OxCrimes Page 9

  He decided to walk to work. It was going to be another glorious day. The sun was already shining, drying up the puddles from the night before. It was only half past seven and he had plenty of time to spare. He walked through the Boltons and back to the Fulham Road making better progress, he reflected, than the traffic which was backed up all the way to South Kensington station. It occurred to him that perhaps he should walk more often. It was much better for him than the gym which, of course, he seldom used.

  He was already focusing on the coffee account and the client’s refusal to embrace Sanchez, his fast-talking Mexican cartoon character. ‘It’s the beans, y caramba!’ Three months from now, every kid in the country would have been saying that if it hadn’t been for the pig-headed marketing directors. Well, maybe they would reconsider after what had happened last night. Three awards. Best agency. Best campaign …

  What had happened last night.

  Thud!

  It came almost as a blow, a fist to the stomach. It was so physical that Johnny actually cried out, doubling up, his hands folding around him. For a moment he thought he was going to be sick and would have been except that he had an abhorrence of vomiting and – mind over body – managed to keep it in. But, Christ, he was ill. There was a burning coal in his lower intestine and he could feel the juices in his stomach swirling around, looking for a way out. He reached out and took hold of a lamp-post, leaning on it like an old man … or a drunk. There was a horrible taste in his mouth. It was his own saliva. He found it hard to draw breath.

  This wasn’t a reaction to what had happened. This wasn’t some sort of post traumatic stress. Johnny was certain that it was something to do with what he had eaten … a bad oyster or one glass of champagne too many. Just relax a moment, he told himself. It will pass. With an effort, he drew in a little air; one breath, then another. Sure enough, it seemed to ease the pain. His stomach settled down again. But he was still aware that he desperately needed the toilet and that any movement would only make it worse. All the liquid inside him, including the semi-liquidized food, had settled in the pit of his stomach and it was seeking a fast way out through the one, most obvious, canal. In fact Johnny was only keeping it in place through the desperate use of whatever muscle it was that did that particular job. When the muscle weakened and failed – which it might at any moment – there would be the most appalling accident.

  What was he to do? He was less than ten minutes away from home but his bowels told him that he would never make it back. He could barely walk. He was clenching his buttocks and, hardly noticing it, he had allowed one hand to creep behind him ready to be pressed into service if needed. There were no shops open yet, no restaurants or cafés. He had set out too early. Part of him was aware how ridiculous this was but he was in too much discomfort to care. He needed a toilet. That was all there was to it. He had been caught short and if he didn’t have a very large dump in the next few minutes, all hell was going to break loose.

  And then he remembered. There was a public convenience just round the corner. The council had installed it just a year ago, in response to the late night drinking that took place every weekend in this part of Fulham. There had been complaints from the residents … fat girls and tattooed boys coming out of the pubs and clubs and pissing on trees, in shop doors, or in their front gardens. One toilet for a thousand drunken teenagers but at least it was a step in the right direction – which, as a matter of fact, was just about all Johnny would be able to manage right now. He couldn’t see it but it couldn’t be more than one or two minutes away. If it was actually open. If it hadn’t been vandalised. What would he do if it was closed? Johnny forced himself to calm down. You’re behaving like a schoolboy. Get a grip!

  He moved away from the lamp-post and for a brief moment he thought that the attack, whatever it was, had passed. He walked normally and wondered if he might not be able to make it to the agency after all. Ahead of him, a traffic light blinked red and almost at once he was hit by a second wave of pain, no worse than the first except that it was accompanied by a sense of bubbling deep within. One way or another, there was going to be an eruption and it was going to happen very soon. He took several more steps, walking like a casualty of war or perhaps a convict in leg-irons. He was aware only of the need to move forward and the fear of what he was about to leave behind.

