Chapter 2
2
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell them as carefully as I can. ‘I think there must be some mistake. I don’t know anyone called Eileen Strickland.’
‘Let’s not play games,’ DS Hollis says abruptly. ‘She was literally standing next to you at the moment of your arrest.’
‘That was Madame Dufour,’ I insist.
DI Winter laughs softly. ‘Of course. I keep forgetting that’s what she’s calling herself now. Fine. Tell us about your relationship with Madame Dufour.’
‘She’s the owner of the hotel where I work. I’m her hotel manager.’
‘I see. And how long have you worked there?’
‘Just under two years.’
‘So you would have been twenty-six when you started?’
‘Twenty-seven. It’s my birthday today.’
‘Of course it is. Many happy returns. Forgive my ignorance, but is it normal for hotel managers to be so young?’
‘No, but I have more experience than most people my age. My parents own a small hotel in Ludlow, so I’ve grown up in the business. My degree is in hospitality and I’ve been working in the industry from the moment I graduated.’
‘Where were you working before Hotel Dufour?’
‘I was assistant manager at The Old Stable Yard in Islington.’
‘Hm. I don’t know that one.’
‘It’s not there any more. It went under.’
‘Check it out, will you, DS Hollis?’ DI Winter instructs, and he writes it on his pad.
‘OK, so how did you get the position at Hotel Dufour? Did you approach Eileen, I mean Madame Dufour, or did she approach you?’
‘When I found out that The Old Stable Yard was closing, I signed on with an agency that specialises in the hospitality industry. They sent my CV to Madame Dufour, among others. She interviewed me and contacted me a couple of days later to offer me the position. It was a step up from my previous job, the pay was good and onsite accommodation was included, so it was a no-brainer.’
‘And you didn’t have any suspicions about her? Nothing about her seemed off in any way?’
‘No. I mean, she’s a little old-fashioned, I suppose, but she runs a tight ship.’
‘Old-fashioned? Can you give an example?’
‘She insists that the beds are made up with sheets and blankets. I suggested to her once, early on before I knew what she was like, that most people slept under duvets these days and they might prefer them. Plus it would make life easier for the housekeeping staff.’
‘That sounds reasonable. What did she say?’
‘She was furious. She told me there was no way her guests were going to sleep on glorified dog beds, like animals, and she wasn’t in business to make life easier for the housekeepers.’
‘Never a truer word spoken,’ DS Hollis mutters under his breath.
‘Let’s turn our attention to the housekeepers for a moment,’ DI Winter continues. ‘How many rooms do you have in the hotel?’
‘Forty-eight.’
‘And, if I understand correctly, there are twelve housekeepers. That seems a lot to me. Is it?’
‘It is a lot, but we usually have to turn the rooms over twice a day, so it’s a greater workload than most hotels.’
‘I assume part of your role is supervising the housekeeping staff?’
‘No. They’re under Maria, the head of housekeeping. I spot check a bedroom every so often, but Maria is very protective of her domain, so I have to be careful not to tread on her toes too much.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘No, but Madame and Maria go way back, apparently, and Madame trusts her implicitly.’
‘So, just to clarify,’ DI Winter continues in her conversational tone. ‘Maria is in charge of the housekeeping staff and, beyond the odd bedroom inspection, you have nothing to do with them?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Tell me about your clientele,’ she says. ‘Are they mostly repeat customers, or are they mainly one-offs?’
‘A lot of them are regulars.’
‘And when you say regular, how regular? Once a week? Once a month?’
‘It varies. Some guests are members of our subscription plan, and they might stay several times a week. Others are less frequent. They also divide between those who stay with us overnight and those who use the siesta service.’
‘OK, there’s a lot of information in there that I’d like to unpack, if you don’t mind. What is the subscription plan?’
‘The best way of describing it is like being a member of a gym. You pay a subscription, and that entitles you to a number of stays each month. It works out cheaper than if you were just to book the room and, if you subscribe to the overnight package, you get dinner and breakfast included.’
‘And, like the gym, a good workout is guaranteed,’ DS Hollis observes wryly.
‘Thank you, DS Hollis,’ DI Winter says firmly before turning back to me. ‘And what is the siesta service?’
‘That’s our afternoon package, for people who just need to catch a few hours of sleep in the middle of the day. A lot of our guests have demanding jobs where they need to be in the office at antisocial hours, so an afternoon kip keeps their energy levels up.’
‘And are these things normal for a hotel to offer?’ DS Hollis asks.
‘Many hotels have loyalty schemes and, although the siesta service is unusual, we’re not unique in offering it. It’s a way to maximise the revenue from each room and the entire hospitality industry is looking for innovative ways to make the most of their assets these days. Margins are tight, so every little helps.’
‘I think there’s a considerable difference between, say, a Hilton Honours card and the kind of loyalty scheme you were offering,’ DS Hollis challenges. I can see he’s playing the bad cop to DI Winter’s good cop, and I decide I don’t like him at all.
‘I don’t think that’s a fair comparison,’ I reply, trying to keep my voice light. ‘Our offering would be better compared to being a member of one of the London clubs.’
This is obviously too much for DS Hollis. ‘Are you seriously trying to compare your squalid little brothel to the RAC club, or the Garrick?’
‘Why are you so convinced that Hotel Dufour is a brothel?’ I ask.
‘We’ll come to that,’ DI Winter says, shooting her colleague a warning look. ‘Tell me a little bit more about your guests. Is there an equal split of men and women, or does one gender feature more prominently?’
‘It’s almost exclusively men,’ I tell her.
‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘Not really. Madame Dufour has been targeting a specific demographic.’
‘Which is?’
