Lifting the Lid(12)

Quentin leaned forward and poured coffee into her cup. ‘As madam wishes.’ The words came through teeth that appeared to be intent on grinding each other to dust.

Sandra watched the flow of dark liquid and inhaled the bittersweet aroma. When the waiter had gone, she added a dash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, hesitating for the briefest of moments before adding a second. She raised the cup level with her eyes. ‘Here’s to me,’ she said. ‘Sandra Gray. Private detective.’

Taking a sip, she thought how good life could be sometimes, and her tongue tingled with the anticipation of the crisp, fresh toast that would belong to her, and her alone, in a few short minutes. A touch on the underdone side of overdone and cut triangularly. It always tasted so much better like that, so why was it she always cut it straight across on a right-angle when she made it at home? It wasn’t as if it involved any more effort.

Hang on though. Yes it did. She vaguely remembered her geometry from school and something about Pythagoras’s hypotenuse – or was it isosceles? Or even Isosceles’s pythagoras. Whatever. Anyway, it was definitely true that the slopey bit was much longer than the straight bit, and to confirm it she traced a right-angled triangle with a fork on the tablecloth.

To hell with it. I’m having extra butter and marmalade when it comes, and bugger the consequences. I should be celebrating, not fiddle-fannying around about a few calories here and there.

She took a generous slug of coffee and leaned back in her chair. Two grand and all expenses paid. Not bad for a couple of days’ work, and she’d only been in business less than six months. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. All she had to do now was—

‘Your toast, madam.’

Sandra looked up into the face of a scrawny, raven-haired girl with multiple piercings and skin the colour of anaemic alabaster. She had never fully understood the allure of the Goth look.

‘What happened to Quentin?’

‘Quentin, madam?’ said the Goth in a monotone and without any attempt at eye contact as she placed the silver rack of toast within easy reach.

‘The guy with the pointy chin and the eyebrows who was here before.’

The girl finally met Sandra’s gaze. ‘Don’t know, madam. I expect he’s doing other guests.’

‘What makes you think he isn’t on a plane halfway to Costa Rica?’

The Goth clearly didn’t recognise Mr Pink’s line from Reservoir Dogs, and she gawped for a moment before reciting, ‘Would madam like more coffee?’

‘Yes please. Oh, and could you bring a little more butter while you’re at it?’





CHAPTER NINE



Taped to the underside of the cistern lid was a transparent plastic wallet, and inside this Trevor could see a brown paper envelope. Perhaps all it contained were the instructions for… For what? How to flush the toilet? Okay, so maybe it was the guarantee or—

Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeled the wallet from the porcelain. He took out the envelope and, turning it over in his hand, saw that it was unmarked and seemed to have been opened and then resealed again. He prised open the flap and removed the contents. A ticket and two white index cards, one of which had a small yellow Post-it note attached and a bronze coloured key stuck to the back.

Both cards had been printed with some kind of stick-on letters. The one with the Post-it note said:

FLAT 12

CABOT TOWER

MILTON STREET

BRISTOL

On the Post-it, someone had written in block capitals:

LEAVE THIS CARD IN LOCKER.

DESTROY POST-IT NOTE.

Trevor read the second card:

LOCKER NUMBER C9.

COMBINATION 357716.

MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME = HURST.

MEMORABLE DATE = 30/07/66.

Then he examined the ticket:

LEEDS FESTIVAL

BRAMHAM PARK

24th – 26th AUGUST

DAY TICKET ONLY

SATURDAY 25th AUGUST

He frowned and scratched his head as he scanned each of the items again. The address of a flat in Bristol – and presumably a key for it. Something about a locker and a festival ticket for 25th August… Today in fact.

But what’s it all doing inside a toilet cistern? And what’s with destroying the Post-it note? Weird or what? Still, it’s nothing to do with me. Need to get on.

Trevor replaced the cards and the ticket in the envelope and slipped it back into the plastic wallet, but no sooner had he sealed it than he heard the cacophony of Milly launching into one of her famous barking frenzies, unmistakable even at this distance.

‘Shit,’ he said aloud and dropped to his haunches. He re-taped the wallet back inside the cistern lid while a voice in his head told him this was not a very sensible idea, but he had no time to listen. Milly’s barking had reached a crescendo, and Trevor thought he could hear the sound of a woman screaming – or was that two women?