by Rob Johnson
Quentin leaned forward and poured coffee into her cup. ‘As madam wishes.’ The words came through teeth that appeared to be intent on grinding each other to dust.
Sandra watched the flow of dark liquid and inhaled the bittersweet aroma. When the waiter had gone, she added a dash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, hesitating for the briefest of moments before adding a second. She raised the cup level with her eyes. ‘Here’s to me,’ she said. ‘Sandra Gray. Private detective.’
Taking a sip, she thought how good life could be sometimes, and her tongue tingled with the anticipation of the crisp, fresh toast that would belong to her, and her alone, in a few short minutes. A touch on the underdone side of overdone and cut triangularly. It always tasted so much better like that, so why was it she always cut it straight across on a right-angle when she made it at home? It wasn’t as if it involved any more effort.
Hang on though. Yes it did. She vaguely remembered her geometry from school and something about Pythagoras’s hypotenuse – or was it isosceles? Or even Isosceles’s pythagoras. Whatever. Anyway, it was definitely true that the slopey bit was much longer than the straight bit, and to confirm it she traced a right-angled triangle with a fork on the tablecloth.
To hell with it. I’m having extra butter and marmalade when it comes, and bugger the consequences. I should be celebrating, not fiddle-fannying around about a few calories here and there.
She took a generous slug of coffee and leaned back in her chair. Two grand and all expenses paid. Not bad for a couple of days’ work, and she’d only been in business less than six months. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. All she had to do now was—
‘Your toast, madam.’
Sandra looked up into the face of a scrawny, raven-haired girl with multiple piercings and skin the colour of anaemic alabaster. She had never fully understood the allure of the Goth look.
‘What happened to Quentin?’
‘Quentin, madam?’ said the Goth in a monotone and without any attempt at eye contact as she placed the silver rack of toast within easy reach.
‘The guy with the pointy chin and the eyebrows who was here before.’
The girl finally met Sandra’s gaze. ‘Don’t know, madam. I expect he’s doing other guests.’
‘What makes you think he isn’t on a plane halfway to Costa Rica?’
The Goth clearly didn’t recognise Mr Pink’s line from Reservoir Dogs, and she gawped for a moment before reciting, ‘Would madam like more coffee?’
‘Yes please. Oh, and could you bring a little more butter while you’re at it?’
CHAPTER NINE
Taped to the underside of the cistern lid was a transparent plastic wallet, and inside this Trevor could see a brown paper envelope. Perhaps all it contained were the instructions for… For what? How to flush the toilet? Okay, so maybe it was the guarantee or—
Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeled the wallet from the porcelain. He took out the envelope and, turning it over in his hand, saw that it was unmarked and seemed to have been opened and then resealed again. He prised open the flap and removed the contents. A ticket and two white index cards, one of which had a small yellow Post-it note attached and a bronze coloured key stuck to the back.
Both cards had been printed with some kind of stick-on letters. The one with the Post-it note said:
FLAT 12
CABOT TOWER
MILTON STREET
BRISTOL
On the Post-it, someone had written in block capitals:
LEAVE THIS CARD IN LOCKER.
DESTROY POST-IT NOTE.
Trevor read the second card:
LOCKER NUMBER C9.
COMBINATION 357716.
MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME = HURST.
MEMORABLE DATE = 30/07/66.
Then he examined the ticket:
LEEDS FESTIVAL
BRAMHAM PARK
24th – 26th AUGUST
DAY TICKET ONLY
SATURDAY 25th AUGUST
He frowned and scratched his head as he scanned each of the items again. The address of a flat in Bristol – and presumably a key for it. Something about a locker and a festival ticket for 25th August… Today in fact.
But what’s it all doing inside a toilet cistern? And what’s with destroying the Post-it note? Weird or what? Still, it’s nothing to do with me. Need to get on.
Trevor replaced the cards and the ticket in the envelope and slipped it back into the plastic wallet, but no sooner had he sealed it than he heard the cacophony of Milly launching into one of her famous barking frenzies, unmistakable even at this distance.
‘Shit,’ he said aloud and dropped to his haunches. He re-taped the wallet back inside the cistern lid while a voice in his head told him this was not a very sensible idea, but he had no time to listen. Milly’s barking had reached a crescendo, and Trevor thought he could hear the sound of a woman screaming – or was that two women?
He wrenched open the canvas holdall and emptied the broken pieces of porcelain onto the floor, making a vague attempt to arrange them so it looked as if this was where the cistern lid had fallen. Then he laid the intact lid in the holdall and zipped it shut.
Grabbing the bag by the handle, he fled from the bathroom, through the bedroom, and out into the corridor. As he had feared, the wire cage with the towels and linens was parked immediately outside his room, but how had the chambermaids got there so quickly? He scuttled along the hallway and soon had his answer. The two intervening rooms on his side of the corridor had “Do Not Disturb” notices hanging from their door handles, and on the floor outside the second on the right was a large silver tray laid with breakfast.
He was almost level with this particular door when it opened, and an overweight man in a white towelling dressing gown appeared and stooped down to pick up the tray.
