‘It’s quite all right,’ said Bryant, revealing a crescent of bleached false teeth. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a cup of tea?’
‘Of course – the tea, always the tea!’ Settling the detectives, she ran to the kitchen, her heels clicking on the oak floor, and called back over her shoulder: ‘Do either of you know a cure for a hangover? I feel terrible this morning.’ She sounded unrepentant.
Bryant had already found an armchair. He pointed back at the wall mirror behind him; a bolt of black velvet material had been thrown over the glass. ‘She’s behaving very oddly,’ he whispered. ‘You’d better go and see to her.’
May raised his hand. ‘Leave this to me.’
He joined Sabira in the kitchen. ‘Mrs Kasavian—’ he began.
‘Oh, call me Sabira, I can’t bear being so formal.’
‘I have something that might sort out your head. But I’ll need—’
‘Just dig around in the cupboards for anything you want. I have a tiny man with a road-drill behind my eyes.’ She was racing around in the tiny space, boiling water, spilling milk, rattling cups, nearly dropping them.
May found what he needed. Filling a tumbler with milk, he added a dash of Worcester sauce, chilli sauce and black pepper, and cracked an egg into the mixture. ‘You must drink it straight down without breaking the yolk,’ he explained. ‘The egg contains cysteine, which helps fight the free radicals in your liver.’
Sabira gave the tumbler a mischievous sidelong glance, and then grabbed it and downed it in one, slamming the empty glass into the sink. ‘Gëzuar!’ she shouted. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, flicked a loose blond curl away from her eyelashes and grinned. ‘That was truly – disgusting.’ She laughed again.
Bryant had settled so deeply into the armchair that he looked as if he came with the room. ‘You were a long time,’ he complained, helping himself to biscuits.
‘We were getting rid of an annoying little man,’ said Sabira, dropping on to the sofa opposite. ‘I suppose you’re here to tell me off.’
‘I think it goes beyond that,’ said May. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you’re married to a very high-powered official, and he has many enemies. They watch and wait for incidents like last night’s, and use them against your husband’s department.’
‘Oh, the woman was rude, the speeches were long and boring, and I got drunk. In my country such a thing is not important. We laugh because there is so much pain in our lives. Sometimes there is nothing else to do but laugh – you understand this?’
‘But your situation is very different now. Your husband is a very important man.’
‘I know! Everyone keeps telling me about the important man! Don’t you think I know that I have shamed him? Of course I know! But there are things you don’t know.’ She stabbed a painted nail at both of them in turn.
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us,’ said Bryant.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘I’m too old for games,’ said Bryant. ‘If you can’t trust a man of my advanced years, who can you trust?’
‘That is a fair point,’ Sabira conceded. ‘I’ll try to answer your questions.’
‘Was this the first time such an incident has occurred?’
‘In public, yes. I’ve been upset for a while now.’
‘What about? Why are you so upset?’
Sabira leaned forward with her head in her hands, trying to compose her thoughts. ‘This is the fine English society I heard so much about. When I married Oskar, I knew things would not go easily for me, but I did not think I would be shut out so completely. Right from the start, I would walk into a room and feel it go cold. The women are the worst. At least the men fancy me. The women look at my clothes, my face and go – poof!’ She flicked up her nose, imitating their disdain. ‘They ask who are my people, where do they live, what do they own and I tell them with complete honesty. I say I was born Sabira Borkowski, and I grew up with the smell of a smelting plant in my nostrils. Oskar always said I would have to be less honest, but it’s not in my nature. About a year ago I came to the … understanding? Is that the word? … that this was how it would always be from now on. I would be a social outcast.’ She looked from one of her guests to the other, anxious to make them understand. ‘I thought my marriage would open the doors, not slam them in my face. They think I’m stupid, common, a gold-digger, a whore. I was largely self-educated, but I am a clever woman. Since coming here I have studied English literature and art history as well as the history of London. I am better than these dried-up snobs, but perhaps not as confident.’