‘This is certainly one of the most unusual meetings of the Thursday Murder Club,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Am I to assume that I shouldn’t be writing up the minutes of today’s meeting?’
‘I think that might be for the best,’ says Elizabeth.
‘What is the Thursday Murder Club?’ asks Viktor. ‘I like the sound of it.’
‘We meet up every Thursday,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Usually at eleven in the Jigsaw Room, but you are forgiven on this occasion. And we try to solve murders. Though today seems to be about committing murders, so the remit is elastic.’
‘What are you working on now?’ asks Viktor.
‘We were supposed to be talking about a news reporter called Bethany Waites. She was murdered in 2013.’
‘I wondered, Ron,’ says Elizabeth, ‘if it might be fun to take Viktor with you the next time you see Jack Mason? See if Jack might open up?’
‘He won’t open up,’ says Ron. ‘We’ve got everything we’re going to get from him.’
‘Well, who knows,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And, Viktor, I also have a pile of paperwork for you to look through. Might as well set you to work while you’re here.’
‘I am at your service,’ says Viktor.
‘But first things first,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I need to send a photograph of your dead body to the Viking, to prove I’ve killed you.’
‘Excellent,’ says Viktor. ‘Let us dig a shallow grave and throw me in it.’
‘And for a final touch,’ says Elizabeth, turning to Ron, ‘I wonder if anybody knows a make-up artist who might be able to help us out? I don’t suppose you’re seeing Pauline today?’
‘Umm … yeah,’ says Ron, but without conviction. ‘Probably going tenpin bowling. Should probably head off actually.’
Elizabeth nods, and wonders where Ron is really going.
40
Ron wishes he was tenpin bowling. Wishes he was anywhere but here.
Pauline has persuaded Ron that he might like to have a massage.
The air is scented with eucalyptus, heavy and warm, and it thrums and trills with the sounds of the rainforests. He is wrapped, fairly insecurely, in a thick white towel, as he treads, barefoot, across Moroccan floor tiles, beside an azure pool, and he is deeply anxious about how relaxed he is supposed to be feeling. To think he could be interviewing Jack Mason about the murder, rather than going through this ordeal.
Pauline had asked him if he liked massages, and Ron had told her he had never had one, and Pauline had laughed, and Ron had told her, no, he was serious, what would he want a massage for, and she said to treat yourself, and then Ron laughed and said if he was going to treat himself he’d have a pint, and Pauline said, I’m taking you to a spa, and Ron said not on your nelly, not in a million years, and then Pauline kissed him and said just try it once for me and he said no, and then she kissed him again, and now here they are.
Susie is the name of the woman. She came to meet Ron and Pauline at the front desk of Elm Grove Spa and Sanctuary, and seems to be their gentle guide through this awful process.
Apparently aromatic herbal scrubs and Turkish cleansing rituals were real things that real people paid real money for. Every time Ron has walked past this spa before, he had just assumed it was a brothel. Neither spas nor brothels were of any interest to Ron. If someone wants to touch you, they had better be your doctor or your wife, or, at a push, a stranger next to you in the pub when England score.
Pauline holds his hand and tells him he can relax, and that there is nothing to be worried about. Nothing to worry about? What if his towel slips? What if he’s too heavy for the massage table? What if the masseur is a woman? What then? Or, even worse, what if the masseur is a man? What will they make of his naked body? Do you keep the towel on? Do you have to turn over? Ron has seen himself in the mirror, and wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Will he have to make conversation? What do masseurs talk about? Can you talk about football, or is it all essential oils and wind chimes? As he feels the seaweed-and-burnt-umber face mask melt into his skin, Ron prays for his torture to end. Are the gentle sounds of the rainforest ever going to stop?
Ron reassures Pauline that he is relaxed, and that worries are the furthest thing from his mind. He can’t wait. Pauline laughs and tells him he will enjoy it when it gets going, and Ron tells her that he is sure he will. Susie pours them both a glass of ‘deoxidizing watermelon juice’ and bids them sit on an avalanche of cushions which Ron very much doubts he will ever be able to get up from.
‘So you’re booked in for the forty-five-minute couples’ massage, in the Java Suite. Ricardo and Anton will be your masseurs.’
Blokes, OK. Maybe that’s for the best. They’ll get that this whole thing is weird, surely?
‘We’ll start with the full body, then a gentle facial, and then a couples’ steam bath to finish.’
She is talking so quietly and calmly, it makes Ron want to fling himself out of a window. Except there are no windows. The walls are hung with ornate Persian throws, and mirrors reflecting the soft, warm light of the scented candles. There is no escape. He is going to have to be touched, and make conversation. He is going to have to relax, God help him.
Ron was once locked in the back of a police van with Arthur Scargill for eight hours, and that was more relaxing than this.
He takes a sip of his watermelon juice. It’s actually not bad.
Over protests that he is quite capable of getting up by himself, Pauline helps Ron up from the sofa. Susie leads them through to the Java Suite. Two massage tables sit side by side, but no sign of Ricardo and Anton yet.
Good news, the sounds of the rainforest have stopped. Bad news, they have been replaced by the sound of whale song.
‘If you lie face down on the beds, Anton and Ricardo will be with you presently. Namaste to you both.’
‘Namaste,’ says Pauline.
‘Thank you,’ grunts Ron, as he plants his face through the hole in the massage table and grimly hopes for the best.
‘You all right there, lover?’ asks Pauline, as Susie leaves them alone.
‘Yeah,’ says Ron. ‘I liked the watermelon juice.’
‘Anything you need?’
‘Nah, nothing,’ says Ron. ‘Except, are we supposed to talk to them? The massagers?’
‘Can if you want,’ says Pauline. ‘I usually just fall asleep. Land of nod, dream of horses.’
‘OK,’ says Ron. One thing he knows he won’t be doing is falling asleep. Absolute vigilance will be the key here.
‘Or just let your thoughts wander,’ says Pauline.
Let his thoughts wander? Wander where? Ron’s thoughts don’t do wandering. Whenever Ron is forced into actually doing some thinking, it’s for a good reason. For example, what were the Tories up to today? Where did West Ham need to strengthen during the January transfer window? Why had they stopped doing omelettes at the restaurant? He loves omelettes. Was there an egg shortage he hadn’t heard about, or was somebody taking a liberty? Important stuff. And when his mind wasn’t thinking about important things, it was doing nothing. Recharging, for the next issue which needed his attention. Wandering was never on the agenda.
He looks over at Pauline, her eyes already shut. ‘You ever heard of a Carron Whitehead? Or a Robert Brown?’
‘Just relax, Ronnie,’ she says, eyes still closed.
He senses Anton and Ricardo glide into the room. He is thankful that the towel is around his waist. God knows what his backside looks like these days. A moon landscape. He hopes these lads are well paid. Do they have a union? He waits for a greeting, but it doesn’t come, just the feel of two warm, oiled hands on his shoulders. OK, it seems the forty-five minutes are starting right now. The hands draw long, deep strokes down his back. Ron reminds himself that, at some point, the agony will end.