Hotel du Barry by Lesley Truffle Page B

hunt this pusbag down . And when I find him, I’ll tear him limb from limb and remove his fingernails with a pair of rusty pliers. Shove his testicles through a kitchen mincer and feed his brain to the cellar rats. Or, better still, hang the sonofabitch on a meat hook in the cold room. Let him slowly bleed to death. Drip, drip, drip.
    Jim Blade often had revenge fantasies. They kept him company in his darkest hours. Sometimes in his capacity as a professional detective, he’d been able to act on his murderous impulses. It felt good.
    As they reclined in bed one Sunday morning, Jim turned to his nearest and dearest.
    â€˜I’m really worried about our kid. I don’t think I’ve protected her enough; she’s seen way too much. There are too many sordid goings-on in the hotel. She knows as much about sexual perversity as a Soho brothel madam.’
    Bertha Brown plumped up a pillow. ‘Fret not, Jim. Children born during and after the war had shorter childhoods. They witnessed ugly and frightening events. Cat will be just fine. She knows she’s deeply loved.’
    â€˜She’s still taking an unhealthy interest in Matthew Lamb.’
    â€˜I know, she’s kept his portrait. It’s still hidden up in the old nursery.’
    Jim sat upright. ‘That bastard is as much fucking trouble dead as he was alive.’
    â€˜Her curiosity is natural. And that painting would appeal to any sixteen-year-old girl. It’s mysterious and sexy. Cat’s got noidea that Matthew Lamb was as devious and shifty as a sewer rat. Nor has she heard the full story about that hard-hearted French bitch.’
    Jim frowned. An acute pain shot through his gut. ‘God, I hope she never finds out. You didn’t tell her too much, did you?’
    â€˜Don’t be daft, Jim, of course not. But her curiosity is only to be expected.’
    â€˜Has she said anything to you about wanting to be my understudy?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜She’s taken to following me around. Wants to know how I’d go about finding a missing person. You know what I think?’
    â€˜That it’s something to do with her birth mother?’
    â€˜Yep. It’s not just the questions. Cat’s also made several trips down to the labyrinth. She’s been snooping through the old reception desk books. I think she’s trying to work out which debutantes were in the hotel the morning she was abandoned.’
    Bertha wiggled down to get more comfortable in bed. ‘Curiosity about her mother is natural. It’s just a phase. Now, about this detective business. Danny reckons Cat’s got a real gift and should go to art school. Rather than wind up working in the du Barry hotels. Shouldn’t we be supporting that?’
    â€˜Cat’s portraits are great. I’ve got a few up on the walls of the boiler room. Her sketch of my bookie, Marvin Jones, is a classic. She really caught his shifty eyes and lean ferret face.’
    Bertha whispered in his ear. ‘Jim, I’d kill for a nice cup of tea. In fact, I would amply reward the first gentleman who procured me a pot of the stuff. Sexual perversities would be generously offered in return.’
    â€˜Of course, dearest. I’ll sort it right away.’
    The bedsprings groaned with relief as Jim heaved himself to his feet. Wearing nothing but his watch, he padded across the bedroomcarpet. Bertha eyed his hairy back appreciatively. He was built like a brown bear, covered front and back in a thick brown pelt.
    Bertha was crazy in love with Jim. Her former husband had neither pampered nor appreciated her. Bertha discovered after their honeymoon that Bernie Brown’s one true love was Guinness stout. She also came to the conclusion that he’d only proposed to her because he was work shy, hated being a chef and hoped she’d support him. As if. Soon Bernie’s mask fell off, his violent nature erupted and he was sacked from a prestigious