Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (23 page)

  I get up and shoo him out of the way.

  'I'll do it. Want a cup?'

  Pep nods. 'So tell me the whole story line.'

  Alan plonks down on a chair. 'Take one is a shot of me with my hair looking lifeless, then it focuses in on the worried face of my wife. It cuts to her returning with a bottle of shampoo which I use...'

  'Immediately?'

  'I've no idea, Pep. Anyway, then it shows me boasting a healthy, glossy head of hair and the final shot is me leaning across to kiss her on the cheek.'

  Pep's mouth opens and closes like a drowning goldfish. 'So you'll have to wear a wig?'

  Alan is indignant. 'Of course not! What's wrong with my own hair?'

  'Well, it's not thick like mine.'

  'Yours is long, not necessarily thick.'

  I push a coffee in front of both of them.

  'Any chance of you two actually carrying on with some work, or are you just going to bicker all afternoon?'

It's 8.15 a.m. I am sitting at my desk wrapped in a towel while Rachel speaks rapidly to me on the phone. I make a mental note that it's actually an hour earlier in the UK and that she's already in the office. Meanwhile, I had only just showered when she rang.

  'So what are we going to do?'

  Rachel, normally so calm and collected, has obviously been thrown by this latest turn of events at H Hotels. A triple murder is never good for PR purposes and I can imagine Manuel Ramirez must be in a state of complete anxiety. She is breathing heavily.

  'Hang on, Rachel. Let me get this straight. A maid at the Paris hotel was shot in the lobby earlier this morning by her jealous boyfriend, the gardener, who was then stabbed to death by the husband.'

  'Other way around,' she says irritably. 'The husband is the jealous gardener. He shot his wife in the lobby and the boyfriend, who's a concierge at the hotel, stabbed and killed him.'

  'Got it. So who killed the boyfriend? There's no one left.'

  'Yes there is. Apparently the mother of the jealous husband thought he was acting strangely this morning and followed him to the hotel. When she saw him dead in the lobby, she went into shock and used his gun to kill the concierge.'

  'This could only happen in Paris. It's like a Feydeau farce.'

  'Except that it isn't very funny.'

  'Right, have you written a holding statement?'

  'I've already emailed it to Manuel. There should be a copy on your system.'

  'Excellent. I need to speak with Manuel and then we can put a crisis statement together.'

  'He's expecting your call. I'm afraid he only wants you to speak to the press.'

  'Fine. What about you?'

  'I'm catching the next available flight to Paris. The girls from the French PR agency are meeting me at the hotel.'

  'Goodoh, and who's liaising back at base?'

  'Sarah's coordinating staff in the office. Everything's under control.'

  'I wouldn't have expected anything less of you.'

  She gives an enormous sigh. 'It's horrible to think three people died just a matter of hours ago. And for what?'

  'I know, Rachel, but we can't think about that now.'

  Her voice is shaky. 'You're right. I'd better get going. I'll call you when I reach Paris.'

  The phone line goes dead. I am chilled at my own lack of emotion, the effect of handling numerous grisly client crises over the years. Wearily, I download my emails and open Rachel's file. Alan walks in with a cup of tea as I pick up the phone to dial Manuel.

  'Crisis?' he says sympathetically.

  'Yes, but nothing that a strong cup of tea can't solve.'

It's been a long day. I sit with my feet up on the kitchen table drinking a glass of red wine while Horatio, our adopted baby hedgehog, rustles behind the fridge. It's gone midnight and Alan is pottering around the garden watering his plants. With a sudden stab of compassion, Miquel, our water
siquier
, arrived this afternoon and opened up one of the water channels in the field, enabling Alan to revive his wilting vegetables and plants. The H Hotel saga has rumbled on all day and Rachel will remain installed at the Paris hotel until the crisis eventually subsides. I have spent the last ten hours glued to the phone, placating the press and coordinating with the police in Paris – not an easy task with my rusty spoken French.

  The telephone begins blaring and I give a long groan. Now what? Please God the hotel chef hasn't killed his lover too. I answer warily. A screeching, drunken female voice demands to speak with Alan.

  'Who is this? Jan from where? Hang on.'

  I find Alan by the pond. 'There's some dodgy woman called Jan on the line.'

  He looks puzzled. 'That's one of the hen party from Birmingham staying at Pep's flat.'

  He follows me into the kitchen. The hose is left running.

  'Hello? Jan?'

  I watch as he pads about the kitchen, his brow becoming more furrowed as he listens.

  'It is past midnight,' he says robustly. 'What did you expect?'

  The voice at the other end is so piercing that I can almost make out the words.

  'OK, OK. I'm on my way.'

  He bangs down the receiver. 'Would you believe that? Bloody women!'

  He has a murderous look in his eye.

