The School of English Murder (20 page)

Amiss tried and failed to summon up his arrogant alter ego. Mrs Cowley-Bawdon beckoned to Ahmed and led him into her office. Amiss kept his ear cocked as he half-read an article on interesting things to do with pig-shit, but apart from one relatively subdued roar there was nothing to be heard.

She reappeared within ten minutes. ‘Come in, Mr Amiss. Mr Ahmed is now with Sister.’

Her office was clinical, her desk furnished only with a Filofax bound in crimson leather, a large vase of crimson roses and a form on which she began to record Amiss’s answers to her questions. They had covered name, address, age, marital status and methods of paying the bill when Ahmed’s voice came through the door behind her head bellowing, ‘No, no, no, no. I am not. I am not. Not true. Not true. Bad woman.’

Amiss enjoyed the spectacle of Mrs Cowley-Bawdon leaping to her feet and rushing in next door. ‘Sister, Sister, whatever is the matter. Goodness me, Mr Abdullah. Calm down, please.’

‘He’s gone berserk,’ said a clipped female voice, raised to be heard above Ahmed’s, ‘just because I told him he was a little overweight. Well, I had to say fat to make him understand.’

‘Calm down, Mr Abdullah.’ The chatelaine’s commanding tones had their effect and Ahmed shut up. The sister went on aggrievedly: ‘He’s twelve stone and only five feet seven inches and he’s got rolls of fat around his middle. If he thinks that by abusing me he can make me say he’s thin, he’s got another think coming.’

Mrs Cowley-Bawdon spoke soothingly to both of them and returned to Amiss.

‘Congratulations,’ he said.

Her complacent smile annoyed him. ‘Experience, Mr Amiss. I’ve been running this establishment for a very, very long time. Now tell me, have you a sedentary job?’

A few minutes later the sister came out with Ahmed, had a whispered consultation with her boss and beckoned Amiss to follow her. After a few enquiries about his medical history, she took his blood pressure and weighed and measured him briskly.

‘Eleven stone two pounds, Mr Amiss. You don’t need to lose any weight, so there’s no need for you to fast. You can go on the light diet.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Essentially fruit and salads.’

‘What’s the next up from that?’

‘Nothing, Mr Amiss. There’s only fasting or the light diet. Clear out the system, that’s the important thing. Get rid of all those toxins that come from all that smoking and drinking you do. And by the way, if you don’t manage to stop smoking here, please remember to do it only in your own bedroom. And I recommend you to take plenty of exercise. Thank you, we’re finished now. Please return to Mrs Cowley-Bawdon.’

‘Just one thing, Sister.’

‘Yes?’

‘In case my friend is a little confused about what he’s supposed to be doing, can you tell me what his regime will be?’

Her lips tightened. ‘He is to fast, Mr Amiss.’

‘And you’re sure he realises that?’

‘If he doesn’t, I’m sure Mrs Cowley-Bawdon will have explained it to him.’

Amiss was escorted next door. The sister handed over a form and withdrew. ‘Right, Mr Amiss. Now let’s see. Yes, light diet and you’re cleared to take any treatments you wish. Look at this, please, and tell me which you’d like.’

Amiss looked down the long list. ‘I’ll try the massage, sauna and the Turkish bath for now.’

‘Fine. If you want any of the others, make up your mind tomorrow and let reception know.’

‘Any problems with Ahmed?’

‘No, no. Not at all. He’s perfectly happy. Really entering into the spirit of the thing.’

‘He understands about fasting?’

‘He doesn’t just understand, Mr Amiss. He’s enthusiastic about it. Pointed out that he’s well used to it.’ She laughed a tinny laugh. ‘After all, as he said, Ramadan goes on for a month.’

‘But one can eat at the end of each day.’

‘Oh, really, Mr Amiss, I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. That little kerfuffle with Sister was just nerves. He’s perfectly happy now. Indeed he’s decided to have all the treatments.’

‘What?’

Amiss stared again at the list. ‘But he couidn’t possibJy have understood the descriptions of these.’

‘I fancy he’s a bit of an adventurer. Wants to try everything.’ Amiss wondered if he was right in thinking her smile was rather fond. She couldn’t really have succumbed to Ahmed’s brutish sexuality, could she? Well, it was none of his business.

She picked up her telephone and pressed a button. ‘McIver, the gentlemen are ready.’

