Читать книгу Face-Off - Chris Karsten - Страница 6

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Rabie Saadi said over his shoulder to the two policemen. “Could be a murder, all that blood and hair, and now you show up.” He unlocked the last door in the passage, next to the fire escape, and stepped aside. “What good is it I phone, do my bit as a law-abiding citizen, and the cops take four hours to arrive? I run a business here, can’t wait all day. Time is money.”

“You’re not the only one calling the police.” The sergeant’s big belly brushed against Rabie as he entered the room. “What’s that stink? Place smells rotten. Do all your rooms smell like this?”

“That’s what I mean,” said Rabie. “We could have cleaned it up by now, if we hadn’t had to wait all day for the cops.” He waved towards the vacuum cleaner, mop and bucket in the passage, next to the trolley with rags, brushes and bottles of Ajax, Vim and Mr. Clean. Fresh linen and towels lay folded on the trolley’s bottom shelf. “Look at the place. Looks like someone butchered a pig in here.”

“Where’s the body? I thought you said it was a murder?” said the second policeman, a constable.

The sergeant pointed at the carpet. “Is this old blood, these stains?”

Rabie looked at the sergeant. “What? I run a hotel – I’m not a blood expert.”

“You’ll never get this carpet clean. Better lay a new one.”

The constable opened a window for fresh air.

“Bathroom looks even worse,” said Rabie.

The sergeant peered into the bathroom. “He definitely killed something in here, in the bath. But not a pig, not with that long hair.”

Rabie came to the door, pointed at the old blood and hair caked in the bathtub, the sticky splatters and stains on the wall and floor tiles. “Plughole’s blocked. I’ll have to get in a plumber.”

“Not before Forensics.” The sergeant clicked his tongue, sucked on his teeth. He turned to Rabie. “And you only discovered it this morning?”

“Not me, Evangeline. She knocked. When no one answered, she opened and found this mess.”

“The cleaner?”asked the sergeant, rubbing his huge belly.

“Housekeeper,” said Rabie.

“But this is old blood – been congealed for some time. Doesn’t Evangeline clean every day? What kind of fleabag joint do you run here? If the health inspectors come, they’ll shut you down.”

“What do you mean ‘fleabag’? This is a respectable establishment. A residential hotel’s what it is.”

“It’s a brothel, man! Everyone knows the Sleep Inn. Who stays in these rooms, hey? The Minister of Police, Speaker of Parliament, chairman of Anglo-American? You’ve got whores and strippers, Rabie, swinging around on those shiny poles in your bar.”

“So you’ve been here then?”

“How’s it work? They rent rooms by the month and you get a cut? Hard cash, tax-free?”

“Exotic dancers,” said Rabie, “is what they’re called.”

“How many rooms d’you have?”

“Twenty-four.”

“All occupied?”

“No. I keep a few for walk-in guests.”

“Like this one? Was he a walk-in guest? How long did he stay?”

“A month and a half.”

“And then he just left?”

“Paid two months in advance.”

“So he doesn’t owe you anything?”

“Well, he owes me for a new carpet. And for a plumber.”

“But he put down a deposit and paid two months in advance.”

“Ja.”

“Didn’t claim back his deposit when he left?”

“He left in the middle of the night without a word. Left this mess.”

“It’s not a crime to leave in the middle of the night. You’ve got the deposit and half a month’s rental for damages.”

“But it is a crime to kill someone in the bath. And I can’t afford that publicity. It’s bad for business, bad for my reputation.”

The sergeant smirked. “Your reputation?”

Rabie took exception. “I could have kept quiet, but I phoned you, didn’t I? Sat twiddling my thumbs for four hours before the police decided to show up. Now you talk about fleabags and brothels. Is that how a good citizen of this country is rewarded when he reports a crime, Sergeant? Hey?”

“When last did Evangeline clean this hellhole? Is that blood on the sheets as well? And those dirty pots and plates on the stove, all crusty with old food?”

“Ants and cockroaches all over the place,” said the constable. “You’ll have to get the fumigators in as well. If the health inspectors . . .”

“So you’ve said.” Rabie motioned at the trolley again. “The guest asked not to be disturbed, said he’d clean the place himself. Evangeline had to leave the cleaning trolley and new linen at the door. He said he was sick, being treated by the doctor, medication made him sleepy. Evangeline said the trolley’d been standing at the door for three days untouched, so this morning she knocked. Thought he might have died, being so sick and everything. Didn’t want a corpse lying in the room. That’s why she came in.”

“And she didn’t touch anything? What time was that?”

“Seven. I took one look and phoned the police.”

“Because you think it’s a murder? Without a body?”

