The School of English Murder (24 page)

‘Like did someone kill Wally Armstrong and if so why and who was it?’ said Milton.

‘I see.’ Amiss drained his glass, got up and moved towards the door. ‘Well, if that’s all there’s to it, you obviously don’t need any help from me. I’m off for a sauna: don’t feel like a Turkish bath today. Then I’ll have a massage and a nap. If you sort out everything before I wake up, I suggest you go and look for Lord Lucan.’

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‘I’ve had an idea, sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s almost impossible to imagine that the killer could have succeeded without having
some
knowledge of Marriners. However clever you were, you couldn’t, for instance, guess how the system worked in practice. You’d have to know something of the geography and what the staff actually did. For instance, he’d have needed to know that the Turkish bath attendant was rarely near the steam room but spent his time rubbing people down on the slab next door.’

‘Remember he could and did take risks. If he’d been seen around the Turkish bath, he could simply have aborted his mission.’

‘Yes, but he wasn’t. And that in itself suggests he was well-briefed. Anyway, it’s the only lead we’ve got at the moment.’

‘There are any number of people who could have briefed him: staff, patients, ex-patients.’

‘We have to narrow it down to the school. Someone there could have put it into Ahmed’s head to come here.’

‘I thought the doctor did.’

‘Not quite. I rang him just now and he said that to the best of his recollection, Ahmed suggested it first. The doctor spoke in generalities about rest, recuperation and self-denial. The patient mentioned Marriners.’

‘Interesting. You think someone thought this a better spot for murder than London. I can’t imagine why.’

‘Nor can I at the moment. Though if we’re dealing with a paid assassin, the reason could have been to guarantee an alibi for whoever hired him.’

‘So what’s your idea?’

‘I think we’ve got to hang on to the school as central to all this. From what Interpol said, it doesn’t sound to me as if Ahmed was being killed by a vengeful relative.’

‘I agree. Nothing as romantic as that.’

‘And we’re agreed that it’s possible that the school is a cover for something sinister?’

‘Yes, though it seems highly unlikely. A few milligrams of coke doesn’t suggest great corruption. Anyway, what’s your suggestion?’

‘That we get from Marriners a complete list of all the guests they’ve had during, say, the past year, and get from the school a list of students from the same period. BPs only, of course. Then we compare them.’

‘It’s a very, very long shot, Ellis.’

‘But we haven’t any short ones at the moment, sir.’

‘I know.’ Milton got up and took a turn around the room. ‘It’ll take ages. They must have a couple of thousand going through here every year, and not a computer in sight.’

‘I know, sir.’

Milton looked at his watch. ‘We’ve just got time. OK. You ring Rogers and ask him to fax the stuff down to us. I’ll go and beard Mrs Cowley-Bawdon. Don’t blame me if we get bread and water for dinner.’

‘Christ, I’ve done some boring jobs in my time,’ said Amiss, ‘but this takes the fucking biscuit.’ He scribbled a name on yet another slip of pink paper and made a tick on a list.

‘What a privileged life you’ve led,’ remarked Milton. ‘I can think of many far more boring jobs that I’ve done.’

‘Me, too,’ chimed in Pooley.

‘He’s obviously never shadowed anyone and waited for them outside a house for five hours.’ Milton ticked the last name on his list and reached for another.

‘Or spent the night in a ditch because of a tip-off about a burglary that failed to materialise.’ Pooley picked up the two piles of white and one pile of pink slips and sorted them alphabetically.

‘Or spent a whole day with his back to a cricket match watching the crowd.’

‘Or—’

‘Oh, all right, you sods. Stop ganging up on me. My life hasn’t all been beer and skittles, you know. I once spent two days writing a forty-minute speech about the future of heat pumps.’ He saw Pooley open his mouth and interjected hastily: ‘And that was without even understanding what I was writing about.’ Pooley opened his mouth again. ‘And what’s more I had to listen to my minister mangle it.’

‘Oh, shut up, Robert. We’re nearly finished,’ said Milton. ‘If everyone gets on with it and no one talks for the next ten minutes it’ll be done.’

They complied, and within half an hour Pooley had amalgamated the three piles of slips and sorted them by letter. He gave them roughly a third of the letters each. ‘Now sort each letter into alphabetical order.’ They did so. ‘Right, you still remember what you’re looking for, don’t you?’

