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- Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
This is the book that you might think of taking along as part of your holiday reading, whilst relaxing on a sun-soaked tropical beach. If so, you may be in for a shock. A young couple manage to acquire a dilapidated resort hotel on an island in the Indian Ocean and through hard work turn it into a hotspot for the rich and famous. But their journey is fraught with difficulties and surprises, straining their relationship to its limits. You will not believe the things that happened at Vanilla Beach. But you should, because almost all of them actually did. Just as one problem is solved, another pops up, each one stranger or more frightening than before. Once you have read Vanilla Beach you may never want to go on vacation again. And don't believe that this is just a book; what happens in it could happen to you.
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i
VANILLA BEACH
Peter Venison
iii
To Diana, loved by everyone, but mostly by me
iv
Contents
Preface
The events that take place in this book are based, in the main, on actual occurences on the islands of the Comores and Mauritius in the Indian Ocean.
The characters in the story are entirely ficticious.vi
Chapter One
“Sloane Towers”
Roger Brown was a harmless sort of bloke, not someone who went looking for trouble, but sensible and well organised. He was the junior assistant manager of the Sloane Towers, a luxury hotel in Kensington, London, with three hundred guest rooms and two fine restaurants. He had been doing the job for just under two years, since he had been promoted from an analyst in the back office. He was popular and easy going, although well trained and efficient. The guests of the hotel liked his quiet but purposeful manner and the staff recognised him as someone on whom they could rely, provided they carried out their duties satisfactorily. Roger was married to Constance, a South African girl whom he had met on a number nineteen bus. They had been married for four years and, as yet, had no offspring. Roger was a good-looking young man but he considered himself fortunate to have landed Constance, because in his eyes, and many others, she was a very beautiful young woman. Their friends were surprised that they had not made babies.
Roger had been born and brought up in suburban London. He was the product of a stable marriage, commuter-belt living, local school and high school, rugby, tennis, sailing and, latterly, a course in hotel and catering management. The family had lived in a semi-detached house with small gardens, 2front and back, in a tree-lined street. His mother had been the dominant adult in the partnership. His overseas adventures, as a child and young man, had been confined to camping trips in France, early on with his parents, and then later with his male chums.
Roger’s upbringing had allowed him opportunities that many young men of his age had not experienced, but his roots were decidedly suburban. His parents, who had certainly “bettered” themselves beyond their own expectations, were, nevertheless, relatively uncultured people. Although they possessed a gramophone, they did not own one classical music record and the home was almost devoid of books. In all their years of marriage they had never set foot inside a hotel and rarely attended the theatre, save for Christmas outings to the pantomime. To the best of Roger’s knowledge, his parents had never been to an opera, ballet or classical music concert. Rarely was there an intellectual discussion in the home and, although Roger’s mum and dad enjoyed a healthy sex life, they would never dream of discussing anything of this nature with their son, and certainly neither one of them was brave enough to explain the birds and the bees. Luckily, Roger was a quick learner and his physical attractiveness to the fairer sex had been helpful. His lack of exposure to the more cultured things of life, however, troubled him and he learned how to bluff in covering up his lack of knowledge about the finer things of life. As Roger’s career had developed, and as his journey exposed him to men and women, often from a higher social rank than himself, he began to realise what he was missing in terms of education and exposure to the arts. The more he realised he did not know, the more he bluffed. He had become an expert bluffer. Roger did not like to look foolish, so he made sure he rarely did. This shortfall in experience was, in Roger’s eyes, a severe disability for him in his chosen career, or so he thought in his early days of hotel management. Most of his 3hotel guests were more worldly people than himself. Luckily, Roger was a fast learner.
There were a few things, however, that Roger was very good at, not least listening to and understanding other people. People, whether they be hotel staff or guests, felt that Roger was listening to them – and hearing them; they felt that he understood what they had to say or what they needed. Coupled with his ability to be practical and logical, he was able to come up with plans and solutions that everyone could agree to. Roger could size up situations and sort them out, when they needed sorting. Somehow or other Roger seemed to have an ability to get things done. He was a good manager and a good organiser. As a result, he had made rapid progress in his early career.
Constance was a true product of the sunshine of South Africa. Born in the days of Apartheid on the Highveld, she was, firstly, privileged to be white and, secondly, to be the daughter of a wealthy industrialist and a stay-at-home mum. She had attended university in Cape Town with no particular distinction and then hot-footed it to England for the “experience”, where she joined forces with many expatriates like herself at the Overseas Visitors Club in Earls Court and eventually secured the job as a secretary to an executive in a leading advertising agency in Duke Street. Her appointment had more to do with her good looks than her experience. She was an extremely attractive young lady who quickly gathered a wide circle of friends in her new environment.