Rabie looked at the sergeant, who was picking at a pimple or ingrown hair on a cheek that quivered with fat. “How should I know where the body is? It doesn’t look like a murder to you? You think he nicked himself shaving? Then bled all over the floor, inside the bath, on the walls? And what about the hair, hey? Black hair. His is thin and mousy, as far as I remember.”

“A beard, maybe?”

“Er . . .”

“You don’t remember, Rabie? Didn’t you ever see your guest?”

“Not often. He kept to himself, didn’t mingle. I think he was growing a beard.”

“He didn’t drink at the bar, watch the bare bums on the poles?”

“No. He asked for a room far from the music and the noise. Said he wanted peace and quiet because he wasn’t feeling so great.”

“A room near the fire escape, to come and go unnoticed,” said the constable.

“Could you describe him for an Identikit?” asked the sergeant. “In case Forensics find something that points to a crime?”

“How about all the blood?” Rabie replied wryly.

“Well, suicide isn’t a crime. Slashing your wrists in the bath.” The sergeant inspected the tiles again. “That could explain the blood on the walls. Maybe he came looking for a quiet place to end his life. Debt, divorce, terminal disease, who knows?”

“So where’s his body?”

“Maybe halfway through he decided he didn’t want to end it after all. It’s not unusual for people with suicidal tendencies to have second thoughts.” The sergeant turned to the constable. “Forensics on their way?”

“I phoned. They said they’d be an hour or two – when they’re done with the scene at Judith’s Paarl.”

Rabie threw his hands in the air. “He could be in Timbuktu by then!”

“Hey, Rabie, do you know how many murders take place in this country every day? How overworked the police are? Get the crime-scene tape in the car, Constable, seal off this door.”

The sergeant turned back to Rabie. “Don’t let anyone in here. It could be a few days before Forensics get the results back. Until then it’s a crime scene. It’s after twelve – what’s on your menu? How about some lunch while the constable does his job? You can tell me about your guest, Mr Formal . . .”

“Fomalhaut.”

“Dutchman?”

“Afrikaans.”

“And you, Rabie? What’s that accent?”

“South African. Born at the old Marymount in Kensington. My father came to this country after the Battle of al-Malkiyya in 1948. Lost a leg against the Israelis. He opened this hotel. We speak Lebanese at home. That’s where my father’s from, Baalbek.”

“So you’re an Arab?”

“What the hell does it matter, Sergeant? What are you?”

“Sgt. Mfundisi – amaZulu. And my colleague is Const. Xala, amaXhosa. What did you say is on your menu today?”

“This isn’t the Ritz, Sergeant – it’s the Sleep Inn in Bez Valley. We have a pub lunch and cold draught.”

“And this Mr Formalhaut, did he look sick to you when he rented the room? I mean, was he pale, feverish . . . or did he just say he was sick and you believed him?”

“How was I supposed to know whether he was feverish? Should I have stuck a thermometer up his arse? He had injuries from an accident. He looked sick.”

“What kind of injuries?”

“Cuts all over his hands and face, lots of plasters, one eye swollen almost shut. I told him he looked like he’d been in a train smash. He said: ‘Funny you should say that. It was an accident with a train – that level crossing near Magaliesburg. Car stalled, right on the tracks.’ Said he was looking for a room for two months; he’d pay in advance.”

“Plus the deposit.”

“Plus the deposit.”

“How old did you take him to be?”

“Fifty, maybe. Said he’s from the Cape. In the antiques business, drives around buying old furniture. Strange surname of Fomalhaut. That’s how he wrote it in the register.”

“And you verified it in his ID book, checked his photo?”

“Er . . . not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What do you mean?”

“Sergeant, I don’t look at every guest’s ID. How can I ask every guest, ‘Show me your ID’? The guests who rent my rooms are . . .”

“You mean the escorts and pole dancers – Candi, Mandi, Randi and Sandi . . . who don’t want their customers to know they’re actually Barendiena or Fransiena. Who wants to watch Fransiena swinging from a pole, exposing her Koekemoer arse to the world? Yes, I get your drift. So, how did Mr Fomalhaut manage to stick plasters on his face if he was growing a beard?”

“He didn’t have a beard the night he arrived. He grew the beard while he was here.”

“So you did see him sometimes? I’ll have a hamburger, by the way, with cheese and chips. And lots of onions, well fried.”

Rabie phoned the cook, then followed the sergeant out to the passage. He watched as Const. Xala shut the door and sealed the lock and doorknob with yellow crime-scene tape. He watched Sgt. Mfundisi roll back his big head, fat neck bulging over his shirt collar, his eyes on the camera mounted high on the wall next to the fire escape. The camera had a view of the entire passage, right up to the lift door.

“Constable, bring a chair,” the sergeant called over his shoulder.

“I’ve just sealed the door, Sarge.”

“Open it again and bring me a chair. You can seal it again, or are you paying for the tape yourself?”