‘We’re in the heart of the City. We have investment banks, stockbrokers, law firms and the like on our doorstep. They’re our target market.’
‘And don’t women work in any of those industries?’
‘They do, but they’re still dominated by men.’
‘So it doesn’t seem unusual to you that your clientele is exclusively male.’
‘It isn’t exclusively male. I just said it was mainly men.’
‘You said, and I quote, “It’s almost exclusively men”,’ DS Hollis challenges.
‘That’s right, but I think that probably reflects the demographic of our target market.’
‘Fine.’ DI Winters takes over again. ‘Let’s move on to your domestic arrangements. You said accommodation was included?’
‘That’s right. The top floor is set aside for staff, and I have a room there.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘It’s not unusual.’
‘Who else lives onsite?’
‘Madame, obviously. Maria and Jock.’
‘Jock?’
‘The hotel chef.’
She consults her notes. ‘You mean Andrew McLaughlin.’
‘Yes, but everyone calls him Jock because he’s Scottish. It’s a nickname, like calling him Paddy if he was Irish.’
‘It seems like everybody in this place is hiding under a false name.’ DS Hollis sighs. ‘Why would a chef need to live onsite?’
‘Because Madame likes him to be available at all times, in case a guest wants a sandwich or something in the middle of the night.’
‘Does that happen a lot? Your clientele waking at two in the morning with the munchies?’ he asks, and I spot him writing the word ‘drugs’ in large letters on his pad, with a question mark afterwards.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ I tell him firmly, anxious to shut down that line of enquiry. If Madame finds out the police think she’s been dealing drugs on top of whatever misinformation they’re already working with, it could give her a coronary.
‘Why offer it then?’
‘Because it’s what all the good hotels do. If you have guests that have come from abroad, for example, they may be jetlagged and want to eat at strange times of the day.’
‘But you’ve just told me that international guests aren’t your target market.’ DS Hollis is obviously determined not to let this go.
‘They aren’t, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t cater for them. It’s also something we charge a premium for, because it’s out-of-hours service, same as shoe shine and overnight laundry.’
‘What kind of premium?’ DI Winter asks. ‘If I wanted a bacon sandwich at two in the morning, what would I be looking at?’
‘Twenty-five pounds, plus twelve and a half per cent service charge.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m in the wrong job.’
‘It’s not unusual for hotels to upsell to their guests,’ I tell her.
‘Certainly not in your case,’ DS Hollis retorts.
I’ve had enough of his smart remarks. ‘Are you going to tell me what this is about?’ I ask him, trying and failing not to sound tetchy.
DS Hollis looks at DI Winter, who gives him an almost imperceptible nod.
‘With pleasure,’ he says. ‘Your precious Madame Dufour is, as we previously mentioned, better known as Eileen Strickland, to the police at least. She has a string of criminal convictions as long as my arm, dating back to the 1960s, and has done several stints in prison.’
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You must have her mixed up with someone else. Madame would never?—’
‘There’s no mix up, I can assure you.’ He taps the screen a few times and a grainy mugshot of a young woman appears. Although it must have been taken many years ago, it’s clearly Madame. I’m gobsmacked and just stare at it in silence.
‘This is from her first arrest, for prostitution,’ he continues after I’ve studied the picture for a little while. ‘She was arrested a number of times between 1968 and 1974 for the same offence, but obviously started to lose her allure as time went by and had to seek out new income streams.’ He swipes the screen and another picture of Madame appears, looking slightly older.
‘This is the first time she received a custodial sentence, in 1975,’ DS Hollis informs me. ‘Funnily enough, it was for running a brothel. After her release, she turned her hand to pornography, and was arrested again in 1981 under the Obscene Publications Act.’ He swipes the screen to reveal yet another picture.
‘Just because someone has a shady past doesn’t mean everything they do is against the law,’ I protest.
‘Indeed not, but you can understand why we might have been interested. We placed an undercover officer in the hotel, posing as a guest. What do you think happened?’
‘I would hope he or she had an enjoyable stay and gave us a positive review on TripAdvisor.’
‘Lose the attitude. You’re not funny,’ DS Hollis snarls. ‘You know as well as I do that no sooner had he called to ask for an extra pillow than a member of your so-called housekeeping team knocked on his door to offer him a smorgasbord of sexual services. Are you seriously trying to tell me that all this was going on under your nose and you didn’t have a clue?’
‘Of course I didn’t!’ I exclaim, my heart now thudding uncomfortably in my chest.
‘Why did you have all that cash on you when we arrested you?’
‘It was my birthday present from Madame!’ I’m aware that I’m raising my voice to match his, and I remind myself to keep calm and not wind them up.
‘Here’s the problem, Beatrice. I don’t believe a word you’re saying,’ DS Hollis counters. ‘In your own words, you’ve just told us that there are a number of aspects of this so-called “hotel” that should have raised red flags, but you expect us to believe you didn’t suspect anything untoward was going on? You’re either fantastically na?ve or an accomplished liar. Which is it?’
I’m aware of the tears starting to fall down my cheeks as I look at them imploringly. ‘I didn’t know a thing, I promise,’ I tell them.
‘Interview terminated,’ he sighs eventually. ‘Time is six forty-five. Wait here, Beatrice, until the custody officer comes to take you back to your cell.’ They both stand, and the door clicks softly behind them, leaving me alone in the room again.
For the first time, it dawns on me quite how much trouble I’m in. Stupid, arrogant Beatrice, thinking the police had made a mistake. I should have asked for a solicitor. I might be telling the truth, but that means nothing if they don’t believe it. I stare at the cold, untouched cup of tea as the tears pour down my cheeks and drip off my chin.