The School of English Murder (12 page)

‘A carnivorous warthog. Gunther doesn’t consider it a meal unless he’s scoffed a few kilos of red meat.’

She grimaced. ‘OK, that’s enough Gunther. Next worst?’

Amiss pushed his plate away. ‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

He mimed coffee to the waiter.

‘Fabrice. Well, you’ve already done a bit of stereotyping of the French. What was it? Gallic gestures. Duplicitousness. Other negative characteristics?’

‘Food snobs, wine snobs, womanisers and think they’re God Almighty.’

‘Fabrice thinks if you get a good meal in London it’s because the chef is French. Therefore, if he doesn’t know who’s doing the cooking, he demands steak
frites
every time. He refuses to countenance any other than French wines. Californian? Australian? Bulgarian? Italian? All rubbish. He tells me he has a wife and two mistresses exclusively to himself, for all three of whom he’s just bought kilts at the Scotch House.
And
he’s at it with Galina. Yes, and he also thinks he’s God Almighty. And he says “Bof!”

‘What else? Oh yes. Every time he discovers a new quirk in the English language he assures me that “it is not logique”, and shows what an inferior language it is to French. All this along with aforementioned shrugs and moues.’

‘Is he sexy?’

‘Oh, I’d say so. Same age as Gunther, but slim, graceful and with lots of black hair with wings of white at the temples. Mind you, if I had half the money he spends on it I wouldn’t need to work. He’s bought lots of English clothes which he wears with careless elegance — le sports coat, le cashmere sweater, le Burberry raincoat, that sort of thing.’ He began to laugh.

‘What is it?’

‘Poor old Gunther. I heard from Gavs that they both went shopping separately last weekend and bought Burberrys. Came in on Monday wearing them and of course Gunther looked vile and Fabrice marvellous. Gunther hasn’t worn it since.’

‘Job?’

‘Owns a prosperous vineyard. As far as I can gather his wife actually runs it.’

‘Purpose of visit?’

‘Learn a bit of English; find a bit of new crumpet; avoid work.’

‘Redeeming feature?’

‘Honesty. When I asked him what was the essential problem in Anglo-French relations, he said, “We ’ate you.” ’

‘I think I could get to like Fabrice. Animal?’

‘Only a camel, I think, could convey his quintessential snottiness.’

‘Who’s next?’

‘Simone, who’s Swiss. Well?’

‘Obsessed with cleanliness, order and keeping to rules. Boring, unimaginative?’

‘Yep. That’s our Simone. Eating anywhere she hasn’t eaten before is an act of heroism. We went to a Thai restaurant yesterday and she was convinced she would be forced to eat dog. As she goes through the city all she sees are dog turds and litter. Talks about nothing except the bloody germs that lie in wait for her all over London. Yesterday, over lunch, she told us that the previous night she had seen from her taxi something very disturbing.’

‘My God, let me guess. A badly rinsed teacup?’

‘A dosser asleep in a cardboard box. That shouldn’t be allowed, she explained. These people spread disease. Fabrice, to do him justice, said they had to sleep somewhere and what should be done with them. She said they should be put in jail.’

‘Yeech!’

‘Quite.’

‘Looks?’

‘Reminds me of nothing so much as a Swiss Doris Day, except her yellow hair is curled. She wears the modern equivalents of Peter Pan collars and gingham dirndl skirts. Expensive ones, mind: lots of lace, embroidery, that sort of thing. Goes in a great deal for pretty little feminine gestures to denote, for example, despair at the hotel’s failure to air duvets at the correct times, or whatever sodding thing is on what only another Swiss could call her mind.’

‘Source of income?’

‘Recently divorced rich husband.’

‘Redeeming feature?’

‘Stays quiet most of the time.’

‘Animal?’

‘Persian cat.’

‘Hmm. Next?’

‘Galina — Italian. Yes?’

‘La Dolce Vita stuff, voluptuous, vivacious, lots of gestures, amoral.’

‘Spot on. Jesus, what a pain in the ass that woman is. Permanently the life and soul of the party — which means she decides when and where the party is and draws up the guest list. “Ees not clear for me” is what she comes up with every time she feels she isn’t getting enough attention. She’s got a pout that must have been helped on by a plastic surgeon and she points it in my direction every time she notices I’ve been looking at someone else for two seconds. Wants to have me looking gooey-eyed and making Fabrice jealous. At that I draw the line.’