Despite her upbringing in the “colonies”, Constance’s education, both at school and from her parents, was far broader and more rounded than her new husband’s. The standard and scope of her whites-only school in Johannesburg and subsequent university in Cape Town was much higher and all-encompassing than Roger’s suburban grammar school and technical college. She was familiar with, and fond of, most of 4the higher forms of art and music, but that is not to say she was a snob. Constance could have as much fun in a disco or night club, as any other young lady. In fact, some, that knew her well, would say more. Her mother had, at an early age, explained the basic facts about sex, but, until she reached university, Constance had not been sexually active. By the time she had landed at the Overseas Visitors Club in London, however, Constance had gained considerable experience and this was the ideal place and time to have some fun. At first glance, it looked as if Roger could provide some of that fun. Although the pair came from such different backgrounds and had developed, as a result, very different interests, one thing bound them strongly together. Physically, they were extremely attracted to each other. They became constant companions whenever their careers allowed and, very quickly, they considered themselves, not only to be lovers, but also “in love”.
Their chance meeting led to a short courtship and then marriage, much against the wishes of Constance’s parents in distant South Africa. Constance had fallen for Roger’s good looks, his charming smile, his wavy blonde hair, and tan, acquired from his frequent sailing activity. Roger thought that Constance was the most beautiful girl he had ever met and was proud to have captured her attention. At five feet seven inches tall, with flowing blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a well-toned shapely sun-tanned body, Constance was a fantastic catch for any young man and Roger was astonished that he had been the lucky one. Since their relationship was heavily weighted to their mutual physical attraction, it would remain to be seen whether this would be enough to sustain a long-term partnership, but in the first few years of marriage life could not be rosier. They made love at every opportunity. At the same time, they took precautions. At this stage of their lives, they did not want the encumbrance of a child. On that they were in complete agreement.
5At work Roger reported to Antoine Mersky, the general manager of the Sloane Towers. Antoine was a large loud man, who claimed to have come from a titled European aristocratic family. Roger wondered if that was true. If so, why would he be working as an hotel manager? Roger also wondered what Mersky had been doing during the war. Mersky spoke several languages but his mother tongue was German. When he spoke English, it still sounded German and his lips twisted into a snarl. When he smiled, which was rare, it was more of a sneer. When he walked, he did so with a very slight limp. Roger always wondered why.
Mersky was a bully and a tyrant, the product of a bullying Austrian father and a once-pretty, but now meek, German mother, whose family had actually been the ones with the money. Mersky was not really fat, but heavy and solid. He had a jowly sort of face with almost no neck and very large feet, highlighted by the fact that his black hard-leather shoes were always shone so impeccably that they stood out like two large rocks on a beach. One leg was slightly longer than the other; his tailor never seemed to get this just right, so he was always tugging at one leg or the other in an attempt to even up the hems. At the hotel he wore a formal morning suit with grey and black striped trousers and a black jacket. He was extremely experienced in his trade but this was the first time in his career that he had been in charge of such a large hotel, and certainly the first time he had worked for American owners. This was difficult for him because he had a low opinion of Americans. He was appalled when an executive from the company in America showed up off the night flight from Boston wearing sneakers and a sweat shirt. In Mersky’s world such attire had no place in the first-class cabin of an aeroplane and certainly not at the Sloane Towers, other than in the gym.
As assertive and aggressive as he was to his staff, he was, of course, the complete opposite when dealing with the actual 6American owners of the hotel, to whom he almost bowed and scraped, as if they were from a superior rank in the army. This need to kow-tow only caused him to bottle up his resentment, which, when the bosses had left, spilled over into wrath in the direction of the nearest unfortunate employee. His poor secretary, Marianne Treadwell, was the most likely recipient of his pent-up wrath. “Vat the fuck are you smirking about?” he would yell at her no sooner had the Americans left. Marianne, by dint of her position in the hotel, would have to bear more than her fair share of Mersky’s bad temper, but she had never completely acclimatised to it. Most of the staff of the hotel were frightened by Herr Mersky and, those that could, did their utmost to keep out of his way. There was no hiding place for Marianne, who not only had to bear the brunt of her boss’s wrath but also his sexist comments about her backside or breasts when he was in his “playful” mood.
