It was two o’clock the following afternoon that Huss caught up with Enver. He was on his break on the split shift that he was working and he met Huss in the Oriental Garden, which was one of the many sections of the hotel’s vast grounds.
There was a replica Chinese pagoda (you could, of course, hire it for picnics and parties in the summer at exorbitant expense), maple and cherry trees, bamboo groves, a Zen garden put together by an internationally famous consultant in feng shui, and a curved Japanese-style bridge that spanned a pond full of lilies and koi carp. There had been a pond with carp there as long as the house had been existence and many of the fish were rumoured to be a century old, or older.
Enver and Huss were on this bridge now, feeding them bread that Enver had brought from the kitchen. There were so many carp the waters seemed to be boiling as the huge, glistening fish fought over the scraps.
‘Some of them might be as old as the house itself,’ said Enver. ‘Carp can live an amazingly long time.’
Huss wasn’t interested in fish.
‘So, any leads from the kitchen, any sign of Al-Akhdaar or Eleuthera activists?’
Enver shook his head.
‘Nobody’s remotely interested in politics or religion. Sex, yes, drugs, yes, booze, yes. It’s a kitchen, for God’s sake. Mind you, if I worked there much longer I’d probably join the anarchists. You get paid more and treated better at my auntie Demet’s restaurant and she’s not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness.’
Huss had met Enver’s Aunt Demet and thought conditions must be bad in the Rosemount.
Enver shook his head gloomily. ‘I think it’s the contrast really that sticks in the throat. The staff here are all on minimum wage, much less really when you factor in the unpaid overtime, and the clientele can afford a lunch that costs more than they earn in a week. I’m surprised we don’t all rise up and burn the place to the ground.’
‘Well, don’t start giving them ideas, Enver Demirel,’ said Huss severely.
The grey, Gothic pile of the hotel was visible through the trees. Huss thought of the kitchen staff back in their accommodation in their two-hour kitchen break, fucking like rabbits, taking drugs, having a couple of snatched beers, sleeping in exhausted heaps in odd places, under tables, in linen cupboards, until the evening service began and they could all work like crazy until midnight.
She hoped that Enver might come across something to cast doubt on Hinds’s guilt. If only he hadn’t run away. And what the hell was he doing on that video? None of her colleagues believed that Hinds was anything other than guilty of two murders now. Any theories that Eleuthera were behind Kettering’s death or that of Elsa were void. Even Huss was beginning to doubt herself.
As for Evan:
‘We all do daft things at university,’ Templeman had said. ‘Quite frankly it would have been weirder if he’d been a member of the Young Conservatives. What sort of political organization would you expect to find a Comp Sci student in other than the anarchists? It’s absolutely meaningless. Get a grip, Melinda.’
No one was interested in the anarchists now. Including Enver.
‘I can’t see any likely candidates for killing Schneider,’ said Enver. ‘Nobody can spell “anarchist” in that kitchen, much less want to be one.’
‘Apart from you.’ Huss threw another piece of bread to the fish. Enver’s face wore its typical doleful expression. He was still wearing his chef’s jacket under his heavy coat. It was partially unbuttoned and Huss could see the swell of his pectoral muscles. His hands lay on the granite balustrade, he had exceptionally powerful fingers. There was a painful-looking crescent-shaped burn on one thick wrist and his left forefinger had a blue plaster wrapped around it. Huss found this damage oddly compelling. The cold breeze ruffled his thick black hair and his drooping moustache bristled.
‘Apart from me,’ agreed Enver. ‘And my fellow Muslims aren’t going to be joining the Wahhabis anytime soon. One of the Chechens, Arzu, is even on suspension for “inappropriate behaviour” with lady guests.’
‘Is “inappropriate behaviour” jihadi extremism?’ asked Huss teasingly.
Enver failed to see the joke. ‘No, it’s shagging the guests. Arzu’s sex on a stick, seemingly. Mind you, some women just like fucking chefs.’
Huss moved closer to Enver and slid her arms around his body. She was shorter than he was and she rested her forehead on his chin. Her thick blonde hair tickled his nose, he could smell the shampoo she used.
Huss’s hands slipped under his coat and chef’s jacket. She pulled him closer to her, her palms stroking the rock-hard muscles of his lats and lower back. Her own back gave a warning yelp of pain. She ignored it. I’ll go to the doctor next week, she thought. She lifted her head up and looked into his sad, brown eyes.
‘I want to fuck a chef, Enver,’ she breathed.
‘I don’t know if I’ve got time, Melinda,’ said Enver despairingly. ‘I’ve got to make seventy-two bridge rolls and debone thirty chicken thighs…’
Huss’s hand slid lower down the front of his body, found what she was looking for.
‘… for a ballotine…’
‘I’m sure you’ll make time,’ whispered Huss. ‘Now let’s go back to your room.’
‘But I’ve got to poach the chicken mousse…’
‘Sod the mousse, Enver… Service, Enver, that’s what you say, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Service, Enver, now, please.’
He nodded. The ballotine could wait. It would have to.
Arm in arm they headed back to the Rosemount.