  And there it was, the glorious thing, nearer than he had remembered, a grey metal box, very modern with a projecting roof and those three icons of the twenty-first century printed above the sliding door: a miniature man, a miniature woman and a wheelchair. Seeing it made Johnny relax for a second with almost disastrous results. Cramped, sweating, sick and – above all – desperate, he staggered forward, only realising as he drew closer that he would need money to get in. How much was it? One pound. He could see the slot next to the door. He had a hundred pounds and a black American Express card in his wallet but did he have a one pound coin? God! God! God! He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, knowing they would be empty. And what then? It didn’t bear thinking about.

  But against all the odds, he found a one pound coin. It could so easily have been a Euro or a nickel but it wasn’t. It was a delicious, smiling, English one pound coin and with a trembling hand he pressed it into the slot and watched as the door slid open and the light came on inside. He tumbled in, only subconsciously grateful for the fact that the facility was spotless, modern, beautifully maintained. There was a toilet jutting out of the wall with a disabled handrail above, a sink and an air drier. He found the button that closed and locked the door punched it and, in a single continuous movement, began to struggle with his belt and zip. He almost ripped the trousers down. He had gone to work in a suit and tie. Underneath, he was wearing bright yellow Calvin Klein underpants. He pulled those down too, then twisted round and plumped his bare buttocks onto the seat.

  Just in time. The slap of flesh meeting plastic was accompanied by an act of purgation which would have been hideous and repulsive if Johnny had been able to see it. But one of the great joys of human construction is that our eyes are as far away as possible from the business side of things and, moreover, face in the opposite direction. As a physical sensation it was actually quite wonderful. Johnny emptied himself in seconds, a great rush that was almost orgasmic. As he sat there, he couldn’t help but reflect on everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours: his recent breakfast, the smoked salmon terrine, roast duck and profiteroles, cheese board and petits fours at the awards ceremony, six oysters (one of which was still the most likely culprit), rib-eye steak and lemon sorbet for lunch, quite a lot of chocolate biscuits during the day and scrambled eggs on toast with bacon and mushrooms for breakfast the day before. All of these exploded out of him in a single, powerful jet. He was left feeling giddy and elated. It did briefly occur to him that he might be ill, that he might have a serious stomach bug. But he didn’t feel ill. He felt relieved in every sense.

  He sat there until he was sure he had finished, then reached for the toilet paper.

  There wasn’t any.

  There was a slot in the wall and a compartment for an industrial sized roll of toilet paper but it had all been used up and it hadn’t been replaced. A pinprick of anger appeared in the very centre of Johnny’s forehead, one that his employees knew all too well and dreaded. This was of course typical of the local council who had taken for ever to build this bloody convenience and then failed adequately to maintain it. He didn’t have a briefcase with him. All the papers he needed were on his desk at work and he had left the house empty-handed. He knew for certain that he couldn’t stand up without cleaning himself. If he drew up his trousers and pants he would have no choice but to return immediately to the house and he had no intention of missing the meeting. He had no handkerchief. There were no tissues in his pockets and he wasn’t carrying a newspaper.

  He was, however, wearing a tie … pink silk with pale blue stripes. Johnny looked down and saw it hanging in front of him. It wasn’t one of his fav
ourites but it had still been expensive, an Armani, and he would be loathe to lose it. Was there no other way? No. He drew it off with a sense of annoyance and held it for a minute as if he was about to strangle the council worker who had failed to replace the toilet paper. The shape wasn’t particularly conducive to the task he had in mind but at least the tie was a fairly wide one and he made it wider by tearing it open, breaking the stitching. He reached behind him and used the tie as best he could, then dropped it into the bowl. Finally, he pressed the automatic flush.

  It was broken. The good humour that Johnny had briefly felt a moment ago was replaced by one of his black dogs … not in this case depression but anger. He pressed the button three or four more times but he could feel little pressure under his thumb and there wasn’t so much as a trickle of water. Well, actually, at the end of the day it wasn’t his problem. Whoever came in here next would have an unpleasant surprise and might want to have their one pound refunded but by then he would be far away. He undid the top button of his shirt and examined himself in the mirror. He looked completely normal. He leaned down to wash his hands and this time he wasn’t surprised when no water came out of the taps. This public convenience might have looked smart enough when he got in but actually it was a disgrace. He might even get his secretary to write a letter of complaint.

