Andy McDermott
Murder on the Orient Excess
Mali Kanthachai forced a lengthy yawn out of her system and tugged the creases from her lilac blouse before entering the airliner’s first class cabin. The flight from Bangkok to London’s Heathrow airport was a long one, twelve hours and fifty minutes with an hour still to go, but the rules for cabin crew working in first class were strict: they must appear smart and attentive at all times, always ready to serve the wealthy passengers.
All twelve of the private suites at the front of the Airbus A380’s lower deck were occupied, and first class passengers could be notoriously demanding, but it had been a relatively easy shift for Mali and her crewmates. The Air Thailand flight had left Suvarnabhumi Airport after midnight, the difference in time zones meaning that touchdown at Heathrow would be at seven in the morning, so most of the passengers had slept through the majority of the journey. It was now time to rouse them, giving enough time to prepare individual breakfasts and allow everyone to shower before landing.
Some were already awake, she saw as she started down the port aisle. Each suite was enclosed by a two-metre-high partition, the aisle windows fitted with blinds, and two were already open to the world. Mali tried not to frown at the thought of the man inside one, who had never even closed his blinds during the flight. Mr Jarnow had been the big black fly in an otherwise agreeable shift, a grouchy workaholic who never said thank you and was making yet another Skype call on his laptop. The partition walls did not go all the way to the cabin ceiling — a security measure, to ensure that nobody could fully isolate themselves to do anything illegal or threatening to the aircraft — and she had earlier been forced to ask him to keep his voice down so as not to disturb the other passengers. His response had been far from friendly.
However, she had no such complaints about the man in the other open suite. She gently tapped on the glass. ‘Good morning, Mr Gold,’ she said as he slid back the door.
‘Ah, good morning, Mali,’ he replied with a warm, broad smile. She was sure from her regular patrols of the cabin that he hadn’t slept for long, having intermittently heard the soft sounds of typing on a laptop from his suite, but it had certainly been enough; there wasn’t a trace of tiredness on the blond-haired man’s lean and handsome face. He was supposedly famous in his native Britain, and while the young stewardess hadn’t heard of him before the flight she could easily believe it. The impeccably dressed Mr Gold had an effortless charm, which he had deployed by flirting shamelessly not just with her but the entire cabin crew, and even some of the passengers — ladies and gentlemen alike. ‘I take it we’re in the flight’s final furlongs?’
She didn’t quite understand the last word, but got its meaning. ‘Yes, Mr Gold. We’ll be landing in about an hour. Would you like your breakfast?’
‘Oh, most certainly. You have my order?’
‘Yes — the full English?’
He smiled again. ‘Splendid. Oh, and as well as some coffee, may I trouble you for a glass of Dom Pérignon as an aperitif?’
The company rules also demanded that cabin crew not challenge or criticise first class passengers unless they were breaching the rules of flight, yet she somehow knew that not only would she get away with it in this case, but that he would be almost disappointed if she didn’t. ‘Another one?’ she said, the corners of her mouth curving slyly upwards. ‘And it is only six o’clock in the morning.’
He had a riposte ready, as she’d expected. ‘Ah, but I’m still on Bangkok time,’ he said cheerfully, tapping the face of his Hublot watch. ‘It’s past lunchtime over there, so if anything I’m overdue for a refill.’
Mali knew that he had consumed well over a bottle of vintage champagne during the course of the flight, but he didn’t appear in any way drunk or disruptive, so decided there was no reason not to indulge him. ‘There are a few bottles left. I will open one for you.’
‘Well, it would be a shame to waste them. Thank you.’
She smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgement before heading back down the aisle. Behind the first class section was a galley and service area. She opened one of the fridges. Funny — she thought there had been four of the black bottles left, but there were only three. One of the other stewardesses must have opened another while she was occupied with something else. She uncorked one with a loud pop! and poured a glass for Mr Gold, then after taking it to him returned to the task of rousing the other passengers.
Mr Jarnow was still talking to someone via Skype and did not appreciate being interrupted, but the rest of the travellers were more appreciative. Mr Lewis was a less disagreeable British businessman, and the elderly American couple on their second honeymoon, Charles and Evelyn Grogan, were delighted at the prospect of a gourmet breakfast. Even the shy and nervous young Mr Niratpattanasai’s fear of flying seemed to have subsided.
Another five people were awoken, then Mali came to the last suite on the starboard side. Mr Perch had not been as troublesome as Mr Jarnow, but early in the flight he had made a nuisance of himself by standing outside Mr Gold’s cabin and talking to him — the two clearly knew each other — over the partition. It soon became obvious that the latter had no interest in holding a conversation, so one of the other attendants had asked him to stop bothering Mr Gold. For a moment it seemed that Mr Perch was going to cause a scene, but then he returned to his suite without a word. When Mali served his dinner later, he seemed to have forgotten about the incident entirely.
The blinds were down. ‘Mr Perch?’ she said, tapping on the glass. No answer. ‘Mr Perch, we’ll be starting our descent soon. Would you like me to bring your breakfast?’
Still no reply. Mali hesitated before knocking again, more loudly. ‘Mr Perch, are you all right?’
She listened for any sounds of movement over the constant background whine and hiss of the engines and air conditioning. Nothing. Becoming concerned that he had fallen ill, she tried the door. It was locked. Still getting no response on one final, insistent knock, she took out a little plastic master key and used it to release the lock. She opened the door.
Mr Perch was in his seat, a look of pained surprise frozen on his ashen face. His white shirt was stained with red, a large blotchy teardrop having oozed from a small hole directly over his heart.
Mali’s shocked scream echoed around the cabin.
Detective Inspector John Brownlow checked with the white-overalled Crime Scene Manager that it was clear for him to enter, then made his way into the A380’s first class cabin.
‘Morning, sir,’ called Detective Constable Rachel Meadows, her sharply-cut dark bob waving as she nodded to him from the far end of the starboard aisle.
‘Morning, Meadows.’ Despite his best efforts, the middle-aged Brownlow was tending towards overweight and had to squeeze past another figure in white, peering into one of the open suites as he did so. ‘Never been in first class before. Nice. So this is how the other half lives.’
‘More like the half of the one per cent,’ Meadows said with derision. ‘I checked how much one of these cabins costs for the flight. Ten thousand pounds.’
Brownlow was both impressed and appalled. ‘Ten grand? What is it, silk sheets and stewardesses feeding you peeled grapes?’ He reached his young partner and protégé, looking into the suite she was standing outside. ‘So, what have we got?’
‘We’ve got one dead newspaper editor. Desmond Perch, age forty-six, in charge of the—’
‘Yeah, I know who he is.’ Perch was an outspoken figure in the British media, a tabloid editor whose paper rode high on a mixture of celebrity gossip, sport and populist campaigning against all of which its readership disapproved — which was most things, Brownlow reflected. The dead man looked older than he was, face deeply lined from caffeine-fuelled late nights at the office and with a very conservatively styled combover failing to cover encroaching baldness. A closer look at the wound. ‘Shot?’