The Indecent Death of a Madam Page 3

  Geoff had not enjoyed the recent meeting. Martin had invited some abbot fellow to give a talk, which he didn’t much take to, or even understand. But generally, meetings combined some rather enjoyable local gossip with a strong thread of negativity, which had its own joy. It was a particular pleasure to run others down and feel righteous as one did so. Like on a seesaw, when they go down, you go up!

  The society met in an expensive property in Firle Road, adjacent to the golf course, owned by the judge, Blessings N’Dayo – and by the by, worth around £990,000 if put on the market today. Geoff couldn’t help but know these things; to him, a house was always a property and never a home. This is what Mandy said, when he complained about her expenditure on curtains for the lounge, or new tiles in the en-suite shower.

  ‘There’ll be no return on the investment, that’s all I’m saying, should we decide to sell the property.’

  ‘This isn’t a “property”, Geoff – it’s our home.’

  ‘Everything’s a property, Mandy.’

  Geoff didn’t like going home, this was the trouble. Others in the office looked forward to going home at the end of the day; he didn’t. His life ended when he went home, as if he ceased to exist on going through the front door – no appreciation from anyone. He was appreciated at work, but not at home. And so the Etiquette Society provided another night out, another delayed return into the bosom of his unsatisfactory family.

  And he had Martin to thank for this, because he created it all. Why the others were there, he couldn’t be sure, for nothing seemed to connect any of them. There was the major-general, Terence Blain, like some latter-day Lawrence of Arabia . . . an odd fish all round. He was painfully polite but mainly silent in meetings – and now working in the supermarket, for God’s sake! A decorated war hero who gave it all up to work in Morrisons. You couldn’t make it up! Geoff would have loved to hear some stories from Iraq, but that wasn’t going to happen . . . because Terence didn’t speak of it.

  ‘What’s been your most frightening moment?’ he’d once asked him in a meeting.

  ‘Asking Blessings if she had any sugar,’ he’d replied with a wry smile. And the group loved that.

  And then there was the judge. The name Blessings really didn’t suit her; she was terrifying, absolutely terrifying. Martin had said, ‘She’s quite harmless, really,’ but there was nothing harmless about her in Geoff’s estimation. Fortunately, he’d avoided saying the first line that came into his head when she greeted him in the hallway: ‘Well, you don’t meet many black female judges in Stormhaven!’

  It would have been true, but could have been taken the wrong way. And he didn’t wish to fall out with her; a good relationship would be wise and useful, should she ever want to sell. The Geoff Berry agency would enjoy shifting that property on her behalf.

  But if anyone could make him join the society, it was neither Terence nor Blessings – it was Rosemary. There was something about her: an older woman but an attractive one. Isn’t sixty the new forty? Whether he had a future with Mandy, he wasn’t sure. She seemed to be moving on, increasingly critical of him, and he really didn’t need that. He didn’t need anyone being critical of him. So Rosemary was an appealing distraction. It need be nothing serious, of course – though who knows? She seemed to like him, and Martin had suggested as much.

  And if your wife can’t be nice to you, is it really so wrong to look for someone who can? Hardly! He shouldn’t have thrown the vase at her; he’d lost his temper, and now wished he hadn’t. But then, any man would lose his temper with Mandy, and he really wasn’t a violent man, not by nature. Rage had its own rules – it threw things and shouted – he couldn’t help that. And he’d apologized; he always apologized, bought flowers or something. So why couldn’t she just forget about it and move on? Well, she had moved on, quite literally. She was presently living with a friend in Peacehaven . . .

  ‘So you’ll join us, then?’ said Martin.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ said Geoff.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Martin. ‘The Etiquette Society gains a new warlord and Stormhaven breathes a sigh of relief!’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  Martin smiled. He had his man.

  ‘And now, while I’ve got you here, Geoff – and I know you’re madly busy, as all successful men are. But there’s one other small matter I may need your help with.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  The two men continued their conversation looking out to sea, just a five-minute walk from the Bybuckle Asylum, a place of interest to them both and a murder scene in waiting . . .