‘Just about,’ said Amiss, ‘though I’m so tired that I might end up thinking I’m supposed to choose which to vote for in the General Election.’

Marriners had yielded well over two thousand names and the school four or five hundred, so the secondary sorting process took the three of them another hour.

‘OK,’ said Pooley. ‘Now we come to the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Is there any name that appears on both a white and a pink slip? If not, we’ve wasted fifteen man hours on a daft idea.’

‘It’s time we had a drink, Ellis.’ Milton took a bottle of whiskey from his briefcase and poured three stiff measures into the water glasses on the table.

‘Brilliant idea,’ said Amiss. ‘Where’d you get it? Have you and Ellis been raiding Mick McGuire?’

‘Raiding? He came and forced this on us this afternoon. Said he’d never be able to finish up all the booze before he leaves tomorrow, so we’d be doing him a favour by helping. He’s impossible to refuse.’

‘Excellent,’ said Amiss. ‘Don’t worry about that. I’m buying him dinner next week.’

‘Now, Ellis,’ said Milton, ‘your idea was a good one and remains so whether we find some names in common or not. So calm down. Off we go.’

There was only one name that came up twice. At two thirty, Pooley let out a shout. ‘Sven Bjorgsson, Knightsbridge School of English December 1988; Marriners January 1988, with Mrs Bjorgsson.’

‘Now you’re getting over-excited, Ellis. We’re agreed that it’s a very tenuous link.’

Pooley stopped pacing and sat down again. ‘Sorry.’

‘Here’s what we’ll do,’ said Milton. ‘I’ll have a quick word with Interpol now and get them going on the Bjorgssons. Then I suggest we all go to bed.’

‘Quite sure?’ asked Amiss. ‘Nothing else you’d like help with? Ellis might like us to go through the books in the library to see if any of them is hiding a mysterious envelope?’

‘Shut up, Robert. It’s far too late in the morning for facetiousness.’

Amiss grimaced. ‘So it’s censorship now, is it? OK, I’ll retire once again to the window and have a cigarette.’ For perhaps the twentieth time that night, he opened the window, lit a cigarette and expelled the smoke into the moonlit garden.

‘Tomorrow morning, I’ll head straight back to the Yard to pull together everything we’ve got and pursue whatever needs pursuing on the Bjorgsson front. Now, Ellis.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You stay here and see what you can find out about the Bjorgssons.’

‘And then?’

‘Go back to London. Robert?’

‘Sorry?’ Amiss drew his head back into the room.

‘Will you stay on until Ellis is ready and drive him back to London? You might be able to get in a few more massages.’

‘Yes to both, assuming the car goes on functioning. It’s sounding a bit seedy since it had its night out with Ahmed.’

‘And then, if you’re both free and so inclined, we can meet for dinner and exchange news.’

‘We’re really getting into the habit of Saturday being Boys’ Night Out, aren’t we? Where’ll it be this time? Your pad, Jim?’

‘No, tomorrow I think you and I should take a trip down memory lane.’

‘Not the Star of India? Couldn’t we sacrifice sentiment to gastronomy and go somewhere better?’

‘I think not. Can’t think of anywhere as discreet. I’m no more anxious at the moment to be seen in public with you than I was when we first met.’

Amiss sighed. ‘As the Superintendent wills. I’ll spend the morning praying they’ve had a change of management.’

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Amiss had forgotten to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ notice outside his door, so he was woken up as usual at seven thirty with a modest breakfast full of worthy ingredients. He meditated turning over and going back to sleep, but decided that that would be a waste of Marriners’ expensive facilities. As he munched his muesli he promised himself that if the Star of India did not actually poison him, he would have a massive plate of bacon and eggs on Sunday morning.

Obedient to his timetable, he attended Sister at nine to be weighed. ‘Eleven stone four pounds, Mr Amiss,’ she said, appearing to be in deep shock. ‘How have you managed to put on weight? Haven’t you been sticking to the light diet?’

‘I haven’t eaten anything not provided on the premises,’ he said, feeling it might be tactless to mention all he’d drunk.

‘Well, it’s very odd,’ she said.