There were two other assistant managers. One, Hans Ofal, was also German, although from Berlin rather than Bavaria, from whence he believed Mersky hailed. Ofal was exceptionally correct: shiny black lace-up shoes that matched his jet black greased-down hair and immaculately pressed pin-striped suit that matched his pin-striped face. He spoke with a clipped German accent, each sentence being concluded with a “Ja?” as if trying to force everyone into agreement. He was a few years older than Roger and considered himself to be infinitely superior. “Vat do the English know about hotelkeeping?” he would frequently mutter to himself. Roger secretly thought that Ofal must have been trained in the Nazi Youth. But Hans was completely intimidated by Mersky, who frequently swore at him in German. Although Roger could not understand the exact meaning of all the words, he knew they were bad because Hans literally shook in his black shoes whenever Mersky approached. Unfortunately for Hans, his rigidity was also a handicap in his dealings with hotel guests. 7When a guest would approach him with a minor complaint or even request, his stiffness came across as aloofness, even rudeness. He was completely lacking in warmth. The only time that he laughed was at his own jokes which, infrequent as they were, always concluded with a double “Ja?”
The other assistant manager, Louis Voullemin, was considerably older than either Roger or Hans and, therefore, much more experienced. His specific responsibility was food and drink, or “food and beverage” as the American owners insisted on calling it. Whereas both Roger and Hans were always immaculately dressed, particularly Hans, Voullemin always seemed a bit sloppy. His trousers were often crumpled, his shoes scruffy and his lank hair falling over his forehead. Louis never walked; he shuffled. Mersky, naturally, was extremely frustrated by Voullemin’s unkempt appearance, but no matter how much he ordered the man to smarten himself up, it never happened. When Mersky shouted at Louis, however, it just seemed to roll off him with no affect at all, normally accompanied by a shrug, which further infuriated his boss. A strange half smile would come over Louis’ face as Mersky admonished him. The louder Mersky screeched, the more Louis’ half smirk extended across his face, further infuriating his boss, who eventually would turn away, swearing under his breath with exasperation.
Nobody on the hotel staff of almost five hundred employees liked Mersky. Not one. Some, such as Andre Flamant, the ultra-smooth chief concierge, knew how to charm him and, probably more importantly, cater to his needs. Flamant was the perfect London hotel concierge, oozing in obsequious charm. He wore his black hall porter’s uniform with pride, always immaculately pressed and sporting a shiny crossed-key badge in the lapel. Mersky was partial to visiting various dubious clubs in London when it was quiet at the hotel in the afternoons. Flamant, through his contacts, always knew 8where Mersky had been and Mersky soon realised this. He was not keen that “Baroness” Mersky should find out, so the silence of the concierge was much appreciated. To his face, Mersky would treat his concierge like a best friend. He would lean over the concierge’s high desk with his elbow nonchalantly resting on the top as if he were talking to his friendly neighbour over the garden wall. Flamant would produce his phoney smile and occasionally let forth an appreciative little forced laugh. It was as if they were swapping dirty jokes. But although Andre hated Mersky as much as anyone else in the building, he knew how to play him, just as he knew how to play the myriad of super wealthy guests for whom he produced daily miracles.
The three assistant managers took it in turns to be “duty manager”, working specific shifts during which they had to deal with whatever operational or guest-related problems came up on their watch. Outside of these hours they each had definitive and distinctive operational responsibilities. Louis, as previously mentioned, was in charge of food and beverage. Hans was in charge of the rooms side of the business, and Roger looked after the personnel function as well as “maintenance”. Mersky handled Sales and Marketing although this was clearly not his forte.
Roger did not get shouted at by Mersky. A possible reason was that he had been recommended for his job by the human resources director of the American company, who was well respected by the head office in Boston, USA, and who, therefore, had a certain influence on Antoine’s remuneration package. To upset Roger might mean upsetting the man in Boston, which was not a risk worth taking for the cash strapped “Baron”.
Andre Flamant and Roger, therefore, seemed exempt from Mersky’s wrath, as was the pretty assistant housekeeper, whom Antoine fancied, and the ultra-smooth linkman who 9“guarded” the front entrance of the hotel. This man, George, was Antoine’s eyes and ears. He knew everyone that entered and left the hotel and persons of interest were noted for onward transmission to the boss. George, known around town as Gorgeous George because he was exceptionally handsome, had a charming word for everybody who stepped through the portals of the place, many of whom he was able to address by their name. He had special pockets in the tails of his uniform jacket to store the tips. George was certainly richer than his boss, Antoine. The Linkmens, as they were called, were jobs highly sought after by hotel employees. The level of their compensation was impossible to ascertain by the Inland Revenue Service.
Within the hotel, another of Antoine’s informers was Daniel, the subservient elevator operator. From his privileged position this shrivelled-up little man, with a slight hump on his back, could monitor the movements of almost all guests and, indeed, some of the management. Antoine Mersky was quick to prise information from sneaky Daniel.
