The Saint Valentine's Day Murders (6 page)

Henry might have been surprised had he known that as he was working up towards his orgasm Melissa Taylor was living out at least a part of his fantasy. She was stretched beside her lover stroking her breasts. But in this room there was no man looking on.

Donald Shipton was asleep.

9

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26 November

Dearest Rachel,

Many thanks for the marvellous long letter. Loved the story about Jeremy and the Rastas. He seems to have the same grasp of what’s going on as your average high court judge. I only wish there was someone here I could tell it to.

I’m looking forward achingly to the weekend after this. It’s only the thought of pleasures to come that’s going to get me through the next few days. We’re all off to the Twillerton conference centre at three this afternoon. No one wants to go except Horace. He’s planning to write a report on the seminar for circulation to Authority so as to make same aware that under his leadership things are buzzing in PD. Of course he’s secretly pleased that Shipton has gone sick. It’s unbelievable what that layabout gets away with.

Not a lot has been happening. There’s a general air of gloom and tension overlying all, which must, I suppose, mainly be Melissa’s fault. Or maybe it’s the thought of this weekend that is giving the lads a strained look. At least I’m getting on with them better now I’m no longer Public Enemy No. 1. Would you believe I haven’t had a single practical joke played on me since she arrived? She has suffered at least one. I emerged the other day at about ten past five and saw her back view as she left the office. Stuck to her coat was the simple legend ‘I am a dyke’. Regrettably, I am so coarsened by now that instead of pursuing her to point it out I gave Tiny a silent cheer. Or am I wrong and is this a new way of coming out? I thought they went in for lapel buttons.

Melissa’s awfulness has made the awfulness of all the others pale into insignificance. I’m concocting a training plan for her that will send her touring regional offices and other parts of HQ to find out how they operate. I don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer. Did I tell you she’s a proselytizing vegan? Last week she took it upon herself at lunchtime to tell Tiny he was eating cow sandwiches and Bill that his hardboiled egg was a chicken foetus. Tiny responded by saying that at least his cow was tastier than she was, but poor old Bill looked quite sick and pushed his egg away. He’s apparently got rather a soft spot for birds. I heard him yesterday rather touchingly explaining to Tony how to attract robins to a garden – as if Tony would have food wasted on our feathered friends.

Anyway, I had some small revenge the following day. Cathy, our clerical assistant, complained that Melissa was giving her dirty magazines. It turned out to be a consciousness-raising attempt, with Melissa proffering
Spare Rib
as an alternative to
Woman and Home
. I summoned Melissa to my office and told her solemnly that if Cathy believed her vocation to lie in being a wife and mother, she, Melissa, should respect a Woman’s Right to Choose. She couldn’t decide if I was being serious or flippant so didn’t have the heart to argue.

Horace is driving me to Twillerton, thus giving us the opportunity yet again to discuss how to make the party go with a swing. The others are all going in separate cars so they can collar the mileage allowance. Melissa is… guess! Yes – riding her motor bike. I hope it pisses down.

Enough for now. I’ll continue this when I get a chance during the weekend. And may God have mercy on us all!

Sunday

Just when I really need you, your bloody phone goes out of order.

I needed to babble incoherently, and now I have to write it down instead. Where shall I begin? Yes, yes. I hear your trained mind calling on me to take it from the beginning. Here goes.

Friday

3:00-5:00 Unspeakable journey with Horace. I wish I’d known he hates driving in London. I could have ridden on Melissa’s pillion. He is of the ‘if-you-grip-the-steering-wheel-until-your-knuckles-turn-white- and-hunch-over-it-till-your-back-hurts-you-will-be-able-to- better-control-events’ school of motoring. (Sorry about the split infinitive. I am not the purist I used to be.) Horace’s eyesight is appalling. I had to yell warnings several times. Is the silly sod too vain to wear glasses? It wasn’t until we got on to the motorway that he relaxed, but by then my nerves were in tatters and I could hardly make sense of his maunderings about creative confrontation, kicking ideas around to see where they led or alternatively throwing them into the air to see where they landed etc, etc. I gather some idiot sent him on a management psychology course three years ago and ever since he’s been chewing over what he learned on it.

