tits”).

‘With all that as background, guess what he inferred this morning about a woman who for a living stands beside a bath in which a naked man is immersed in water and points a high-pressure hose at all parts of his body, having politely asked him first to protect his organ with his hands? The problem was that he didn’t simply broposition this lady; when he had hurtled forth rampantly from the bath he assaulted her. Mrs Cowley-Bawdon was so unamused that I thought I’d have to claim this time that he was the heir to the throne. Instead I soothed her with the offer of a hundred quid to compensate the girl for hurt feelings.’

Amiss looked at his watch and was surprised to see that it was already nine and Ahmed hadn’t phoned to summon him to the next phase of their Snap marathon. He surely couldn’t still be napping.

He wasn’t answering his phone, so Amiss went down to his room: the door was locked and his knock met with no response. He instituted a thorough and fruitless search for him in the public areas. Cursing, he went back to his room and changed out of his dressing-gown into outdoor clothes. Without any real expectation of success, he went out to check the terraces: the night was so balmy that even Ahmed might have been tempted to take a stroll.

He returned by the route that passed by Ahmed’s windows and was disturbed to find them open. He went back to his own room and rang reception. No messages. I don’t like this one bit, said Amiss to himself. He looked up a number in his address book and dialled Jim Milton.

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‘I don’t know how worried we should be,’ said Milton. ‘We haven’t really got much on those death threats. Ahmed eventually admitted to our lot that he’d had three but said nothing useful at all about the caller — just that he wasn’t a Saudi. The switchboard operator thought his accent was very peculiar and felt he mightn’t have been an Arab at all.’

‘If he thinks a killer might be lurking, could even he be fool enough to open his french windows?’

‘Search me. You’re our Ahmed specialist. You’re quite sure they weren’t forced?’

‘As positive as I can be, but I’m no expert.’

‘And he’s said nothing to you about being afraid of anything?’

‘I tried pumping him this afternoon. I couldn’t admit to knowing anything, so I picked up on a revolting conversation about executions that he’d initiated the other day and asked if he had ever met a murderer.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘He went all coy on me. Said he knew things he couldn’t talk about. I think he’s indiscreet only when he’s been drinking or snorting.’

‘Hmm.’

Amiss took a cigarette from the case his students had given him and lit it with his matching lighter. He felt momentarily ashamed of being so hard on Ahmed: at least the fellow was generous with money. ‘Any other news?’

‘Sorry, Robert. I forgot that we haven’t talked since Sunday. Most important news is that of the eight people who could have laced Nurse’s drink, only one could also have mounted that attack on him in the alley.’

‘Ahmed?’

‘Yep.’

‘I was afraid so. The others really don’t seem the type.’

‘It could still be coincidence.’

‘Sure. I still can’t think of a motive, can you?’

‘No, unless he was acting as someone else’s agent.’

‘You haven’t got anything on his background? I mean he isn’t a card-carrying member of some international terrorist brotherhood or anything useful like that, is he?’

‘Not to the knowledge of Interpol. They haven’t found out a damn thing about him.’

‘You’d think they’d have something on a prince, even if there are thousands of them.’