Other than this small cadre of employees, Mersky was universally feared and detested by everyone else who worked in the place, since, almost everyone, from the lowest of the low to the first tier of management, had, at some time or other, been on the receiving end of his temper and foul mouth. The smallest incident would set him off, and, although he was right to be pointing out shortcomings in performance, he failed to realise that most of these failings had occurred as a result of his unlistening style of management. Instructions issued one day would be changed the next; policies agreed upon at a weekly meeting would be altered without notice. The lack of consistency in every respect caused chaos. The only thing that was consistent was Antoine Mersky’s bad temper and that, of course, made it hard for Roger, the personnel manager, who had to cope with multiple instances of distraught supervisors 10and employees as well as a very high staff turnover. This, in turn, led to more inefficiency, which, of course, led to more shouting and admonishment by the man in charge. It was a vicious and unpleasant atmosphere in which to work, and one which placed a severe strain on middle management and supervisory staff, including, of course, Roger.
The trait that angered Roger most about his boss, however, was the way he treated the female staff, continuously plying them with barely hidden suggestive and sexually oriented comments. He would slide up to the front office cashier’s desk and, almost under his breath, make sexually suggestive comments to the girls that worked there. Or he would prowl the hallways of the hotel looking for the prettiest room maids to pester them. And yet, he was so overbearing that none of these victims could face up to bringing any action against him. Often, they would just leave the job. Sometimes they would register a complaint with Roger in his personnel office but never did they have the guts to take him on in law. When Roger had tentatively and somewhat nervously raised these complaints with Mersky, he had merely laughed them off, saying that women get a kick out of such things. When Roger told Constance about this, she was livid. “What that man needs is an encounter with a baseball bat,” she would exclaim. “One day I will do it myself!”
Yet, despite this, the hotel was a success. Not because of the way it was operated but because of a shortage of first-class rooms in the city, which was emerging buoyantly from the dark days of the war. The Sloane Towers was the first new luxury hotel to be opened after the carnage of the Blitz. As far as the American market was concerned, there were no other hotels. The traditional, established, English hotels had been severely run down when they had been used as barracks or makeshift hospitals during the war. Some had been severely damaged in the Blitz. Their financial health was shaky. There 11simply had not been the money available to refurbish them, so the spanking new Sloane Towers was in a class of its own. Even its browbeaten staff could not endanger its success, which, of course, resulted in better wages and better tips for its employees. It was worth taking a beating from the lunatic in charge because there was nowhere else in town where one could earn so well.
From his role in “personnel”, Roger could see that the hotel could be even more successful with a better organised and less destructive manager, and he did his best to pass this message on to his “bosses” in America, but, from their perspective, even with this autocratic manager, the “numbers”, as the Americans called them, were staggeringly good, so why risk a change? Not only that: on the owners’ fleeting visits to London, Mersky was charm itself, particularly, they observed, with important hotel guests, whom he addressed in a blisteringly subservient manner. It would seem that there was nothing Roger, nor anyone else on the staff, could do about Antoine Mersky’s unpleasant and damaging management style. They would just have to make the best of it or leave for pastures greener.
At the weekends the three assistant managers took it in turns to be in charge of the hotel for twenty-four-hour shifts, which meant, of course, that they needed, on their shift of duty, to sleep over in the hotel, albeit “on call”. It was during these long shifts that Roger developed good relationships with the other weekend supervisors, which included the two restaurant managers, Bruno and Christian, as well as the banqueting manager, Monty. As their names implied, Bruno was Italian, Christian French and Monty hailed from the east end of London. All three knew how to kow-tow to Mersky when required, but all three hated and despised him.
Bruno looked and spoke like a character from the Chicago Mafia, yet he had been born in Soho, London, to Italian 12immigrant parents who owned a café in Greek Street. He resembled a mobster: thick set, swarthy, with a crumpled face and a drawl. The tuxedo he wore as head waiter never quite fitted, the black trousers always slightly too long, causing a little pile of black cloth on the upper part of his shoes. Nevertheless, despite this somewhat scruffy appearance, he was well known in the trade and he certainly knew how to look after his regular customers, who included a fair sprinkling from the world of entertainment. Bruno’s genuinely warm welcome and his clever mixture of friendly chat, whilst knowing his place, had won him many loyal customers. His big smile of greeting was an indelible feature of the room.
Christian, who ran the fine-dining restaurant, one floor above Bruno’s steakhouse, was the exact opposite of his Anglo/Italian colleague. Younger, by a decade, he was smooth and suave, deferent and charming. The “society” ladies of Knightsbridge and Chelsea adored him. He fitted their image of the perfect French maître d, always polite, always charming, and as smooth as polished glass.
There was nothing smooth, however, about the third member of the “club” – Monty, the banquet manager. Somewhere, deep in history, Monty’s family had also hailed from Italy, but any trace of an Italian accent had long gone, replaced by the distinct strains of a Londoner. Indeed, Monty was a Londoner through and through: a big confident handsome man, oozing self-assuredness, but with a charm that could upsell his product with importunity. Monty could be all business when it came to the complicated matter of organising major functions but his sense of humour and charm were never buried beneath his businesslike approach. Although Monty was at least ten years older than Roger, the pair quickly developed a strong bond.