5:00-5:30 Unpacking and abluting. Layout of centre is roughly upon motel principle. (Mark this well. Its significance will become apparent.) Thus everything is at ground level: bedrooms come in square blocks of sixteen, built round a central courtyard, with a bathroom and exit in the middle of each side.

All fifteen of us then, snugly accommodated together in Block H. Horace chuffed: it makes for feeling of solidarity.

5:30-6:00 Tea in recreation block followed speech of welcome from small, fidgety centre manager. Listen to Graham and Tony arguing about the merits of their respective routes to Twillerton. Melissa the belle of the ball in ill-fitting denim boiler suit. Try as she does, she cannot avoid looking pretty. All over-forties wear nondescript sports jackets. Charlie hadn’t been briefed on Melissa so shot over to her at first opportunity to try chatting-up. Returned crestfallen with flea in ear after three minutes.

6:00-7:00 Open session. Horace and self on dais as my plea to be allowed to sit with minions has been rejected as damaging to my authority. Horace read half-hour speech about essence of seminar being to decide what job we are doing and how we can do it more effectively. All stones are to be turned over and all worries fearlessly exposed. Peroration same as I got on my first day – about centralized purchasing being the rock on which success is built. Sat down and called for questions or comments. Silence. Self had anticipated this and had intelligent query re Buying British policy. Answered by Horace. No follow-up from rank-and-file. Glared at Charlie who responded nobly by making suggestion about how our approvals procedure might be streamlined. Horace tossed idea at audience where it fell like stone until picked up one of his team who proved it unworkable.

Henry saved the day with a long tirade about the newfangled procedures contained in BC/P/4396 being contrary to the common sense displayed by the framer of BC/P/632. Even Graham slightly animated by that one.

Session ended. All balls-aching, of course, but Horace optimistic. Thinks that after an evening of communal fun the troops will have loosened up and tomorrow morning will see the fur really flying.

7:00-7:30 Pre-dinner drinks. Offered to buy one for Melissa and had head snapped off for being patronizing. Told her she looked even more beautiful when angry. Curried favour with Henry by asking for explanation about ambiguous point in BC/P/4396. He seems to know the whole canon off by heart.

7:30-8:00 Dinner. Large dining room with six long tables. PD clustered around one. Other tables occupied by massed rows of beery technicians on three-week refresher course. No contact between us and them. PD group identity shows signs of burgeoning.

8:00-11:00 Booze and recreation. Premises to ourselves. Technicians have gone off to nearby town. Parts of evening almost jolly. Tony beat the pants off me at table-tennis and admitted coyly to having been platoon champion. Graham played darts with considerable accuracy until he went flat and disappeared to bed. Session in bar with Henry and PD1 chap telling us stories of National Service. Some disgusting but not all unfunny. Tiny tried to organize poker game but got nowhere so we broke up at closing-time. Horace wasn’t seen all evening. Presumably in his bedroom farting about with the agenda.

11:00-6:00 In own room asleep apart from one visit to bog. No, I’m not trying to do a
Ulysses
. Apparently insignificant details may prove important.

Saturday

6:00 Woken by fire alarm. Rushed into grounds where large crowd assembled looking for fire. No fire visible. Manager arrived and instituted thorough search. Still no fire. Nor anyone admitting to having sounded the alarm.

6:30 All head back towards bedrooms. Beat the rush to a bathroom. Have cause to regret this as loo-brush holder full of water falls on head as enter. Shout of pain and rage echoed by others around block: Tiny, Melissa and Charlie have suffered similarly, though Charlie has quicker reflexes and has escaped most of the deluge. All non-sufferers have fits of giggles except Horace, who is distressed.

6:45-7:45 Get dry and doze a little. Dress and leave room. Notice large tea-urn on table near exit. Remember this is supposed to arrive at 7:30 each morning so conclude it’s probably too stewed for me and go for walk.

8:15-8:55 Breakfast. Outbreak of sneezing. Turns out someone has laced the sugar on all the tables with sneezing powder. After a few chortles, everyone decides it’s not funny.