“I had the CCTV installed last year,” said Rabie. “After a guest was molested in her room. One on every floor, and one in the bar. You never know what a drunk will get up to. Tomorrow he denies everything, says he never visited the Sleep Inn last night. You know what it’s like, Sergeant. Now I have it on camera.”

“Get up, Constable,” said Sgt. Mfundisi. “Can you reach that lens?”

The constable stood on his toes, stretched his fingers. “Yes. Looks like old paint, Sarge. Lens is covered with black spray paint, the graffiti kind.”

“Thought so,” said the sergeant. “You want a burger too, Constable?” He turned to Rabie. “Another burger. When last did you look at this camera’s footage on your monitor?”

“Er . . . last week?”

“And the camera was working then? Could you see this passage – guests going in and out of your escorts’ rooms – so you could claim your commission?”

“It was working.”

“It was working? Constable, come here. Rabie, look at the man’s finger – it’s covered in dust and old fly shit. That paint has been there a long time, long before last week. Maybe since shortly after Mr Fomalhaut moved in. Now I ask myself: What’s going on here? Why is Mr Fomalhaut hiding at the end of the passage, near the fire escape? Could he have been the one who spray-painted the camera? What luggage did he have, do you remember?”

“Two bags, one in each hand, when I showed him the room and how everything works. One looked like a violin case, I remember I asked if he was a musician. No, he said it was just an old violin case he’d found somewhere – he was still looking for a buyer. Hardly a scratch on it, could fetch a good price.”

“He’s injured after colliding with a train, but his violin case doesn’t have a scratch on it?”

Rabie rubbed the back of his neck. “Strange, now you put it like that.”

“I’m hungry. Come, Constable, Rabie has offered us a meal on the house.”

Drawing the beer behind the bar counter, Rabie looked at the two law enforcement officers at their table. Especially the big one, Sgt. Mfundisi, inspecting the contents of the burger roll, pouring tomato sauce and mustard onto the slap chips, stuffing four large ones into his mouth.

In the background he could hear Evangeline’s vacuum cleaner. Rabie looked at the stage with the two poles and the DJ equipment, the Roto-Sphere against the ceiling that bathed the exotic dancers’ bodies in rainbow colours. The bar was dark now, and the only other people besides the cops were two decrepit old bar flies in the corner who’d been manning their post since opening time, brandy and Coke in hand.

Rabie took the beer glasses to the table, getting no thanks when he put them down.

Sgt. Mfundisi looked up, tomato sauce on his lips and chin, cheeks bulging. “Where’re your guests?”

“Asleep.”

“Night shift, hey?” Sgt. Mfundisi took another bite of his burger, used his fingers to work the fried onions in at the corner of his mouth.

“What the Sergeant means is we’ll have to speak to them,” said the constable, “about the missing guest in room 110. About his movements, seeing that we have nothing on CCTV.”

“I told you: no one ever ever saw him. He didn’t mix.”

“Never made small talk?” asked the sergeant. “Just wrote his name in your register and spray-painted the camera lens? What about asking for his address and phone number, as the law requires of a law-abiding citizen like yourself?”

“Yes, I have that: his address in Cape Town.”

“When Forensics have finished, if they suspect foul play, we’ll need that. And we’ll interview your permanent guests and look at your CCTV footage. Perhaps there’s something from earlier, before the lens was sprayed. Then we’ll –”

Rabie turned, following Sgt. Mfundisi’s gaze to the doorway, where a young woman had appeared. It was Jewel. Leggings like a second skin, loose T-shirt, no bra. She looked as if she’d just woken up and pulled her fingers through her hair.

“Rabie, Mitzi’s still missing,” she whined. “I’m going crazy. Where can she be? She wouldn’t just run away. Something must have happened.”

“Maybe she couldn’t stand your whining – have you considered that, hey? I would have hit the road long ago.”

Her boobs bounced as she turned to him, offended. “You’re not very nice to me, Rabie. What have I done to you? I’m just worried about Mitzi, that’s all.” She glanced inquisitively at the two munching cops.

“Jewel is an exotic dancer,” Rabie explained. “She also eats fire.”

Const. Xala, he noticed, didn’t raise his eyes any higher than Jewel’s bosom. Sgt. Mfundisi looked her in the eye.

“Fire, hey? And who’s the missing Mitzi?” the sergeant asked.

Jewel stuck out a hip and fluttered her long lashes, still caked with the previous night’s mascara. “Mitzi’s been missing a week.”

Jesus, Rabie thought, drama queen. He took her by the elbow and steered her away. “Mitzi is her cat,” he said over his shoulder.

“Black?” asked Sgt. Mfundisi.

Rabie turned. It took a moment for it to sink in. “God, Sergeant, is that what he did? Killed Mitzi in his bath?”