At the weekends Mersky would retire to his country house in the Cotswolds, so his presence in the hotel was negligible. 13That did not prevent him, however, from making surprise visits to the property. Since he never signalled his intention to do so to the duty manager, the supervisory staff had devised a “look out” system to give early warning of a Mersky visit. Within minutes of him being spotted getting out of his car or even walking in the direction of the hotel, the warning signs would flash around the place and everybody would be on high alert. Even so, Mersky always found something wrong, something to cause the closest member of staff to him at the time to be at the receiving end of vitriolic abuse. The effect that this had on the supervisory staff was interesting. In a strange way the common enemy of Mersky moulded together those that worked for him into a team: a team that was united in one thing – hatred of the boss.
When Roger was on weekend duty, it became his practice to have a late-night beverage with the two restaurant managers and Monty. Long after the last diners had departed and the last table cleared, they would chew the fat, sitting around a restaurant table with clear views in several directions in case Mersky were to pay a surprise visit. It became a game, and the frequent topic of conversation, for them to dream up ways to eliminate the boss. Suggestions varied from taking a pot shot at him from the roof or the fire escape, to poisoning his morning coffee. These murderous ideas were, of course, fanciful, but not without a large slice of wishful thinking. The “murder club” would meet for an hour or so every Saturday evening at around midnight each time Roger was on that shift. It became a game to dream up the most gruesome way to remove the tyrant from their lives. The laughter at each outrageous plan was just the tonic they all needed.
One evening, the little group’s discussions took a distinctive turn towards reality. Monty’s first assistant, an attractive tall brunette, had reported to her boss that she was being sexually harassed by Mersky. These “approaches” always took 14place when Janet, the assistant, was in charge of functions in the absence of Monty. They generally took the form of sexually suggestive comments about Janet’s figure, but were now heading in a more active direction. Mersky had been trying to get Janet to accompany him to a suite. When Janet had refused, Mersky had later reported to Monty that she had been mismanaging the function in Monty’s absence. Monty was now faced with a tricky situation. He had taken Roger, as the personnel manager, into his confidence. Janet was an efficient deputy to Monty; he did not want to lose her and he certainly did not relish the thought of firing her just because she would not succumb to Mersky’s advances.
Roger, as head of the personnel function, knew that he had to act. He decided to confront Mersky. For a fellow who did not look for trouble, he knew that this would be trouble with a capital “T”.
The following Monday, after Mersky’s customary morning meeting with his department heads and assistant managers, Roger asked if he could stay on as the other participants were leaving. Mersky rarely closed his office door, so, as his department heads sidled out, he was somewhat surprised that Roger shut the door behind them and stayed in the room.
“Mein God,” exclaimed Antoine, “it must be something serious. Has there been a rape?”
“Not quite,” said Roger, still standing, but thankful for the opening, “but something along those lines.”
Mersky was instantly interested. His eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Sit down, young man. Tell me about it.”
Roger did his best to delicately describe the girl’s allegation that she had been inappropriately approached. He was nervous, but he gritted his teeth and attempted to describe the young lady’s accusation. Mersky immediately cut him short. His eyes now flashed with anger. As he spoke, he banged his fist on his desk. His coffee cup rattled on the silver tray. “The 15young lady is lying. The truth is that I had to reprimand her for sloppy work in managing the function. I have told Monty that she must go.”
Roger bravely stuck to his guns. “But, sir, if you persist you run the danger of her pursuing these allegations. Of course, I accept your word,” he lied, “but if you fire her, we could find ourselves facing public scrutiny. And, in her defence, we have previously only had good reports about her management of functions. Maybe we should give her a second chance?”
“No second chances,” Mersky almost shouted at Roger. “I don’t give second chances. The girl must go. Do you understand? The girl must go!”
By now, the man was in a rage. His famous temper had kicked in and Roger knew, that, whatever he said, it would be useless. He would just have to see to it that Janet received the most generous of severance packages and set about finding a replacement. He hated himself for being so weak. When he later told Constance about his conversation with his boss she was not impressed.
A few weeks later a similar problem found its way to Roger’s personnel office in the form of Mrs Perkins, the head housekeeper. Molly Perkins was a perfect fit for her job. Her experience was unsurpassed. Her last manager called her “Perfect Perkins”. She had been head housekeeper at both Claridge’s and the Savoy before being lured by Antoine to the Sloane Towers with a hefty salary increase. She was an organised and efficient manager, respected and loved by her employees and well received by the hotel guests. She ran a tight ship and when, on occasions, any of her staff had been directly reprimanded by Mersky, she had had the courage to take the matter up with him.