8:59 Enter seminar room. Only self, Charlie and two PD1 chaps present. Horace arrives ten minutes late complaining of stomach upset. Turns out that’s a euphemism for diarrhoea. Others roll in by degrees announcing same problem. Next hour spent in post-mortem on breakfast food interspersed with sufferers running in and out to bogs. Process of elimination demonstrates that the morning tea must have been responsible. None of four unaffected had sampled contents.

At my suggestion, seminar disbanded until 11:30 and Horace and self go to discuss with manager question of tea-urn. Manager says someone in block must have added laxatives. Sounds reasonable. Manager getting pissed off.

11:30 Reassemble, though four still absent. Horace shaky but determined to carry on. Distributes questionnaires about aspects of PD work that could be improved. All commence writing and Horace cleans blackboard preparatory to leading brainstorming, chalk in hand. Suddenly begins to scratch hands and arms furiously. You’ve guessed? Yes. Itching powder on blackboard duster. Horace goes out to wash hands and returns upset. Blackboard now unusable until major cleaning job is done. I suggest analysis of questionnaire be undertaken by him and self in bedroom and other ranks excused until after lunch. Point out that absentees will probably be well enough to participate then. Horace unhappy at waste of valuable time but gives in.

12:15-1:00 Read dreary answers to questions. Try consoling Horace for negative nature of same by saying people still not 100% and will probably amplify answers and be more positive after lunch. Interrupted by loud knocks on door. Distraught manager. Doors to recreation rooms have been glued up and TV indoor aerials are all missing. Maniac at large. Obviously from PD. No trouble during last two weeks with technicians. Won’t take any further responsibility for us. We can all get the hell out as soon as we’ve eaten.

Horace in despair. Begs. Pleads. No avail. Tries pulling rank. Manager contemptuous. I eventually suggest Horace ring Shipton on sick-bed and ask for ruling on whether to fight or quit. He rushes off and comes back with the news that Shipton says quit. I always thought he was intelligent under all that fat.

1:00-2:00 Unhappy lunch. Several still toying with clear soup only. People glancing covertly at each other. Horace makes stumbling speech. I really feel for the poor bastard. He put so much work in. I had expected a farce but not a fiasco.

2:15 Enter car-park to find Tony and Tiny uttering little cries and wringing their hands over their cars. Turns out someone has let the air out of most of the tyres, motor bikes not exempt. Hardly anyone taking it philosophically. If it takes fifteen men – Melissa included – with three footpumps two hours to inflate forty-seven tyres, how long did it take one nutter to let them down?

Nightmare journey home with Horace. Steering wheel quivering under his hands.

And that, my sweet, is the full story. One of our little band has flipped. Horace spoke wildly about plots against PD by some technician ill-wisher, but ultimately admitted it was unlikely. It’s a prankster from one of our team all right. Horace is being loyal to his lot and dropping dark hints about Tiny, but I don’t think these events were Tiny-like. He’s always been more boisterous than nasty. It could have been any of us who had come prepared and didn’t mind sacrificing several hours of sleep. As far as I can gather, everything necessary could have been done during the hours of darkness except for meddling with the tea-urn.

I suppose there’ll have to be an investigation. Personnel won’t take kindly to footing the bill for a total cock-up. What’s worrying me is whether, as Horace would say, this is a one-off, or whether it’s going to go on. One way or another, I’m not looking forward much to next week. But unless some joker pushes me out of a window I’ll be waiting for you at Heathrow at 7:00 on Friday our time. And I promise not to spend all weekend talking about PD.

Much love,

Robert

10

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29 November

Shipton lay immobile throughout Horace’s lengthy and confused account of the Twillerton
débâcle
. When the witterings had ceased, he shifted himself slightly and said flatly: ‘Call in Security.’

Horace’s mouth opened in protest.

‘No, Horace. It’s no good. You know perfectly well we can’t keep this quiet. In fact I’m not at all sure we shouldn’t call in the police. The glueing of the doors must constitute criminal damage.’

This was the longest speech Amiss had ever heard him make. He admired its crispness and tactical sense. The mention of the police worked magically on Horace: his opposition to an internal investigation collapsed instantly.