Part 1 (2/2)
”S.M.,” he said, dropping the barrow's handles. ”Well, well, well.” He looked at the a.s.sembled crowd and asked, ”Anyone told our glorious leader?”
They all shook their heads but said nothing. Charlie Bales pulled a walkie-talkie from his top pocket and pressed a couple of b.u.t.tons.
”April? It's Charlie. Could you tell Mr Monkton that someone's sprayed some graffiti out here?”
We could hear April relate the message to her boss in a broad Birmingham accent. There was a grunt of alarm a the sound of a man who'd rather not be bothered by the real world.
”You can deal with it, can't you, April?” a timid voice protested. ”Can't you get someone to wash it off? What's the man called? Jerry, is it? That chap in the maintenance department. Get him to do it.”
”April, tell Mr Monkton it's not the protesters' usual stuff,” Charlie said calmly. ”This is on the wall of the house. I think he should take a look. This message seems ... personal.”
”What does it say?” asked April. Charlie read out the words loud and clear. They were met with a long silence. Then April said to her employer, ”I suppose you'd better have a look, sir. It won't take a minute.” There was the sound of a chair being pushed back. Two minutes later, Anthony Monkton joined us in the courtyard with his secretary.
The sight of a man in a flowing yellow kaftan and purple beret was every bit as bizarre as I'd hoped. He looked as if he was wearing a nightie. His unruly grey hair poked out from the beret like a collection of rodents' tails a rats trying to desert a sinking s.h.i.+p, I thought. He wore a necklace with a large crystal dangling from it, which he clung to with one hand as if it would give him magical protection.
It was the first time I'd ever been in close proximity to a genuinely eccentric person. I was gripped a and I wasn't the only one. Every single member of staff stiffened and pulled themselves up a little when he appeared. Shoulders went back, chins were raised. It was almost as if they were standing to attention. But then I noticed that what showed in their eyes wasn't respect. It varied from person to person, but I saw traces of pity. Disappointment. Dislike. And a in Charlie Bales's face a open contempt.
Mr Monkton looked at the writing while the keepers looked at him, waiting for his reaction. Their boss rummaged in the pockets of his kaftan for his gla.s.ses. Once he found them he gave them a rub with a hanky before putting them on his nose. Eventually he said, ”I don't understand. S.M.? Who...?”
There was a tense silence. Every staff member apart from April wore the same expression. Disgust.
At last Charlie Bales spoke. ”Sandy,” he said. The name seemed to thud onto the cobblestones.
”Sandy?” echoed Mr Monkton, baffled. ”Sandy who?”
The female keeper gasped. Pain flashed across her face. The stick insect next to her scowled at his boss.
”Sandy Milford.” Charlie's voice was quiet but deadly.
And yet Mr Monkton seemed entirely unaware of their seething emotions. His face contracted into a tight frown and he said vaguely, ”Sandy Milford? The keeper who...? Oh dear... Yes, of course. Terrible thing. Very sad. Tragic.” A nerve twitched in his cheek. ”April, sort it out, will you? Wash it off, or paint over it or something. I'll be in my office if anyone needs me.” He took off his gla.s.ses but didn't move. It was as though he couldn't quite remember where his office was.
April came to his rescue. ”Let's go inside, shall we, sir?” She looked at the others. ”Come on, everyone,” she said briskly. ”Back to work. Mr Monkton doesn't pay you just to stand around.”
Dismissed, the staff left the courtyard. Then April's eyes fell on Mum and Becca standing uncertainly by the car. ”Can I help you?” she asked.
”Oh!” Mum looked flummoxed for a moment. ”Er a we're staying in the hotel. We won the raffle.”
”Ah, yes. Congratulations. Ms Fields, isn't it? You'll find the reception area through those double doors. Enjoy your stay.”
April pointed across the courtyard, then turned to lead Mr Monkton away.
It was only then that we realized someone had crept quietly up behind us. Someone who was now staring at the graffiti, a wide, toothy grin fixed in a striped orange and black face.
It was a tiger.
Or at least it was someone in a tiger suit a bright, fuzzy and fake.
But Anthony Monkton reacted as if he'd come face to face with a man-eating killer. His gla.s.ses dropped from his hand, the lenses smas.h.i.+ng on the cobbles. And then he screamed.
sandy milford.
Mr Monkton's scream echoed across the courtyard, bouncing from one wall to another, high and ear-piercingly loud. The tiger ripped off its head to reveal the flushed face of a young woman whose hair was dyed almost as orange as the suit she was wearing. ”I'm so sorry, Mr Monkton!” she gabbled. ”I didn't mean to scare you! Are you all right?”
Faces had begun to appear at the bas.e.m.e.nt windows, peering up at their boss in astonishment, and Mum and Becca were staring at him with their mouths open.
”Where did you get that?” April demanded. Her hands had bunched into fists and for a second I thought she might actually hit the girl.
The tiger-lady pulled at her fur. ”This? It was on my desk. There was a memo attached. I thought you...”
April interrupted her roughly. ”For pity's sake, Zara, haven't you got anything better to do than fool around in fancy dress? Go and get changed.”
April moved away, steering Mr Monkton down the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt offices.
Graham and I were left standing beside Zara.
”But I haven't got anything better to do,” she told us forlornly. ”I'm supposed to keep the kids happy. It's what I get paid for.” She sighed, replaced her head and stomped across the courtyard dejectedly, her long stripy tail trailing behind her. She disappeared into the education centre and there was a moment's pause before Mum, looking slightly apprehensive about the weekend ahead, said, ”Let's go and get checked in, shall we?”
The Healing Harmony Hotel and Spa had the hushed, reverential atmosphere of an old-fas.h.i.+oned museum or library, or maybe even a Buddhist temple. It was all polished wood, slate and empty white walls. Wind chimes tinkled gently every time a door opened or closed, and the staff spoke softly, as if scared of disturbing the meditative atmosphere. Mum and Becca couldn't wait to get on with some serious rest and relaxation. As soon as we'd dumped our bags in our rooms, they both disappeared in search of Mystical Energy, leaving Graham and I to explore. After collecting our information pack from the receptionist, we headed out across the courtyard. A man a presumably Jerry from the maintenance department a had already begun to wash the blood-red paint off the wall.
”Remember S.M.,” I said. ”Sounds threatening, doesn't it?”
”It does have a rather menacing tone,” agreed Graham.
”Sandy Milford,” I mused thoughtfully. ”You wouldn't need to remember him unless he wasn't around any more, would you?”
”No,” said Graham. ”That seems to be a fairly safe a.s.sumption.”
”So he's probably dead. And as Mr Monkton said it was 'tragic', I think we can a.s.sume he didn't die of old age.” I looked at Graham. He was trying to avoid meeting my eyes. ”We can't ignore it,” I told him. ”We're going to have to find out what happened.”
Gleaning information about Sandy Milford proved surprisingly easy. The Great British Public were out in force, so there were plenty of people milling around. As far as the staff were concerned, Graham and I were just like every other punter a i.e. totally invisible. Which provided us with plenty of opportunities for eavesdropping.
Everyone who worked in that place seemed to love a good gossip, and the people who had seen the graffiti before it got scrubbed off were having a great time telling the people who hadn't. For the next hour or so, wherever we went we heard the events of the early morning being told over and over again. In the shop, in the cafe, by the burger bar a if two members of staff were standing together, they seemed to be having pretty much the same conversation. Each one was marked by the same ghoulish relish, and they all went something like this: ”In blood-red paint, it was. 'Remember S.M.?'”
”Sandy Milford?”
”Who else?”
”Who did that, then?”
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