Free Becoming Strangers by Louise Dean Page B

him. Here he was presented as part Werner Erhard,
part Ernest Hemingway. And essentially, he was perfect for all of it, the clammy-handed Mancunian grateful for the chance to rub shoulders with the moneyed classes.
    He'd already had his daily team briefing with senior members of staff, and now, last job at nine in the evening, he was running through one or two of the same points with Abner and Emma, the Catering Manager and Domestic Staff Manager. He found the Caribbean staff quite proper in a way, he'd expected more of the rum-swigging, pot-smoking,
'Here com' de Lilt', mon,'
stereotype. But this particular island was one of the most religious places on the earth. It was almost impossible to get staffing for Sunday mornings. In a cunning pact with the forces of darkness, he held a weekly Saturday Night Fever party, dedicated to fond memories of school discos, and he worked the crowd hard to make sure there'd be no early risers. That way breakfast would be less of an issue and lunch an eggs-and-potato-settle-my-stomach-before-I-shit-myself sort of affair which could be managed by a line of just two or three in the kitchen.
    He was explaining to Abner and Emma that their jobs emanated from his own, which under his interpretation meant that they were 'alcohol facilitators.'
    'They're no trouble when they're passed out round the pool, are they?' he was saying. But Emma had been to college and was talking about increasing their captive spending—spa packages, tours—and even tipping.
    'Your Brits won't tip,' he said, matter-of-factly, turning over her other suggestions in his mind. He liked to
present himself as someone on the side of the common man—and his drinking. He liked a pint himself. He persuaded himself that it was best not to milk the customers, but to make sure they came back.
    There was a small commotion outside the frosted glass double doors to his office and an old man burst in, wearing a string vest, trousers and braces.
    'Hello-hello, mate,' he said, 'can I help you, Sir?'
    'I've lost my wife,' the old man said.
    'Not entirely bad news, then,' he said, smiling broadly. Abner and Emma looked at him, both shocked and afraid. (Oh, the old girl would turn up; she'd be in the spa more than likely.)
    'Mr Davis, isn't it?' he said. He did his homework; he read the names and profiles of all his guests for the week. He'd remembered this couple, on account of their ages. He might have known there would be 'issues.' In his experience the geriatric punter was more hassle than he was worth. That and the new parent, terrible pains in the arse, expected everyone else to suffer along with them, couldn't get over their indignation that God or biology had done this to them, inflicted them with rheumatoid arthritis/a kid.
    'So, when did you last see Mrs Davis?'
    George was rubbing his jowls left and right with his big hand, 'Not since the morning.'
    'Did she go off for the day then, off on a tour or something?'
    'No,' said George and his face was suddenly
wretched, 'I left her in the room and I got a bit carried away with the day's events, sat out having lunch with a new acquaintance, had a few drinks, went back to the room in the afternoon, late, and I must have fallen asleep.'
    Steve checked his watch again; it was just after nine-thirty.
    'I just woke up,' said the old fellow.
    'Right. That's quite a while she could have been missing, then, Sir,' said Steve.
    'Yes. That's what I've been saying to your receptionist and the bellboys. Have they seen her, I've been asking them, and they keep telling me to come and see you. Why can't they just answer me?'
    The entire staffing shift had changed at five, thought Steve. He'd have to call some people. Lots of people. But first they should check the premises.
    'Now you're not to worry, Sir, we're going to sort this out, we're going to make a full search and concurrently,' he paused over the word, hesitant for a moment, but it held good, 'we'll make inquiries of all the staff here