Read The Room on the Second Floor Online
Authors: T A Williams
Roger and Linda nodded in agreement.
Cocker took his leave and returned to the station through the increasingly heavy snow. Upstairs in his office, he shook off his coat and made himself a cup of tea. He made a few notes of his visit, which he then added to the Professor Dalby file. He was just finishing, when the florid face of no less a being than the deputy chief constable appeared. He made to stand up, but was waved back to his seat. What on earth had brought about this honour, if that was what it was?
‘Afternoon, Joe.’ The DCC sat down heavily on the only other chair. ‘Not going home to the family?’ He sounded friendly enough, but Chief Inspector Cocker had too many years in the force to accept anything at face value.
‘My shift finishes in a couple of hours, sir. I will be off home to the family then. Why, is there something brewing? Something you need me to do?’
The DCC forced a smile. ‘No, Joe. Nothing pressing. Tell me, have you been anywhere interesting today?’ The question was so casual, it screamed at him. Where the hell had he been, that might be of interest to the DCC? A quick run through in his mind came up with no likely candidates, so he reeled them off to his boss. When he got to Toplingham Country Club, he saw a flicker.
What the…?
‘Ah, yes, the new country club. Apparently they’ve done wonders with the old place, or so they say.’ There was a pause for Cocker to confirm or deny. Instead, he chose to go on the offensive.
‘Who is it who says that, sir?’ He saw the DCC’s face frown.
‘Lots of people, lot of them from here too. People we know and who know us. Important people. Wouldn’t want them to feel they were being harassed in any way.’
Cocker hadn’t got a clue what his superior officer was talking about. He began to wonder whether the man had started on the sherry a bit early. He protested mildly.
‘No harassment, sir. I was there in relation to a possible attempt upon the life of the owner, Professor Dalby.’ He saw the DCC’s eyebrows lift. Clearly this was not what he had expected to hear.
‘Attempt upon his life?’
Cocker was quick to show him the file and talk him through the events. As he spoke, he had the very definite impression that the DCC relaxed. Indeed, when he finished his exposé, the older man stood up and gave him a bright smile.
‘Excellent work, Joe, Now, have a good Christmas, won’t you. Best wishes to your lovely wife.’
And with that, he was off, leaving the chief inspector very puzzled indeed. He was also determined to get to the bottom of what looked like a second mystery at the manor. Mind you, he warned himself, this would have to be done very discreetly.
It sounded like there was funny business afoot.
Rachel Turner threw the car keys into the dish on the hall stand and shrugged off her coat. The drive home had been a nightmare in the slushy snow and she felt badly in need of a drink. As she turned towards the kitchen she spotted familiar and unwelcome handwriting on the envelope lying behind the door.
‘Shit.’
She debated whether to consign it, unopened, to the waste bin or even return it as Not Known at This Address. It was tempting. After a brief hesitation, she swept it up with her hand and carried it through to the kitchen. There was a half-empty bottle of vodka in the fridge. She poured a good measure into a tumbler and sat down. Fortified by a mouthful of raw spirit, she tore the letter open.
Dear Rachel
She loathed the fact that tradition dictated he use the term ‘dear’. There was nothing dear about her feelings for him. Not after everything that had happened.
‘Bastard.’ It was her default reaction, but it felt good to say it anyway.
Having had no response from you with regard to the money you removed from our joint account, I have no option but to pass matters over to a solicitor. Unless I receive full repayment of what is owed, along with the return of the car, within seven days, I will take legal action to recover what is lawfully mine
.
‘Lawfully yours?’ She drained the glass and scoffed. ‘Lawfully yours?’ Her voice began to rise. She recognised the symptoms but she was, as ever, helpless to control herself. She drained the glass and threw it violently against the wall. It shattered into tiny pieces. Even this gave her no relief, so she stood up from the table and kicked out at the fridge door, adding another dent to its battered exterior. She glanced down at the hand holding the letter. She was unsurprised to see it shaking violently. She screwed the letter up and threw it into the sink, before heading upstairs.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ She was screaming at the top of her voice. The pills were on the table beside her unmade bed. She flung herself down and reached for them.