‘What an idiot,’ said Trevor.
The man in the dressing gown paused mid-stoop and stared up at him, a baffled expression on his bloated face. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh sorry. Not you. Me. I’m the idiot,’ Trevor said without breaking his stride and continued to chide himself for having forgotten to put a “Do Not Disturb” sign on his own door.
So intent was he on getting there, he scarcely registered the words, ‘You know, I think you’re probably right’.
The barking had reached a ridiculous level of decibels by the time he burst into the room, and he was not in the least surprised by the awful scene which greeted him. Milly stood in the middle of the bed, baying wildly in the direction of the two chambermaids, who were pinned against the far wall with a look of abject terror on their tear-stained faces. One of them – the younger of the two – was just completing an excruciatingly ear-piercing scream when Trevor came through the doorway.
‘Milly!’ he yelled.
Milly, who was quite clearly having a whale of a time, stopped barking long enough to look round at her master and then, after giving him what could only be described as a conspiratorial wink, turned back towards her cornered prey and resumed her deafening assault.
Trevor rapidly approached the bed. ‘Milly, I’m warning you…’
Apparently realising he was serious this time, she gradually reduced her barking to a barely audible level and contented herself with an occasional growl, supplemented here and there with a teeth-baring snarl. If it hadn’t been for the seriousness of the situation, Trevor would have found Milly’s display of aggression highly amusing. He knew as well as she did that it was all show, and if the chambermaids had stood up to her, she would have run a mile.
‘That your dog?’ said Peroxide.
‘Er…’ Trevor glanced round at Milly as if noticing her for the first time.
‘It’s a bloody menace, that’s what it is.’
‘Ought to be… put down… if you… ask me.’ The younger woman could barely get the words out through her tears.
‘You may well have a point there,’ Trevor muttered, and he gave Milly a withering glare, which she completel
y ignored and directed a particularly threatening growl towards the two women.
‘I’ll ‘ave you reported, I will,’ Peroxide said, seeming to regain her composure a little. ‘And what was yer doing in t’other room?’
‘Long story I’m afraid, and I’m a bit pushed for time at the moment.’
With that, Trevor disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. But as he removed the cistern lid from his holdall, he spotted the plastic wallet taped to the underside, and straight away he understood the reason for his sense of unease a few minutes earlier.
Oh bloody Nora. How could you have been so stupid?
He stared at the wallet and tried to think what to do with the damn thing. There was no point leaving it here… Perhaps he could sneak back into the other room and— No, that wouldn’t work. The door had locked as soon as he’d closed it behind him… Maybe he could hand it in at reception when—
He suddenly became aware that Milly had cranked up her vicious-killing-machine act with some blood-curdling growling and snarling, and the two women had started screaming again. The reception plan would have to do. Ripping the wallet from the lid, he tossed it into his holdall and then carefully positioned the lid on top of the cistern.
Back in the bedroom, he saw that the chambermaids had pressed themselves against the wall once again, and the younger one was about to let out another scream. He stuffed his few belongings into the holdall and turned to the two cowering women. ‘Er… Sorry.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Peroxide with a snarl that even Milly would have been proud of.
‘She wouldn’t have hurt you, you know.’
‘Tuh.’
Trevor headed for the doorway. ‘Come on, Milly. Hurry up.’
Milly jumped down off the bed and took a step towards the two women. This time, both of them screamed as if they really were being savaged by a demented hound from hell.
Trevor was almost at the stairs when Milly came bounding up behind him, her tail held almost perpendicular and wagging like a hyperactive windscreen wiper.
CHAPTER TEN
With a full stomach and the prospect of being two grand richer in the next couple of days, Sandra Gray felt nothing but utter contentment as she strode out of the hotel dining room. When she reached the foyer, she saw there was a queue for the lift.
What the hell, she thought. It’s only two flights, and the exercise will help salve my conscience about the extra toast.
She made her way to the staircase and started to climb. Rounding the corner onto the first floor landing, she had little time to register the man who was hurtling down the stairs towards her. The collision was inevitable, and she almost went down under the force of the impact but managed to stay on her feet by grabbing hold of the handrail.
She pulled herself upright and realised that the guy seemed to have come off worse than she had. He’d dropped his canvas holdall and was supporting himself with one hand against the wall and the other clutched to his chest as he fought to catch his breath.
‘You all right?’ she said.
‘S… sorry… ‘bout that.’ He wheezed out the words between gulps of air.
If she hadn’t been feeling quite so pleased with herself, Sandra would probably have given him a good tongue-lashing, but instead she settled for: ‘That’s okay. No harm done.’
She waited for him to recover, not knowing what else to say until she spotted the black and tan mongrel gazing up at her and frenetically wagging its tail.
‘That your dog?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘I didn’t think you were supposed to—’
‘No, you’re not. But we’re leaving now anyway.’
‘Ah.’
His breathing seemed to have returned to normal, and he stooped to pick up his bag. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m in quite a hurry and I—’
‘Sure.’ Sandra smiled and stepped to one side to let him pass.
‘Sorry about…’
‘Don’t worry. No broken bones.’
