by Hannah Howe
Chapter Nine
I woke up feeling as though I’d not been to bed. I soaked myself in the shower until my skin started to wrinkle. I thought about breakfast and settled on a glass of fruit juice – that would see me through to lunchtime, or maybe dinner, if it turned out to be a bad day. I dressed, slipping into grey, unassuming trousers, a black short-sleeved top with a modest scoop, a cropped, hip-length jacket and flat, black, sensible shoes – in case I had to run after the ‘bad guys’, or the ‘bad guys’ decided to run after me. Like I said, I’m not a ‘pink’ girl, I prefer something dark, though I could be moved to wear autumnal shades when the moon was in the right quarter and my hormones were taking a break.
I drove to my office and discovered that Marlowe had left a present. A dead mouse. Another dead mouse. Thank you, Marlowe; I love you too. I pinched my nose – I don’t know why, there was no stench – picked up the mouse by its tail using the tips of my fingers and dropped him into the pedal bin. After thumping the tap three times, I managed to coax some water out of the antiquated plumbing system and I washed my hands in my office sink. Then I sorted through my mail and phone messages.
The mail was mostly junk mail, which I shredded, and bills, which I filed in my ‘in’ tray. Note to self – must get a bigger ‘in’ tray. The phone messages did offer hope of future employment – a large hotel chain asked if I’d be available in the near future to serve as their ‘mystery guest’, checking up on customer service, the general running of their hotels and staff ‘fiddles’. I’d done this type of work for them in the past and, obviously, they were pleased with my efforts. It wasn’t a glamorous assignment, but at least it would clear some of the bills. I phoned my contact at the hotel chain and said that I would be available. Then I drove to Castle Gwyn.
The castle was quiet, apparently deserted. I wandered around the gaudy corridors, feeling overwhelmed by the garish colour scheme and the larger-than-life decorations, and I found nothing, no one. So I meandered into the west wing, the private quarter of the castle. I poked my nose into some of the bedrooms and spied Woody’s four-poster bed, but there was no sign of the man himself. However, I struck gold in the next bedroom – I found Derwena sprawled across her bed, her arms and legs extended, her sequined pink and black halter-neck dress scrunched around her midriff, her high-heeled shoes dangling from her toes, her tiara wobbling on her head at a rakish angle. I tiptoed to her bedside and shook her shoulder. No sound, no movement – she was out cold. I checked her pulse. It was racing. I lifted her eyelids. Her eyes were vacant and glazed. I examined her bedside cabinet and discovered an empty bottle of vodka and a packet of white powder. I licked my index finger and tasted the powder. My tongue started to tingle, then went numb – cocaine?
What should I do? Phone for an ambulance? But when the ambulance men arrived, they would know that Derwena had been using drugs and, though not directly from them, word might leak out to the press. A drug scandal was not what Derwena de Caro needed at this stage of her flagging career.
I thought back to my mother and the occasions when I’d found her comatose. I must have been about seven, the first time. Somehow, I removed my mother’s clothing and encouraged her into the shower. Then I ran cold water over her until she revived. I had no idea what I was doing, but I did that repeatedly over the next sixteen years. I saw some sights a daughter should never see, but I turned a blind eye to them because she was my mother and I loved her, though she was too drunk most of the time to reciprocate or even care about me. I had no idea what I was doing then, and I had no idea what I was doing now, but I stripped Derwena naked and dragged her to one of the bathrooms.
Thankfully, the bathroom was large with a walk-in shower. I sat Derwena under the shower nozzle and turned on the water, adjusting the setting to ‘cold’. She shivered when the first blast of icy water hit her, then she groaned. Then she threw up. At least the water would wash the vomit down the plughole. After five minutes, her eyes started to roll and she wandered in and out of consciousness. Then her eyes opened wide, as though someone had flicked a switch. She glared at me, without really seeing.
“It’s raining,” she complained, “make the clouds go away.” Then, “I’m cold,” she shivered, and I switched off the shower.
I offered Derwena my hand. “Here, lean on me.” I’d removed my jacket and thrown it on to the bed. Nevertheless, my trousers and top were soaked. With my arm around Derwena, and with her legs like jelly, I helped her from the shower and back into her bedroom. I offered her a pink, frilly dressing gown and she draped it over her naked body. Then, with a groan, she collapsed on to the bed.
“Where am I?” she moaned.
“In the castle; in your bedroom.”
“Who are you?”
“Your new best friend, Sam.”
Her eyes rolled then refocused. She looked like a £1’s worth of tripe, but that was 50p more than she looked before the shower.
“Sam...” Derwena placed her hand, somewhat theatrically, on her forehead, “I love you.” She had no idea who I was or what she was saying. Then she started to sing. Then she rolled on to her side. Then she threw up, again. I wondered about the employment agency. I wondered if they had any openings for fifty-five-word a minute typists. Then I propped Derwena up on some pillows to make sure that she didn’t choke on her vomit. Then I did what all ace detectives do when faced with this situation – I went to the kitchen and made us some coffee.