Take one a day
, they had told her. She took two and lay back, the sheet over her face, until they took effect.
It was almost an hour later before she roused herself and went over to the laptop. She ignored the block of emails from him in her inbox and pressed Compose.
The moment you chose to go to bed with that dirty whore, you lost all right to any of our possessions. You will get nothing from me. Nothing
.
She did not bother to sign it.
Things were not going smoothly in the Salon. As Duggie climbed the stairs at around ten o’clock, he heard raised voices. He knew there would be trouble as soon as he turned the corner. He was right.
Under other circumstances, it would have been amusing. Rocky was standing in the middle of the lounge, holding Mo round the waist. In fact he had lifted her right off her feet, which were now waggling furiously behind her as she struggled to be released.
‘Put me down, you great fairy. I’m going to scratch her eyes out. Let me down.’ She sounded furious.
Rocky caught sight of Duggie as he turned the corner at the top of the stairs. He smiled with relief without, however, letting go his hold of the incandescent personnel officer.
‘Good morning, Mr Scott. You have come at a very opportune moment.’
‘Morning, Rocky. It would appear so. Do you realise you’ve got something on your arm?’
Hearing Duggie’s name mentioned, Mo calmed down enough for Rocky to risk lowering her to the ground. He offered a few words of explanation.
‘It was for her own good, Mr Scott. After the screaming match with the manager, I rather thought she was going to do something she might regret. So I restrained her.’ Duggie nodded. He looked across to Mo for more detail as to what had transpired.
As her feet touched the floor, she did her best to compose herself before appraising Duggie of the situation. ‘Douglas, I’m afraid I have a serious complaint to make about the behaviour of Ms Turner.’ She sniffed angrily. ‘That miserable bi…that woman has taken leave of her senses. It is up to you to do something about it.’
Duggie had never seen Mo in such a state.
‘Mo, what is it?’ He felt quite upset for her. Seeing his sympathetic reaction, she couldn’t hold back. She burst into tears. Rocky caught hold of her, and let her cry into his shoulder. He looked as if he might join in any moment.
‘Tell me all about it, Mo. What’s the problem?’ Duggie was very concerned.
Slowly and tearfully, Mo recounted everything.
This morning, I had a visit from Ms Turner.’ She gritted her teeth as she spoke the name. ‘She has evicted me from my office. Just like that.’ Duggie looked on, aghast. ‘She’s only been here for a couple of weeks, and she’s throwing her weight about something terrible, if you know what I mean.’
‘And she’s got quite a bit of weight to throw around.’ Rocky couldn’t help being catty.
‘She told me she needs the space. I objected.’ She caught Duggie’s eye. ‘No really, I tried to be as polite as I could, honest. Anyway, she threw a total tantrum, if you know what I mean. She got herself into a right bloody strop.’
The result had been raised voices and a lot of insults on both sides. Sadly, Duggie realised that it now fell to him to pour oil on troubled waters. He thought quickly.
‘Where is Ms Turner now?’ The door of Mo’s little office was open, and there was no sign of the manager in there.
‘She stormed off down the corridor. In all probability she’s taking it out on some other poor devil at this very moment.’ Mo sounded as if she thought her capable of anything. ‘You didn’t see her, Douglas. She totally lost it, if you know what I mean.’
Punching in the security code, Duggie pushed his way into the restricted area, and walked down past Room One, aka Black Lace. After that came Gossamer, then Rawhide. All of them were already occupied with clients at this time in the morning. The business part of his brain registered this as a very good sign for the bottom line.
As he reached the fourth room, Sheer Silk, he was greeted by Natascha. She was squeezed into one of the recently arrived costumes. In this case, it was a very shiny new black leather corset, studded dog collar and thigh boots. Long black gloves completed the look. She glanced up as she saw Duggie. An expression of relief crossed her face.
‘Ah, Mr Douglas, can you help me? My whip is tangled.’ Duggie looked down to see the leather cat o’ nine tails in her gloved hand in a terrible knot. He took it from her and unravelled the lashes, while she explained.
‘It was Mr Wienerschnitzel. He loves play with my dangly bits.’ Her English was improving by the day, but clearly her grammar still needed a bit of work. From where Duggie was standing, there was nothing on her pert little body that dangled. He handed it back to her, and added a piece of advice. ‘If it happens again, you’ll find it easier with your gloves off.’