She nodded a dismissal and bent to her Filofax. Amiss left the room feeling small.

Even Ahmed could find nothing to object to in his quarters. At a pinch his bedroom could have held a party for a hundred and fifty; the bathroom could have taken an overflow of a couple of dozen and the four-poster could have comfortably slept six. On finding that Ahmed was under the impression that since he was incapable of unpacking, a servant would appear to do it for him, Amiss gritted his teeth and stepped in. Ahmed helped by opening his bags and emptying them on to the floor.

In addition to his normal clothes, he had brought with him a newly-acquired sports wardrobe. This included red, blue and white tracksuits, four pairs of satin shorts with matching T-shirts, three towelling dressing-gowns and two pairs of running shoes.

As he placed on the dressing table six of the seven watches Ahmed had brought with him, Amiss tried to make sense of an approach to life that involved a passionate addiction to timepieces along with a complete indifference to time.

It took half an hour to put everything away. Ahmed lay on his bed smoking. Amiss reflected that he wouldn’t mind being a gentleman’s gentleman: it was being a pillock’s gentleman that hurt.

Before going to his own much more modest room to deal with his own much more modest belongings, Amiss scanned the brochures and instructions on the desk. ‘Right, Ahmed. I’ll collect you in twenty minutes. That’s when I have my evening meal and you have your hot water.’ Ahmed showed no sign of hearing him, and indeed he had not moved by the time Amiss returned. It took a further twenty minutes to get him downstairs to the hall, where this collation was served, and where they were both ticked off for lateness.

Unwilling to expose any of the other patients to Ahmed, Amiss found a quiet corner for them and got a desultory conversation going. He drank his consommé and ate his fruit and Ahmed sipped his hot water. He had lifted out the slice of lemon and was sucking it when the sister marched through looking about her keenly. She caught sight of Ahmed and came over to him, thunderstruck. She leaned forward and slapped his wrist. ‘Tut, tut,’ she cried. ‘I thought you were fasting. That means hot water and nothing else. Have you no self-control?’

She charged onwards, leaving Ahmed behind her muttering darkly of vengeance and blood. It was, thought Amiss, going to be a very, very long week.

26

«
^
»

Rich got up early to look for Plutarch. She had not come home the night before and he felt unable to go to work without seeing her. ‘Something urgent’s come up, Jenn. Tell Gavs to sort out the groups. I’ll be in as soon as I can — noon at the latest.’

He walked round the neighbourhood for an hour and then got his car out and drove to Ned Nurse’s house. It was as he and Amiss had left it: there were no signs of Plutarch having paid a return visit. He drove home to check just once more. As he opened his front gate his eye caught a flash of orange under the hedge. It was Plutarch: she had a piece of thick string around her neck and she was not breathing.

‘I’m worried about Robert, Ellis.’

‘I know, sir. So am I.’

‘He’s very clever in all sorts of ways—’

‘But very naïve in others?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Of course those threats to Ahmed may be just a hoax.’

‘But then again they may not.’

‘The sooner I can get some protection for them the better I’ll feel. I’m going to try to get Rich Rogers on the phone. I’ve thought of a plausible excuse to ring him. You get on with boning up on the Nurse mugging.’

Milton called in Pooley a couple of minutes later. ‘No good. He probably won’t be in till midday. How are you getting on?’

‘I’ve learned that Nurse’s neighbour says the supposed mugger was black.’

‘That wasn’t on file, was it?’

‘No, I’ve only just got it from North-West. I rang them up just to check that we had everything. Apparently he phoned and told them that the day after he made his statement.’

‘Well if the fellow really was black, it eliminates all our suspects.’

‘Except Ahmed.’

‘It’d really be pushing it to call Ahmed black.’

‘Or unless one of them had blacked up.’

‘Or wore a black balaclava. We must neglect no possibilities, Ellis. Now go away and find out more.’

‘Mr Peter Dicks?’

‘Speaking.’

‘Detective Sergeant Pooley of Scotland Yard. Could I have a word with you about the assault you witnessed on Mr Nurse?’

‘The old git’s dead now, i’n’t he? You’ll hardly catch the bloke now.’

‘Nevertheless, we must continue the investigation.’

‘I’s’pose you know what you’re doin’. I’m surprised you’re botherin’ so much. You usually let blacks get away with murder.’