“If you have something to say to members of my staff, then you must say it to me and I will deal with it,” she had, on more than one occasion, had cause to tell her boss. By and large, this 16had worked and Antoine had not over-meddled in her affairs. But, unfortunately for Molly, Antoine had taken a shine to one of her assistants, Marylyn, who, sensing an opportunity, had, unlike the hapless Janet, encouraged him. Housekeepers are in the perfect position to carry on a dalliance with the boss; in this case she had the keys to three hundred bedrooms.
Marylyn, knowing that she currently held some sway over Mersky, had decided that his desires would be better catered for if she were to be promoted to head housekeeper. This would mean, of course, that Molly Perkins, had to go. Molly was too long in the tooth to not notice what was going on. Mersky was becoming more and more critical of her performance and increasingly unpleasant and curt in his dealings with her. He knew that it might be difficult and unpopular to fire her, which is what Marylyn was encouraging him to do, so he had resorted to one of his fall-back techniques, which was to make things so unpleasant for an employee that they decided to leave. Molly was not having any of this. She decided to enlist the help of Roger.
The late-night chat at the weekend meeting of the murder club turned serious. Although it was a breach of confidence, Roger shared with his colleagues the latest predicament regarding the head housekeeper. Monty, who had already lost his best assistant, Janet, as a result of Mersky’s sexual appetite, was incensed. “We have to stop this bastard,” he exclaimed. “If you can’t get any help from the Americans, then we will have to do it ourselves!”
“Do what?” asked the others, almost at once.
“Remove him. Fucking kill him. That’s what I mean!”
“Are you serious?” chimed Roger and Christian, again almost in unison.
“You bet I am. What say you, Bruno?”
Bruno thought about it for a moment, then, in a slow and serious tone, replied, “I think the man deserves it.”
17“He might well deserve it,” said Roger, “but the usual penalty for mistreating employees is decided by the courts, though there aren’t too many employees who have the means or the will to take this route.”
However, there was no doubt in the minds of the four late-night plotters that Antoine Mersky’s abuse of his position and his ongoing intimidation of people, who were in no position to defend themselves, needed to be brought to an end. But killing him, in Roger’s eyes, seemed over the top. Not only that, but it was, of course, illegal, in the eyes of the law but also by the word of God. Nevertheless, at this moment, Roger did not intervene. In fact, worse than that, he even contributed to the plot.
When the discussion continued, now fuelled by a few more brandies than normal for this late-night gathering, the subject of “method” came up. Mersky’s murder had to be accomplished in an untraceable manner. Shooting him was one possibility, but the risks involved seemed precarious and, anyway, none of the “club” owned a firearm. They could, of course, hire an assassin, but this posed the obvious threats of later blackmail and other, as yet unforeseen, problems. After twenty minutes or so of discussion the group settled on poison and here Roger was helpful. He had recently read a novel where the villain had been poisoned by a substance, which apparently left no traces. The little group signalled their approval of Roger’s suggestion. Then came the inevitable discussion about which of the four should be the assassin. Nobody volunteered. It was Bruno who broke the silence.
“I ’ave the method,” he suddenly exclaimed. “One of us will do this thing, but the rest of us must not know which it was.”
The other three were puzzled.
“This is what we do,” continued Bruno. “We take four playing cards – the Jack, the Queen, the King and the Ace. We shuffle them around and put them on the table, face down. 18We decide before that the persons who draw the King and the Ace, will be the – ’ow you say? – the designated killers. Nobody will tell anyone else in the group which card they drew. Two of us will know that we are not selected to kill and two of us will know that they have been chosen. Each of the chosen will not know who is the other chosen. Both of those chosen will set about poisoning, or otherwise despatching, the evil man. Whoever succeeds will never be known to the other three. Comprendi? This is old Italian recipe.”
Roger and the others thought about it for a moment. Then Christian, the restaurant manager, piped up, “If I am the one with the King, why wouldn’t I wait for the one with the Ace to go ahead and do the poisoning, or why wouldn’t he wait for me?”
“Good question, Christian. I suppose it will come down to which of the chosen has got the balls to do it – but two chances are better than one.”
A silence fell. Their minds, previously dulled by the brandy, were now churning. This was a wonderful method of committing the murder, yet staying anonymous. But would any of them, in the cold daylight, have the guts to go ahead? Roger thought about what he would do if he drew the Ace or King. He would probably hang back and hope that the other lethal card holder was braver than him and the probability was that the other “cardholder” would do the same. “What a fascinating scenario,” he thought, not quite sure of what would happen next, but rather certain that nothing would.
“Okay,” said Monti suddenly. “Let’s do it, before we change our minds. Get the cards, Bruno. I know you have some in your locker.”