  He turned to the door and as he did, a very nasty thought occurred to him. He focused his attention on the button beside the door – the exit button – and hesitated before he slowly reached out and pressed it. Nothing happened. Pursing his lips, he pressed a second time. Still nothing. The door was broken and, looking around, he saw at once that there was no emergency button, no means of communicating with the outside world, and even if there had been, he reflected, it probably wouldn’t work either. He pressed the exit button a few more times, then tried shifting the door manually. It was stuck firmly in place. For the first time he became aware of the odour in the confined space of the convenience. He glanced round at the toilet. His Armani tie hadn’t quite gone in. Part of the pink and blue fabric was draped over the edge and somehow this revolted him even more than thought of what was actually inside the bowl. He wished he could close the lid but there was none. He hit the button again as if the broken circuit or whatever it was had decided to mend itself and he swore out loud when, as before, the door refused to move.

  His mobile telephone! That was the only way out of this. As embarrassing and infuriating as it was, he would have to get his secretary round – it was still too early to call the house. Mrs Hourdakis wouldn’t arrive until eleven and the wretched woman had no phone of her own. Johnny felt in his pocket where his phone should have been. It wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t there. The way today was going, why should it have been there? Tears of anger pricked at his eyes. He had left the phone in the car the night before. He could actually see himself slipping it into the glove compartment because he didn’t like it pressing against his thigh while he drove. He always took it with him when he got out but there had been so much on his mind that he’d forgotten. The smell in the toilet was getting worse by the minute. He tried the flush button again but it was as useless as the door button. And there was no emergency phone! How could they build a thing like this and not put in an emergency phone?

  He would have to attract attention by the only other method available to him. Johnny slammed the heel of his hand against the door and shouted out.

  ‘Hello? Is there anyone there? Can you help me? I’m stuck!’

  Silence.

  It was still early in the morning but as Johnny stood there, leaning against the metal wall, he was already visualising the location of the public convenience. It was slightly set back from the main road with walls on three sides. Three out of four angles covered. A lot of traffic went past but not many pedestrians. There was a bus-stop … how far away? About a hundred meters. And the bloody pavement was up! He had noticed it but he had been in too much of a hurry to consider the implications. There were workmen laying pipes – presumably it was they who had accidentally cut through some of the wires and had caused the toilet to malfunction. Pedestrians were being directed onto the other side of the road.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ he whispered to himself.

  He could see quite clearly that he had only three ways out of here. Someone might try to use the toilet and if they did, he would be able to call out to them. Someone from the council would eventually come to replace the missing toilet paper and check everything was operating. Or – and this was the most likely option – if he kept banging against the wall, one of the workmen would be certain to hear him. After all, it was fairly quiet outside. The traffic would have already died down.

  A pneumatic drill blasted into life somewhere nearby. The noise, bouncing against the metal side of the toilet, was shocking. For Johnny, it was like being inside a drum. He endured about a minute but then had to clamp his hands against his ears and even that barely prevented the noise from penetrating his skull. The drilling seemed to go on for a very, very long time. At least it means that someone is here, he told himself. At least it means there’s someone within ear-shot – and when the noise stopped, he flung himself at the door, pounding at it and yelling as loudly as he could. The drill was silent for perhaps fifteen seconds.

  ‘Please! Please help me! I’m locked in the toilet!’

  Nobody heard him. Nobody came. Then it started again, that awful, head-splitting hammering and this time it went on and on and on until Johnny started moaning. How much worse can this get, he wondered? How much? No! It can’t get any worse!

  He had forgotten that most modern conveniences have a security device to stop people lingering too long and, indeed, to prevent any undesirable activity inside.

  One minute later, the lights went out.