‘Source of income?’

‘Husband. Must be loaded. Even I know she’s wearing thousands of pounds worth of clothes and sometimes tens of thousands worth of jewellery.’

‘Redeeming feature?’

‘Generous with money, I suppose. In fact most of them are. But it’s not what I call generosity. It’s just that they don’t mind how much they pay to buy you. You wouldn’t catch any of them giving money to a blind beggar. Unless maybe Gunther, if someone sat him down and explained at length exactly how this beggar had come to this state through no fault of his own and why it was that there were no appropriate authorities for him to go to in order to claim welfare benefits.’

‘What animal is Galina?’

‘A lynx.’

‘And Ahmed?’

‘Ah, our
pièce de résistance
. Oh, I can’t think of any animal that deserves to be compared with him. Maybe a cross between a shark and a tomcat.’

‘Nasty?’

‘He is. Nasty young Ahmed ibn Mohammed ibn Abdullah from Saudi Arabia.’

‘Don’t tell me. Flash clothes, throws money around ostentatiously, thinks all women are potential lays, fast cars, lazy.’

‘You’ve been reading my diary. In fact, of all the lines they trot out, the one that maddens me most is “Insh’allah” — as God wills. Ahmed uses his religion in a way that is insulting both to it and to me. He’s always late, and it’s always God’s will. Anything he doesn’t want to do is forbidden by Islam; anything he does isn’t. They all think of me as a servant, but Ahmed openly treats me like one.’

‘He’s swarthy?’

‘And cross-eyed. Just on the edge of running to flab and certainly will if he goes on imbibing the way he does. On the three separate occasions I’ve met him he’s been ostentatiously sporting different watches and shades. His clothes are the wrong side of vulgar and curiously chosen. Yesterday he was wearing a pale blue leather jacket which must have cost him several hundred quid, along with a yellow sweater from Marks and Spencer, in which, incidentally — because it is Jewish-owned — Saudis are not supposed to shop.’

‘Income?’

‘Claims to be a member of the Saudi royal family. It’s quite possible, I suppose. I believe there are five thousand princes. In any case, true or false, he is forever boasting about his great connections.’

‘Phew. What a menagerie!’ Rachel accepted the waiter’s offer of more coffee. She thought over the conversation. ‘Tell me, do they all stay in the same place together, or what?’

‘Mostly. We’ve got a deal with a local swanky hotel which gives the punters a tiny discount — the rich love those — and us a cut. One of the great advantages of this arrangement is that our students can screw each other without inconvenience. The rooms are pretty palatial, apparently, but Ahmed complains anyway because he’d rather be staying with one of his royal cousins, who, he claims, owns an apartment in Earl’s Court with six bedrooms and four bathrooms.’

‘What?’

‘For wives, children, in-laws and servants. Ahmed said he couldn’t stay there because his cousin is in London for a small operation and has brought with him a retinue of seventeen: two wives; six children; one mother-in-law; one father-in-law; two brothers; one brother’s brother-in-law; four servants. With the best will in the world, there wasn’t room for Ahmed.’

‘That does it,’ said Rachel. ‘I’ve had it with foreigners for tonight. I’m totally out of touch with cricket. Tell me how Surrey are getting on in the county championship.’

16

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Though Rich’s mother was long dead, she played an important role in saving her son from being swallowed up by his clients. Most of these came to London for a matter of two or three weeks, having been told by friends to expect a wonderful time with Rich and his jolly young helpers. The more demanding of them expected these up-market equivalents of Butlins Redcoats to be permanently at their beck and call. Had Rich not been able to plead filial duties, he would rarely have had a weekend to himself.

Even with a very small staff, Rich was able to organise extra activities for every night of the week, so many of the punters had no objection to being left to their own devices at the weekends. Shopping took up all of Saturday, and with most of them staying in the same hotel, there was no shortage of company.