The brandy glasses were refilled. Minutes later, Bruno returned with a pack of well-worn playing cards.
“Which suit?” he asked.
“Who gives a fuck?” said Monty
“Well, clubs it is,” said Bruno, as he placed the Jack, Queen, 19King and Ace of clubs on the table. Now he turned them over and shuffled them around until only a wizard could have known which one was which.
“Now, just to be clear. We will each pick a card. We will not show our card to anyone here, but will slide it back into the pack. If you pick an Ace or a King you are one of the designated killers. No one must ever know which card you picked. You will not know who the other designated killer is. You must act independently. Whichever of you murders Antoine Mersky must take that knowledge to their grave. You swear that you will never discuss this pact with anyone, including the persons sitting round this table. Is that understood and agreed by all here?”
Suddenly, the mood of the four men grew sombre. The earlier jocularity had evaporated. What had commenced as a crazy idea was quickly becoming a reality. They were about to be complicit in a murder; they might even be required to carry it out. Roger silently prayed that he would not draw the murderer’s card.
“Agreed,” said Monty with some enthusiasm.
“Agreed,” mumbled the other three, almost in unison.
With that Bruno reached forward and took a card. He glanced at it and pressed it to his chest. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. The others reached in and retrieved a card. Nobody uttered a word. The cards were one by one slid back into the pack, face down. The gaiety of an hour ago had gone, replaced with a deep sense of trepidation. An eerie silence followed. It seemed to last forever. The silence was broken by Roger. “Well, fellas,” he started, “I’m pretty tired. I’m off to my bed. Who knows when I will get disturbed.” With that he headed for the elevator. He wanted to call Constance to tell her what had just transpired but that would break his promise. After ablutions, he climbed into the fine sheets of the Sloane Towers. Sleep eluded him.
20Three weeks later Antoine Mersky dropped dead on the tennis court in the manicured gardens overlooked by the hotel. An ambulance was called by his opponent, but by the time the paramedics arrived he was well and truly gone. His death certificate indicated that he had suffered a heart attack. There was a collective feeling of relief at the Sloane Towers, for all except four men. They too were happy that this awful man was no longer in charge, but their collective guilt hung over them like a heavy cloud. Had he, they wondered, died of a heart attack, or had one of them actually honoured the pact? They would never know, but that collective guilt would never disappear. For one of the quartet it could be that the guilt had been earned.
It did not take long for the American owners to react. The junior management of the hotel and the staff assumed that a new experienced general manager would be recruited or drafted from a sister hotel in the States. They were quite surprised, therefore, when it was announced that Roger would be appointed general manager, jumping over the older, scruffy, Monsieur Voullemin and the more experienced but sterile Hans Ofal, neither of whom were impressed with the decision. Roger was stunned. The rest of the supervisors and staff were pleased. Roger was a popular choice, albeit that he was younger than most of those that would be called to work for him.
Although surprised by his sudden promotion, Roger took it in his stride. Constance was extremely proud of her young handsome husband, now the youngest general manager of a large London hotel. In the stuffy and hierarchical world of European hotels, Roger would have had to wait many years for his turn to be in charge, but, thanks to the Americans, he had now been given his chance at a very early age and was determined to make the most of it. For her young husband to be the general manager of one of London’s fanciest 21establishments was socially very uplifting for Constance and she planned to take full advantage. Where better to entertain her friends than the Sloane? As the manager’s wife of one of the city’s most prestigious establishments, her standing in the world of advertising agency executives had been greatly enhanced, even if she was only a secretary.
One year after Roger’s elevation to management, with the hotel going from strength to strength as the improved environment translated into better service and standards, Roger’s feeling of pride and satisfaction received a sudden jolt. A policeman visited him in his office.
“We are wondering if we could question some of your employees about the death of your predecessor. There appear to be some unanswered questions that need to be cleared up.”
Roger froze. One of the four must have spoken.
Chapter Two
“Vanilla Beach”
As police enquiries intensified over the next couple of months, Roger became increasingly concerned. Although he had not drawn one of the killer cards, he feared that, should one of the four members of the murder club be talking to the cops about their arrangement, he might be seen as some sort of accomplice. Up until this point the death of Antoine Mersky was still officially due to a heart attack, so why, Roger wondered, were the police so interested? Presumably they had also interviewed Monty, Christian and Bruno but none of them had mentioned it to Roger. This seemed really strange and, in some way, ominous. Roger had never spoken of the murder club to Constance, but she now sensed his tenseness. At first, she put it down to the pressures of the job of general manager. After all, Roger was very young and inexperienced to be managing a luxury hotel in London. The pressure of being in charge of over five hundred staff, she thought, must be very high. It was strange, because when he first took the job, he had seemed amazingly relaxed; latterly he had become tense and often distracted.