‘You know how long it take to put these things on?’ They did, after all, reach up above her elbows. He had to concede that she did have a point.
‘Have you seen the manager this morning, Natascha?’ Her face clouded.
‘I am very pleased to say that I don’t have. You know, Mr Douglas, I think she steal my clothes.’ Considering the disparity in size between the two women, Duggie could hardly see how that might be possible. Ms Turner would surely have been unable to force any part of her anatomy into any of that skimpy little costume.
‘Surely not, Natascha. What makes you say that?’
‘I find my things not clean, sometimes stretched. And some things have disappear. I think she take them.’
‘Oh, God. All right, Natascha, I’ll mention it to her.’
He thought it better not to ask the nature of the missing items. It was not a pleasing thought. He didn’t really know what else to say. Handing back the now fully restored whip, he carried on down the corridor, idly wondering who Mr Wienerschnitzel was. A number of their clients had opted for pseudonyms, but this was a new one on him. The next room was empty and, by the sounds from the bathroom, the housekeeping staff were hard at work.
Turning the corner at the end of the corridor, he came to the first of the most recently finished rooms, now christened Whiplash. Given her costume, this was quite possibly where Natascha would be heading next. It was empty. He went further along, peering into every open door. Finally he heard sounds coming from the most recently decorated, and as yet unnamed, room at the end. He stuck his head tentatively round the doorframe. Rachel Turner was standing at the window in a Napoleonic pose, her eyes out on the distant horizon, a clipboard in her hand drumming against her thigh. He cleared his throat.
‘Rachel, I think we’d better have a little talk. There seems to be a bit of a problem.’
She wheeled round and glared. He took a half step backwards.
‘Problem? Not from where I’m standing. Besides, you know we don’t have problems. Only challenges. Who have you been talking to?’
He eyed her more closely, noting for the first time a nervous tic at the side of her mouth. He did his best to keep it uncomplicated.
‘Mo tells me you want her office.’
‘Well, she doesn’t need one.’ Acerbic and uncompromising.
‘I really think she does. She is responsible for interviewing new clients after all. She can hardly do that in public.’
These initial interviews produced lists of sexual preferences, ranging from the bizarre to the downright incomprehensible. He felt he was on firm ground here. Ms Turner, however, did not like being contradicted.
‘Rubbish. That should be my job as manager.’ Not even an attempt at politeness. Duggie began to feel his own hackles rise.
‘We went through all this, Rachel. Mo handles the front of house stuff. You know that. You are here to look after admin, health and safety issues, pay and conditions and all that stuff.’ They had, indeed, been through this clearly at interview.
‘Well, I don’t see any of that on my job description.’
Duggie blinked. ‘You haven’t got a job description.’
‘Exactly!’ Her reply carried a note of triumph. ‘And, Mr Scott, a man of your experience will know that it is illegal to employ anybody without a detailed job description. Employment law is quite clear on this. I can furnish you with chapter and verse, if you are unfamiliar with the regulations.’
Duggie’s heart sank. She was right, of course. He had not even considered formal written job descriptions for any of the employees of the Salon. What on earth would appear on a job description for Natascha, for example, or Sindy and Mindy? Would the two girls have one each, or would it be shared?
A quick glance across at Rachel Turner showed him all too clearly that she knew she was in the right. More to the point, she and he both knew that she could cause all sorts of trouble for him, and for the Salon, if she so wished. With what she had observed after only a few weeks in the job, she could blow the Salon out of the water, or at least as far as the tabloids. And along with the Salon would go Douglas Scott. And, he thought frantically, trouble for the Salon would lead inevitably to trouble for Roger. By extension, that would lead to even more trouble for himself. Serious trouble. The expression on her face left him in no doubt. She would have no compunction about going to the authorities and the media. She had got him by the short and curlies. And both of them knew it.
He had to think quickly. The only solution was capitulation. Keep her happy at all costs. At the same time, his blood boiled at the thought of abetting her in trampling over poor Mo. He glanced round the room. A possible solution presented itself. He forced a smile.