  'What's up?'

  'It seems that our drunken hens have gone the whole hog. They're smashed out of their heads and playing God awful disco music. The
policia local
received a complaint about the noise from the neighbour upstairs and an officer is waiting to speak to me now.'

  I put my head in my hands. 'This can't be happening. Shall we call Pep?'

  'I don't think it's fair. He's paying me to look after his flat. I'll go.'

  'Call me if you need linguistic back up.'

  He plods outside, turns off the hose and briefly returns, fumbling for the driving keys in a pot by the front door.

  'So much for a quiet life.'

  I hear the crunch of gravel as the car turns out of the drive. Walking back over to the table I charge my glas and glance lazily at my book, an ancient copy of
The Bright Pavilions
. A scraping noise comes from behind the fridge.

  'Be quiet, Horatio,' I yawn.

  Inko stirs slightly on her cushion and regards the fridge with some suspicion. The strange sound gets louder and more frantic until the cat springs from the chair and wanders over to investigate. I flop my book down on the table.

  'Do I ever get any peace?'

  Behind the fridge all is revealed. Horatio's paw has somehow become ensnared in a metal catch and he struggles desperately to get loose. With difficulty I begin heaving the huge silver fridge towards me, a disgruntled army of bottles clinking within. Horatio regards me with dark, startled eyes when I peer down at him, my hand carelessly resting on his sharp coat of needles. I stifle a curse and after an intricate operation manage to release the tiny paw. He gives a relieved snuffle and creeps off into the gloom of the garden. As I walk over to the sink and run my grazed hand under cold water, the telephone rings. I am tempted to leave it to bleat into infinity, but finally remove it from its cradle.

  'Hello?'

  It's Alan. I can hear loud disco music thumping in the background.

  'Hi. I'm afraid we've got a bit of a crisis.' He hollers down the line.

  'What on earth's going on?'

  'It's the Birmingham hen party. The girls are completely sozzled and refusing to cooperate with the police. It's chaos!'

  'What are they doing?'

  'Dancing wildly around the flat wrapped in tinsel and precious little else.'

  'I think you need back up. Let me call Pep.'

  'It seems a bit unfair at this time of night.'

  'Quite to the contrary, I think the prospect of wild Bacchic women swathed in tinsel will set his heart racing.'

  'You're probably right,' he says wearily. 'Whatever you do, don't wait up.'

  The line goes dead. Something tells me that Pep and the Scotsman will be dining out on this cracking tale for some time to come.

Bernadette is sitting on the end of my bed and cleaning her thick-rimmed glasses with an old hankie.

  'Oh B'Jesus! What a hoot. A cattery course? You've lost your marbles, girl, and that's a fact.'

  I'm still in my running gear, having managed ten miles around Hyde Park and just returned to the club. The dreaded date of the New York marathon looms nearer and I'm upping my training considerably even though my old leg twinge has returned. Bernadette had pounced on me as I opened the door to my room.

  'It's not that funny, Bernadette. There are loads of people running catteries.'

  She's still tittering. 'I can just see you now in your wee suit and shiny heels mopping up cats pee.'

  'Great. Well I'm glad to be the comic turn this morning.'

  'You always are!' Her shoulders are shaking.

  'Any chance of my getting showered and dressed?'

  She rises slowly and pads out into the corridor. 'I'm only pulling your leg, darlin'. You'll love it… all those nice little furry things, God love 'em. When do you go?'

  'Thursday.'

  I grab a towel and potter off towards the shower. Even as I reach the bathroom door I can hear Bernadette cackling with laughter as she clunks a vacuum cleaner along the hallway ready for a murderous assault on the threadbare carpet.

I rush through the swivel doors of The Berkeley, only to find Rachel pacing around the marble foyer in some irritation. She struts towards me.

  'I've been trying to reach you.'

  'Sorry, I forgot to plug the mobile in last night. I'm only a few minutes late.'

  She shakes her head with some impatience. 'Look, it's not that. We've got a problem. Mary Anne came down a few moments ago to say that our meeting's got to be postponed until Thursday because Tetley thinks it's not a propitious time.'

  'Oh for heaven's sake! I thought she decided these things in advance of Dannie's trips?'

  Rachel raises her eyebrows. 'Apparently, Tetley had a vision last night. She said that Dannie should stay in her room today and consume only coffee, grapefruit and almonds.'

  I pinch my arm. 'Ow!'

  'What are you doing?' hisses Rachel.

  'Pinching myself to check I'm not in an asylum. Listen, there's no way I can see her on Thursday. I'm at the
Evening Standard
all morning and having a quick lunch with Ed before leaving for my cattery course.'

  'I forgot about your cattery visit. Can't you just cancel it? You know my views on the whole thing.'