Fate, however, now intervened. The American owners of the Sloane Towers had hit some financial difficulties in Europe. In order to finance further properties in Germany and France they had borrowed heavily in D-Marks and Francs. The 23international exchange rate had swung vehemently against them and they were having difficulties in servicing the debt. To ease the pressure, they decided to sell their jewel in the crown, the Sloane Towers. The new buyers had not previously been in the hotel or tourism business, so they were keen for Roger to stay on. Roger was not sure he could see a future with them, since this could be their only hotel, but, more to the point, the sale gave him an opportunity to collect a sizeable redundancy payment and leave. In his mind, not only could he leave the Sloane Towers, but also England, thereby escaping, he hoped, the unwanted attention of the police.
Constance could not have been happier. The chance to go home with her handsome husband, to be close to her family and childhood friends seemed wonderful. She could not wait to swap the relentless greyness of London for the sunshine of South Africa. She worried that Roger might struggle to secure a job as good as the one he had in London, but his confidence that things would work out and his outstanding track record persuaded her otherwise. The time had come, she thought, to start a family of their own. What better place to do so than in South Africa with the support of her family and plenty of cheap labour to help?
But fate had a different plan for the Browns. When Dusty Evans, one of Constance’s uncles, who held some mysterious position in the South African foreign ministry, heard that Roger and Constance were coming home, he was delighted. Roger could be just the man he needed.
During the 1960s and ’70s, the South African government’s policy of Apartheid was fully entrenched, as was opposition to it from every other country in Africa. As a result, the air space above all African countries north of South Africa was closed to South African aircraft, be they commercial or military. This made it very difficult for South African Airways to operate long haul commercial flights to Europe or Asia, 24since, in those days, the range of aircraft meant that planes, even military ones, had to land somewhere in Africa to refuel.
One of Dusty’s tasks in the Foreign Office had been to identify island nations, off the coast of Africa, where South African planes could land and refuel. Large sums of money and other benefits were offered to Cape Verde off the West Coast of Africa and the Comoran Islands, off the East Coast, to let South African planes land. In both cases Dusty had been the man who had negotiated the deals, which entailed South Africa building and financing airstrips and airport buildings. Dusty was the right man for the job. Unlike almost all of his colleagues in the Foreign Office, Dusty was one of the few English descendants in government amongst a raft of Afrikaans-speaking colleagues. As such, he had been far more acceptable to the respective governments in the islands off Africa.
In the case of the Comores, part of the deal also involved the financing and building of a tourist hotel, the one and only resort in the country. This had happened, but what Dusty and his colleagues now realised was that building a hotel is one thing, but operating it is another, especially in such an economically backward country as Comoros and on a remote island, to boot. The hotel, the Vanilla Beach had, in two instances, been leased to operators, both of whom had failed and eventually walked away. Attempting to run a hotel in a location with extremely limited airlift and a tortuous supply chain had just proved impossible and the hotel had been closed down and “mothballed”. Dusty had helplessly witnessed his government’s investment deteriorating. He desperately needed someone who knew what he was doing to salvage the situation. When he heard that his nephew-in-law was coming to Africa, his interest was piqued. This young man had done so well in the hotel business in London at such a tender age. What was to say he couldn’t be just the man his country needed?
25Constance and Roger had imagined settling down in the leafy suburbs of Johannesburg or the beautiful countryside of the Cape, where Roger would in some way enter the tourism business and the pair of them would raise a lovely family. Dusty had other ideas. And so it was that Roger and Constance decided to take a look at the challenge of the Vanilla Beach, persuaded by the offer of twenty percent ownership of the hotel on the basis that they would put in a five-year stint, and a management contract which, if things went well, could be three times the salary Roger had been earning in England. This was Roger’s chance to earn some real money and, although he and Constance realised that this would not be what she had had in mind for their new life in South Africa, Constance was comfortable with the decision. “What have we really got to lose?” She convinced herself. “If it doesn’t work out, we can always come home. Let’s at least go and take a look – and we can make babies anywhere!”
Less than three weeks after the couple had left London, they were setting foot on Ngazidja, more easily known as Grande Comore, one of the three major islands in the independent nation of the volcanic Comoros Islands. Very few scheduled airline flights landed in the Comores. In fact, the only two remaining international flights were a weekly flight from Paris on a cattle truck of a 747 which had five hundred seats crammed together and stopped en route at six other African countries, where most of the passengers disembarked, and a weekly small passenger jet from Johannesburg operated by South African Airways and subsidised by the South African government as part of the “landing rights” deal. Both planes frequently arrived in Moroni, the capital, with less than ten passengers on board.
Roger’s first impression was encouraging. The runway seemed to be in a good state of repair and the airport buildings, although modest, were relatively new and in reasonable 26