Unfortunately for Rich, he and his staff were often victims of their own success. Most of their punters were hedonistic, selfish people who were disinclined to put themselves out for each other. Consequently, they enjoyed themselves far more with a professional escort in attendance. So when one of their number suggested persuading Rich or Gavs or Cath to join them at the weekend, there would be plenty who would concur enthusiastically. They had no qualms about spoiling someone’s weekend. In their view, they were conferring favours by taking school staff out and entertaining them lavishly. It was a pity that Jenn, who actually liked being taken out, was the least popular.

Latterly, pressure from Gav’s partner was intensifying and Cath had stated firmly that she needed three out of four weekends completely free. Rich found himself fighting to have any weekends at all to himself; without the help of his late mother he would have had none.

At the best of times he would have resented Galina’s coercion, while also realising he had little choice but to acquiesce. He knew her type all too well. Thwart them and the grapevine would begin to hum with suggestions that service at the Knightsbridge was no longer what it had been: she and her kind were unforgiving. In such circumstances Rich could do little but shrug and remind himself that every job had its drawbacks. This time was different: he felt very bitter that he could not even be left alone for a few days to grieve. Even allowing that Galina and the others did not know fully the depth of his relationship with Ned, he would have thought that they would realise that the loss of a business partner could hurt.

Before he could relax, he had to talk to Gavs. To his relief, he, rather than Kenneth, answered the phone.

‘Gavs, that bitch Galina blackmailed me into having a picnic on Sunday and she was very insistent that you should come as well.’

‘Well, I promised to spend the whole weekend at home. We’ve got a lot of decorating to do.’

‘I’d be awfully grateful if you could stretch a point, Gavs. They’ll be disappointed if you don’t come — particularly Galina and Ahmed.’

‘Ahmed?’

‘That’s what she said.’

‘I’ll have to ask Kenneth. Is there any reason why he shouldn’t come too?’

‘You should be the judge of that, Gavs. You’ve been to picnics before. Is it his sort of thing?’

‘Could be. I’ll ring you back.’

And to Rich’s great relief, Gavs reported within five minutes that they would both be on parade on Sunday.

All Friday evening he sat in his little Georgian house sipping his treasured wine and thinking regretful and loving thoughts about Ned. The neighbourhood odd-job man had already put in a catflap, so Plutarch was let out and stayed away for hours. It was with mixed feelings that Rich saw her return in the late evening. He wanted her safe and with him as a link with Ned, yet he hated her and what she was already doing to his immaculate sanctuary. He was losing hope that she would settle down quickly and stop her campaign of destruction. He could not remember that Ned had ever talked about her chewing or shredding fabrics and furniture. But then, as he recalled with a sigh, Ned would scarcely have noticed.

They ate. Plutarch was given tinned salmon, which Rich hoped might put her in good humour. He made himself a Salade Niçoise and finally felt able to listen to some music. As he lay back in his favourite armchair and closed his eyes, an enormous weight landed squarely on his stomach and winded him. He stayed still, and Plutarch turned round and round until she found a comfortable position. Tentatively Rich tried stroking her, and to his astonishment, then his delight, she began to purr.

He had twelve hours sleep that night, waking eventually because Plutarch, who had chosen his bed as her sleeping quarters, wanted her breakfast. Later on, Rich went out to buy supplies. He always went to Fortnum and Mason for a hamper for these picnics. Most of the participants were too lazy to shop anywhere outside Knightsbridge — indeed some of them never outside Harrods — so Fortnum’s had novelty value for them. He took the hamper and the other provisions to the school, put the champagne and white wine in the main refrigerator in the cloakroom and checked in the big cupboard that there was sufficient cutlery and crockery. It had been nearly three months since the last picnic. He wished very much that he did not have to go through with this one.

By the time the picnic began on Sunday, Rich had put in several hours work. He was a great believer in doing things properly. The extra work, the little touches, all added up to class, and it was class that had the punters coming back time and time again and urging their friends to try a wonderful experience.

The garden, to which Amiss had given scarcely a glance during his few days on prefab duty, was very cleverly landscaped. The enclosed area where the garden furniture stood was entirely private, and covered over with an arch of climbing roses. Honeysuckle and Virginia creeper assisted in giving it the aura of a green and pink boudoir. Rich spent some time positioning the furniture. The white-painted, wrought-iron dining-table and chairs were placed where the sun would hit them in early afternoon. He pushed slightly to the side the reclining chairs and the swinging two-seaters.