  ‘You can stay for a while,

  and then we’ll see,’ said Blessings to Francisco on his arrival. ‘Is this all you have?’

  The young man had arrived with a holdall and rucksack and was standing awkwardly in the judge’s hallway, where people hung their coats. It was about the size of the prison cell he’d left that morning.

  ‘It is, yes – I like to travel light, always have.’

  He had a springy Welsh lilt in his voice, as though fresh from Under Milk Wood. But his life had not been poetry in motion and he’d paid the price.

  ‘I suppose, if we’re being honest, you don’t have much to travel with,’ said Blessings in a corrective manner. One shouldn’t make a virtue of necessity. This boy had nothing, this was quite clear. So how could he travel in any other way but ‘light’?

  And for the awkward guest, this was all rather sudden. Francisco, the son of two Welsh Catholics, had been planning on going to a hostel, a halfway house. It’s what everyone did. And then, two days before his release date, the judge had offered him a room in her home and he’d said to himself, ‘Honestly – why not?’ No harm in being looked after by a rich woman, and a hot one at that, in an unavailable sort of way. His mates had made their jokes, of course: ‘From arsonist to toy boy, Fran – surely now you believe in God?’

  But it would take a little more than that for him to believe. He’d need to get past his Sunday school teacher, and he wasn’t quite ready for that.

  ‘I don’t know what the gay scene is like in Stormhaven,’ said the judge, bringing him back to the hallway.

  ‘Oh.’

  What were the rules of engagement here? He had no idea. He’d always found adults a mystery anyway. His father had lived in terror of his son being gay, when no girlfriend appeared. He’d use it as a weapon of attack.

  ‘I don’t want a gay son!’ he’d say whenever Fran disappointed him, when he missed a goal or asked to sing in the choir, whatever it was. ‘I don’t want a gay son!’ And now, some years later, he simply had a son who’d never speak with him again.

  But Fran was in Stormhaven now and a long way from Taff’s Well. He was in the house of a judge on the south coast of England – posh world – and she needed reassurance.

  ‘The gay scene is not my first priority,’ he said.

  ‘So what is your first priority, Francisco?’

  ‘Making myself useful around here, I suppose; and looking for a job. I just want to be normal.’

  ‘You’ll not be bringing young men back here, do you understand?’

  ‘No, I won’t be doing that,’ he said.

  It was strange, but when he’d faced her in court, she’d been kinder. She’d seemed like a friend in some manner. He had felt fairly treated and that’s all he wanted, for things to be fair; because things hadn’t always been fair in Taff’s Well. Yet here in her home, away from the court, she was more like a warder than a friend, her tone full of rules and banging metal doors.

  ‘I can do some gardening for you, Mrs N’Dayo. I’ve done gardening before. I used to do a fair bit of gardening. And I can cook.’

  ‘Have you a good arm?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ll find a lot of golf balls in the garden, over-hit from over the road.’ With her head, she indicated the Stormhaven Golf Club. ‘And when you throw the balls back, make sure you hit one of the club members. They’re mostly old and
unpleasant.’

  ‘You don’t like the golfers?’

  ‘That’s like asking me whether I like the Ku Klux Klan.’

  Bit over the top, thought Fran.

  ‘It’s not big in Wales, really . . . golf, I mean.’

  ‘Doesn’t involve sheep,’ said Blessings. Fran didn’t like that; it just wasn’t necessary. Not really the sort of joke a judge should make, in his opinion – but then what did his opinion count for round here? ‘I’m away a lot when I’m working,’ she continued. ‘Follow me.’

  They walked through the lounge. It was enormous – like, absolutely huge! There were no front rooms like this in Taff’s Well. He’d never been inside a house as big, nowhere close; he was thinking this as they ascended the wide and slightly curving stairs. ‘So it’s useful to have a housekeeper here,’ continued Blessings, ‘to look after the place . . . especially if Dinah is home.’

  ‘Dinah?’