One of those. Pooley took a deep breath and remembered what his job was. ‘I wanted to ask you about that, sir. In your original statement you didn’t mention that the assailant was black.’

‘No. Well, I didn’t remember.’

‘What made you remember?’

‘My wife. She said, “I’s’pose he was black, then.” Fair enough. They usually are, aren’t they? Then I remembered his hat.’

‘His hat?’

‘Yes, his hat. He was wearing one of them woolly caps like them blacks wear — the ones with the funny ringlets.’

‘Sorry, sir. Can we start from the beginning?’

‘Any luck, Ellis?’

‘No, sir. To summarise Mr Dicks’s explanation: the assailant wore a cap reminiscent of those worn by Rastafarians; therefore the assailant was a Rastafarian. All muggers are black; this was a mugger; ergo he was black. Guilty on both counts. The only fly in the ointment is that he didn’t actually see what colour his skin was.’

Milton groaned. ‘I sometimes wonder if we should believe anything the public tells us. Any further details about size?’

‘No. Average was as far as he would go.’

‘So it could be the benighted Ahmed, or indeed most of the people at the school?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK, Ellis. Get down there and start checking alibis. I’d really better chair the resources allocation meeting now that I’m here. I’ll put the skids under them and be along to you at noon.’

‘See you, sir.’ Pooley looked at his watch as he left Milton’s office and went to his own desk to pick up the papers he needed. He was on his way out when Pardeep beckoned him over. ‘Coffee?’

‘Sure,’ said Pooley, stifling his slight guilt, ‘but I can’t spend long.’

‘I’ve something to tell you, Ellis,’ she said, as she took her first sip.

‘Good news, I hope.’

‘I think it is.’ She looked down at the table and then straightened and looked him in the eye. ‘My parents have arranged a marriage for me.’

Pooley had never before felt the blood drain from his face.

‘You look shocked.’

With difficulty he found his voice. ‘I am.’

‘It’s the right thing, Ellis. It was time for me to have children.’

‘But why an arranged marriage? What about love? Do you even know this person?’

‘I gave it a lot of thought. I wanted someone from my own cultural background and I wanted stability. I haven’t got the sort of courage it takes to face all the problems of inter-marrying. I didn’t know anyone suitable and I respect my parents’ judgement. Love usually follows.’

‘I’d have taken the risk.’

‘I’m not you, Ellis. You’re a romantic. I’m very practical — or maybe I’m a coward.’

‘You’re absolutely determined?’ She could hear the choke in his voice.

‘I am. Will you wish me well?’

‘Of course I will. I do. I hope you’ll be very happy. Now do you mind awfully if I disappear? I’m running very late.’

‘Off you go. Bye.’ She had tears in her eyes as she watched him leave. His were dry: he hadn’t gone to Eton for nothing.

Milton and Rich arrived at the school simultaneously and went straight to the office to join Pooley. Rich repeated what they already knew about the threat to Ahmed.

‘You really should have told us about this earlier, Mr Rogers.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t really take it seriously.’

‘Well, I do. I’ll get on to the appropriate people right away.’

While Pooley sat in the lounge checking students’ alibis, Milton made a series of telephone calls. He had a long wrangle with his opposite number in the Hertfordshire police, whose view seemed to be that Arabs should be confined to London and kept off his patch. It was out of the question, he said, to provide a police guard. The best he could do was ask the relevant patrols to keep a special eye on Marriners.

Special Branch were not offering protection either, but they agreed to get one of their Arab specialists to visit the hotel.

Interpol had nothing of interest to report. They had failed to get any information whatsoever on Ahmed. Arabs were hell, they pointed out, because of the absence of surnames. However, under pressure from Milton, they promised to redouble their efforts.

Sighing, he walked through to the lounge where Pooley was trying to soothe an outraged Gunther. At the sight of Milton, Gunther rose magisterially to his feet. ‘Here now is your superior. I want that you let me to speak with him.’

Milton listened to a couple of minutes of complaints about the impropriety involved in interrogating a man of his eminence in such a manner. When he realised that a large part of Gunther’s grievance had to do with Pooley’s junior status, Milton interrupted. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I must insist that you answer my colleague’s questions. He has my full confidence.’ He walked out before Gunther could utter another sound, found Jenn and ordered sandwiches, then returned to the office to put his feet up and think.