He smiled weakly and proffered the remark that metabolism was a funny thing. This inanity failed to impress and he was ushered out coldly.

He went straight to the sauna, which was already full of naked men swapping information on their weight losses. Amiss’s news made them all feel better. ‘Bet you didn’t tell her about the wake,’ said a bald man whom Amiss half-recalled from Mick’s bedroom.

‘I wouldn’t have dared. It cost Mick twenty quid to silence McIver.’

‘Great fun, though. It really made my week. Usually it’s a bit on the dull side here.’

‘There’s worse things than dull,’ said Amiss, as he closed his eyes and began to doze. It was with great reluctance that he responded when the attendant called him. The cold plunge, agony at the best of times, was particularly hard to face this morning. As he emerged shivering he made a mental note to ask Pooley if he went in for cold showers. It was a strongly held belief of Amiss’s that they were a first-rate indicator of social class, being enjoyed only by those who’d been to public school. The warm shower and salt rub that followed were reprehensibly hedonistic.

He had an underwater massage from the young lady whom Ahmed had assaulted and went straight back to his bedroom, where he crawled into bed and fell asleep immediately. He lay undisturbed until one thirty, when Pooley knocked at his door and got him up. ‘I’m ready to go, Robert. If you get a move on we’ll have time for an unhealthy snack at the local.’ He sat in an armchair and closed his eyes.

With his mind full with thoughts of shepherd’s pie, sausages, baked beans and pickles, Amiss got himself ready and packed within fifteen minutes. He had to shake Pooley awake. ‘Lunch ahoy!’

Pooley shook his head to clear it, darted into the bathroom and could be heard splashing water vigorously. ‘Nothing like cold water to get one going,’ he offered as he reappeared. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘Do you take cold showers?’

‘Every morning, after a hot one. Doesn’t everyone?’

‘You’re so predictable, Ellis. Come on, let’s get going.’

Pausing only to reassure reception that the Knightsbridge School of English would pay his bill, Amiss passed thankfully out of Marriners for the last time.

It took only ten minutes to find a pub. The food was excellent and the local brew superb. Pooley had a pint and Amiss a half, as he was driving. ‘Role-reversal,’ observed Amiss. ‘I’m sure you’ve never in your life before been a drink ahead of me. You’re so damned moderate, it’s sickening.’

Pooley smiled and took another long draught. ‘Glad to leave?’

‘Yes, in the sense of getting away from the scene of what I suppose has to be called a tragedy. No, in the sense that I’d love to have a week or two to do it properly. I never usually look after my body, and it was getting to like it. I wonder if I could persuade Rachel to come to a health farm for our honeymoon? Not this one, of course. Ahmed would cast a bit of a dampener over proceedings. But one of the others — especially the kind where you’re allowed to drink.’

‘Are you getting married soon, then?’

‘Not till she’s been back in London a while and we’ve lived together for at least a few months. Rachel says that apart from anything else she’s not prepared to go through all the hassle of family disapproval at marrying out until she’s absolutely certain it’ll work.’

Pooley stared at his beer.

‘What is it, Ellis?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No it isn’t.’

‘You’re very persistent, you and Jim. I’m not used to talking about my personal life.’

‘Class, old man. Middle class males are getting quite good at talking about all those unimportant things of life like love, disappointment and death. Your lot are still carrying on as if the natives would revolt if they saw a white man’s lip tremble. Now come on and tell me about it. We’ve got all afternoon.’

The Star of India was just the same. The main interior was still caught in perpetual twilight, while from the entrance it seemed as though the tables at the back were plunged in stygian gloom. It took Milton a moment or two of peering towards the far end to identify his guests. He sat down thankfully and let out a long exhalation. ‘God, what a day.’ He called a waiter. ‘Good evening. Your drinks all right? That’ll be one gin and tonic, please.’

‘I’m touched that they haven’t changed anything, Jim. Not the red flock wallpaper, not the tiger pictures—’

‘And judging by the stains, not the tablecloths.’

‘You know I’ve never had the full story of your first meeting,’ said Pooley. ‘How did you become allies?’

‘It wasn’t quite love at first sight,’ said Amiss.

‘More like curiosity,’ said Milton.

‘Of course we found we’d a lot in common,’ said Amiss.

‘Lots of dead bodies, apart from anything else.’