  ‘My daughter. She’s at Roedean.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a school, a big school outside Brighton, boarding obviously, and she likes to stay there as much as possible.’

  ‘I always wanted to go to boarding school myself. Like Harry Potter!’

  ‘But unfortunately she does need to come home occasionally to recharge her phone or whatever.’

  ‘Right, well, that’s no problem. How old is she?’

  Blessings scowled. What sort of a question was that?

  ‘You’re not one of those gays who slip up sometimes?’

  ‘No. I mean – I was just asking a question.’

  ‘I need to trust you.’

  ‘You can trust me, Mrs N’Dayo.’

  ‘Any hint of anything – you know what I mean – and that will be that for you. Your probation officer will know instantly, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  This was more demeaning than prison had ever been. He’d walked in the door and assumptions had spilled from this woman like a river in flood on his father’s farm, ruining the crops, drowning the pasture, killing good growth. He’d written a poem about that when he was inside; he’d called it ‘The killing flood’. They’d had a poetry class, which everyone thought was a joke, but he enjoyed it, writing things . . . when no one had ever told him he could write.

  And things would settle, he thought as he put his holdall and rucksack down on the bed in the small room at the top of the house. It had pink wallpaper, and with its angled roof you had to bend in places. It was like the servants’ quarters, if Blessings had had servants. Perhaps he was the servant. He had to be positive, though, look on the bright side. He told himself this because he didn’t want to get angry again; and she was giving him a home, when he couldn’t go back to his own. There’d be no welcome for him in South Wales, not after recent events.

  He didn’t like Blessings. He knew that, as he wondered where he should put his clothes. He couldn’t see any drawers. Was he supposed to live out of his holdall? He hadn’t expected bunting and a Welsh choir – but everyone wants a homecoming, don’t they? And she’d given him the smallest room in the house, that was obvious. Who knows how many other rooms there were? Plenty. But he’d been given the pokiest room by his new landlady . . . so that was clearly his worth to her.

  He sat on the bed and looked out of the skylight. It was good to see the sky and really, he didn’t have to like her. He had a room, that was the main thing and Fran could be stubborn and see things through. It seemed like the judge wanted to use him as some sort of houseboy, though they hadn’t spoken of pay. Well, two could play at that little game; and perhaps he could use her.

  As everyone said in prison, ‘The only crime is getting caught.’

  Terence would attempt the drop.

  He’d ease back the throttle, slow the plane in the sky until the wings juddered their disapproval and the nose dipped, sending the craft spiralling down. Classic stuff from any pilot’s manual, but still fun – the ability to recover the plane from the drop, early or late, depending on your nerves . . . Terence preferred late.

  Flying was an addiction for Terence, a need, an obsession; but not a love.

  ‘You love your flying,’ they said to him at Shoreham airport where Desert, his little plane, lived. But this wasn’t true, he didn’t love his flying. He wouldn’t call it love. He was simply drawn to the sky like a moth to the flame; and where was the love in that? Flight might offer wonder; there were some views to be had along the coast. Or it might fling him uncaringly to the earth in a tailspin of panic and chaos. This was adrenalin, energy, exhilaration – but not love.

  Only the thrill of battle compared to this suspended existence in the sky. He’d gaze down on a distant world, tiny cars and patchwork fields, remote from its feelings, free from its pull and, by accident or design, close to death. He always felt closer to death in the sky; a more provisional being, one merely passing through this earthly space.

  He’d flown for years. It was cheaper than seeing a therapist and a hundred times more effective. Therapists took you into your troubles, flying took you above them, which was a far happier place. Up here in his flying machine, different rules applied . . . rules of flight. When weight was balanced by lift and thrust balanced by drag, he and his plane found steady, straight, level flight . . . they found equilibrium. And when did he find that down below?