‘Come on, Milly,’ he said and nodded a goodbye.
Sandra reciprocated and watched him scurry down the staircase with his dog and disappear from view into the foyer.
Nice enough, she thought as she began to climb the second flight of stairs, and not bad looking in a rabbit-in-the-headlights kind of way. The eyes were a bit on the boggly side, and the thick, mousey hair could have done with a trim, not to mention a comb, but other than that, not bad at all. Sexy? Five out of ten maybe, although, to be fair, the grey fleece jacket didn’t do him any favours, and the jeans were much too saggy to tell whether he had a decent arse on him. There was something odd about him though. Something… furtive. Perhaps it was just that he was in a hurry, or possibly it was her private detective mind being a little overactive.
By the time she reached her room, Sandra had all but forgotten him and was planning what she would need to do in the next few hours. She closed the door behind her and headed straight for the bathroom. Too much coffee always had this effect on her.
What the f—
The open-topped cistern and the pieces of broken porcelain on the floor stopped her in her tracks. A moment later, her heart almost stopped as well.
Oh Christ, no.
She dropped to her knees and rummaged frantically amongst the shattered remains of the cistern lid.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
Sandra’s bladder reminded her of her pressing need, and as she sat, she leaned forward and continued to sift through the broken porcelain. But it was no good. The bloody thing just wasn’t there.
Okay, girl, calm down. It can’t have vanished into thin air. It was here last night when you arrived, exactly where you’d been told it would be, and it was still here an hour ago when you went down to breakfast. So somebody must have taken it. Why though? And more importantly, who?
All right, think about who had access to the room, who had been in here last… Then she remembered passing a metal laundry cage in the corridor a few minutes earlier. Of course. The cleaners must have accidentally dropped the cistern lid and then spotted the envelope and put it somewhere else.
She scanned every surface in the bathroom as she got to her feet and rearranged her clothing. Not here.
She rushed into the bedroom and searched desperately but fruitlessly, all the while trying to suppress the rising panic in her chest.
The buggers must have nicked it. But why would they? What possible use could it be to them?
Sandra immediately realised the futility of asking herself these questions when the culprits themselves were probably still just along the corridor.
She swept out of the room and almost ran along the hallway to where the linen cage was parked outside an open door. Without even thinking of knocking, she marched into the bedroom and saw two women in white housecoats, one of them talking on the telephone and the other sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands.
‘Excuse me.’ Sandra’s voice was firm to the point of authoritarian.
The woman on the phone barely acknowledged her presence and continued her conversation, anxiously fiddling with a loose strand of heavily bleached hair. ‘… That’s right. A bloody dog… ‘
The girl on the bed slowly lifted her head and stared myopically in Sandra’s direction, her eyes red from crying.
‘Have you just been in to clean my room?’
‘Dunno,’ sniffed the chambermaid.
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ Sandra’s patience was already strained to the limit.
‘We clean loads. What number?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘’Appen we musta done.’
‘Well, in that case…’ Sandra peered at the card pinned to the girl’s housecoat. ‘…Denise. Perhaps you could explain to me how you came to break the lid of the toilet cistern and what you’ve done with the…’ She tailed off, not wanting to give out too much information in case the chambermaids might actually be innocent. �
��There’s also something missing from my room.’
‘Eh?’
‘Do I have to call the manager?’
‘Sorry, I just dunno what you’re on about.’ She turned towards her colleague. ‘Maureen?’
Maureen was still in mid conversation and gestured to her to be quiet. ‘… Well, it were one of you lot let him in in the first place…’ She was clearly involved in a heated argument with whoever was on the other end of the line.
‘I think you’d better come with me.’ The fact that Sandra’s tone and choice of words made her sound like a police officer at the end of her tether was not entirely unintentional.
‘Eh?’ said Denise, blowing her nose on a tissue she’d taken from the box beside her on the bed.
‘If you’re going to play dumb, I’m obviously going to have to show you what I’m talking about. Come on. Up.’
‘Oh chuffin’ ‘eck. As if I ‘adn’t ‘ad enough to cope with already for one day.’
‘Tell me about it. Now shift your arse.’
As the chambermaid forced herself to her feet, Maureen slammed the phone down. She looked from Denise to Sandra and back again. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Dunno,’ said Denise. ‘Broken toilet or summat.’
Maureen eyed Sandra with undisguised contempt. ‘Sorry, madam, but you’ll ‘ave to contact reception and ‘ave ‘em send up a plumber. Not our job, see.’
‘Now listen to me, Maureen.’ Sandra spoke the name with heavy disdain. ‘I don’t give a shit about the bloody toilet. What I do give a shit about – a very big shit in fact – is what you’ve done with the envelope that was inside it.’ Instantly, she regretted that her anger had got the better of her resolve for discretion.
The two chambermaids exchanged sideways glances.
‘Which room?’ said Maureen.
‘Twen-tee-five,’ said Sandra, clearly enunciating each syllable.
Maureen turned back to Denise. ‘’Ang on a bit. That’s the room where the bloke came in.’
‘Oh yeah. It were.’