  Detective Inspector Stephen Cloth left University College Hospital without speaking to the victim of the hit-and-run accident who had been admitted the night before. He still had no idea who she was. She was approximately fifty years old, probably of African origin, not well off. Her clothes were well-worn and cheap. There had been two ten pound notes and a five pound note in her plastic handbag along with some loose change, a lipstick, a packet of Lambert & Butler cigarettes, a book of matches marked with the name of a minicab firm based in Clapham and an Oyster Card which indicated she lived close to Tooting Bec station, commuted in six days a week and probably had several jobs. There was no driving license or credit card, nothing to provide an identity. It was almost certain that she had been working a night shift in one of the hotels along Park Lane and her photograph was being circulated. Mrs Unknown had broken her hip and three ribs. She was in a coma. Her life wasn’t in any danger but it would be a while before she was able to give her account of what had happened.

  Not that Cloth needed to ask her very much. The people from RCIT (they were universally known as Arse-it but the letters actually stood for Road Crash Investigation Team) had visited the scene and had reconstructed what had happened with that special brand of officialese and mathematical preciseness that they had made their own. Cloth had once remarked how strange it was that people who were involved in car accidents could be so pedestrian but then they worked out of some dump in Chelmsford. They kept themselves to themselves. At any event, a car – probably a sports car – had emerged from the car park at thirty miles per hour and had struck the woman as she crossed the entrance. There would be damage to the bonnet and to the grille. The car was carbon grey and, according to the skid-marks at the top of the ramp, had 235/35 R19 tyres.

  There was of course a CCTV camera working in the car park of the Clarence Hotel even if Johnny Maslin hadn’t noticed it, and it had recorded a grey Audi Spyder leaving the premises just after two o’clock in the morning. Unfortunately, due to the poor light and the angles, the police had been unable to decipher the registration number but there were very few such cars on the road and preliminary enquiries had already established that one Jonathan Arthur Maslin had purchased one just six mo
nths before. Maslin owned an advertising agency on the edge of Chelsea and had been at an awards ceremony at the hotel the night before. It was a touch suspicious that he had failed to show up at work that morning. But not as suspicious as the name, Cloth thought. Why would you call an agency Teapot? That made no sense at all.

  He’d already worked the whole thing out. Some advertising big shot wins a couple of gongs. Drinks a bit too much. Knocks someone over. Does a runner. It was always interesting how people who had made themselves so very rich could behave in a way that was so very stupid. Well, Mr Maslin of Teapot Advertising had better have himself a decent lawyer. Detective Inspector Cloth was on his way there now.

  By mid-day, the sun was dazzling and London sweltering in the mid twenties. Many of the workmen, laying the new pipes near the Fulham Road, had stripped to the waist, displaying the customary tattoos, red skin and improbable layers of fat. The noise of the pneumatic drills had become even more irritating and intense to anyone living nearby, somehow amplified by the heat. All cities are uncomfortable in hot weather but London is worse than most. There’s no life on the pavements. The parks are too small. Public transport is a misery. Sometimes it feels difficult to breathe.

  And in the middle of it all, stuck in the pitch black, sweating, surrounded by his own stink, immersed in it, occasionally raging, hoarse, dazed and utterly miserable, Johnny Maslin lay stretched out on the floor, still beating rhythmically at the door but with little hope or strength. To say that the toilet was like an oven was quite literally the truth. Johnny was slowly cooking. Very little air was managing to get in and was rapidly being overtaken by carbon dioxide and whatever gases were emanating from the bowl. He had made the mistake of shouting too loudly and too often in the first hour of his captivity, with the result that he had very little voice left. He was desperate for a drink but the taps were broken and although he would have been glad to drink the water in the toilet bowl he had fouled it beyond consideration. The only liquid in the convenience were the tears that were leaking from his eyes and they were too salty to do him any good. The smell was getting worse. Every time he took a breath, he wanted to be sick – and would have been if there had been anything left in him to come out. He had been dry retching, off and on, for an hour. The acid from his stomach had done something to what was left of his voice. He had worked out now that it was best to cry for help only in the intervals when the pneumatic drill had stopped but the sound that emerged was the whimper of a castrati that could be barely heard inside the cubicle let alone outside it. Oh God! The horrible, horrible smell. It had come out of him, that was the worst of it. And now he was trapped in it.