  So Shoreham airport had become his shrine, the place he went when he had to, when he simply had to go there, when the noise inside got too much to handle and he could get into Desert and rise above it all. It wasn’t the biggest airport in the UK, but it was the oldest, opened in 1911 – ‘before planes were even invented!’ as the tour guide joked. It earned its stripes in the Second World War, with Spitfires and Hurricanes scrambling into action from the grass runway, seeing off the Hun who flew missions along the coast, attempting to identify possible landing sites for an invasion of England. Cuckmere Haven, towards Eastbourne, was their desired entry point but they knew about Shoreham and often attacked. A Messerschmitt 109 was downed by ground fire on one occasion, sliding at wild speed across the grass, crashing near the terminal building. No one got out.

  And though things were quieter now – no enemy fire in Shoreham – they weren’t silent. The recent horror at the air show had brought a change in mood around the place . . . though not in Terence, for no one should be surprised by death. Why does death surprise? And so he avoided the hysterics, the anniversaries and the grief. Flight and danger had always stayed close, which was why he was here in the cockpit now, tipping the wing, looking down at Newhaven and the harbour walls, taking his plane out over the sea, flying low over the water before returning to base.

  Mission, for now, accomplished.

  ‘A madam has been murdered,’

  said Tamsin on the abbot’s wet doorstep. The rain wasn’t giving up.

  ‘A madam?’

  ‘She ran a brothel.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry—’

  ‘Can I come in, before I’m washed away?’

  The abbot liked some notice when people came to visit his seaside home. It helped him prepare a smile. But Tamsin had given no warning.

  ‘In Brighton, presumably,’ he said, opening the door to this unexpected invasion.

  ‘Brighton?’

  ‘The brothel.’

  Brighton and brothel seemed to go together in Peter’s mind. London-by-the-Sea they called it, and home to all sorts of goings-on, according to the Sussex Silt. Marjorie, an old lady he visited, merely reinforced this image: ‘London is Sodom and Brighton is Gomorrah – mark my words, Abbot!’

  He didn’t mark her words. Marjorie was full of unexamined nonsense and living proof that ‘many years lived do not make one wise’. You could live the same stupid year eighty-five times over, and she had, determinedly so. But there was something there, some grain of truth in her repetitive tongue. Brighton was dangerous in a way Stormhaven could only dream of. In Peter’s mind, the two towns were separated by a bus ride of fif
ty minutes . . . and a cultural eternity.

  ‘I just assumed,’ said the abbot.

  ‘And thus became a fool,’ said Tamsin cheerfully. It was the sort of thing he’d usually say to her, so it was nice to return the compliment.

  ‘I have no defence.’

  ‘You don’t, no,’ she said, removing her soaking coat. ‘No defence at all.’

  ‘Careful you don’t die of self-righteousness.’

  ‘Well, you’ve survived.’

  The rain had been relentless since Christmas, driven today by a south-westerly, which threw itself at Peter’s front door, as if in torment, twisting and thrashing about like a man possessed.

  ‘The brothel’s in Stormhaven.’

  ‘Oh.’ A brothel in Stormhaven? That did come as a surprise . . . and now he was wondering where it was. Was it in the town centre? Or perhaps on the Eastbourne road – though why the Eastbourne road came to mind he wasn’t sure. He’d never seen a brothel in the town, but then he hadn’t been looking and you don’t see what you don’t look for. He couldn’t have said where the clothes shop was, either.

  ‘Surprised, Abbot?’ Tamsin was doing something with her dark, Middle Eastern hair, adjusting it with her hands, calming it a little, though it didn’t look greatly disturbed by the short walk from the car. This was perhaps something women did.

  ‘Well, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Disappointed, almost certainly.’ Tamsin was on the attack and delighted to be so. ‘You perhaps thought your little town was above such things?’ She often did this, referring to Stormhaven as ‘your little town’ as if it were a stick to beat him with. Playful banter; though not all play.

  ‘I wasn’t aware it was my little town.’

  ‘Oh, come on – you secretly love the place, you know you do.’

  ‘It must be very secret. I haven’t even told myself.’

  They found themselves at close quarters in the abbot’s small front room, which was fine for a hermit, but not for a hermit with friends. There was one comfortable chair, left by the previous occupant. Everything else came from the beach, deposited there by time and tide.