SYNOPSIS
The White Room tells the story of Robin Taylor, a London architect, who develops a passion for Middle Eastern
culture. When he discovers his wife Carla’s infidelity, he takes her to Oman and introduces her to Noorah, an Arab lady, who educates her on life as a Muslim wife. Carla leaves Oman disillusioned, thinking that she could never sacrifice the free society in which she has been raised, and soon embarks on a second affair with Simon, alias Thunderbolt, who she meets on an internet website for adulterers. Carla becomes obsessed with Simon and hopes that he will provide an escape route from Robin who is starting to impose strange Middle Eastern practices into their marriage. When Robin discovers the second affair, he is shocked at a culture where infidelity is considered acceptable practice and seeks revenge using his knowledge of Sharia law. Very swiftly events become uncontrollable, resulting in murder and the disappearance of two married women. The crimes are assigned to Detective Inspector Tom Fleming who solves the mysteries under unusual circumstances one year later.
A PRIVATE DETECTIVE (EXCERPT)
The following morning, Robin sat at Carla’s bistro table with the yellow pages spread out in front of him. His head was groggy from too much whiskey and his lips were dry and cracked from a night of open-mouthed snoring and lack of
fluids. The whiskey hadn’t obliterated Tom’s news; it had made it worse. He wandered over to the coffee machine and pressed the button for a double expresso, but as the hot black fluid dispensed, the smell which usually aroused him, made him nauseous. He opted instead for a breakfast of effervescent hangover tablets which he dissolved in a glass of tepid water. His face squirmed as the bitter lemon bubbles burst on his tongue. Returning to the yellow pages, he turned over blocks of pages until he reached the appropriate section. One advert stood out from the rest in an outlined box:
PETER W SIMMONS
Private Detective
Discretion Guaranteed
Available 24 Hours. Telephone 07653241251
It was impossible to know whether Peter W Simmons was good at his profession; to Robin’s knowledge there were no ‘Which’ guides to hiring a private detective. He flicked open his mobile phone to see Carla’s face as his screensaver. “Bitch!” he shouted, spitting at the phone. “Effing bitch!” He entered the number from the advert, double-checking it was correct before pressing the send button. Peter answered the phone personally in a well-spoken voice and scheduled in Robin for an appointment that afternoon. By then the hangover would be gone.
His address was Mount Street, in the attic above an antique shop showcasing an extravagant display of Ming vases and other Oriental knick-knacks. It was his private home; a one bedroom apartment which doubled up as an office. Robin pressed the buzzer, noticing the video camera which would be transporting his image up to apartment 4A. The door clicked open and he climbed the three floors to where Peter greeted him and led him through to his lounge.
He looked expensive. He was tall, 6ft plus, a good looking man with a sun-bed tan and short dark hair, combed into a side parting.
Robin guessed he was in his mid forties. He wore a well-tailored navy blue suit, with a striped, white collared shirt and a paisley patterned tie. Robin noticed his revolver shaped cufflinks and a gold pinkie ring set with onyx.
It was a bright room with two imposing windows overlooking Mount Street, draped in brocade curtains pulled back into brass hooks. The room was fitted out with a collection of period furniture in a theme of cream upholstery and
polished mahogany. A dining table sat in the right hand corner, with ornate candelabra and six Chippendale chairs; there was a Chesterfield sofa in cream fabric with racing green stripes and two matching armchairs, all with carefully arranged fringed cushions and bolsters. To the side was a drinks cabinet, temptingly prepared with a decanter of gin, a newly filled ice bucket and a dish of sliced lemon. The walls were adorned with small paintings, old photographs and framed
memorabilia. Robin would have loved to spend time studying the sepia prints and reading the descriptions below.
At the opposite corner from the dining table, Peter sat down in a large leather chair at an imposing desk with green leather inlay and a matching blotting pad. Could Robin afford his fees?
“Please Robin, have a seat. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all.”
Robin was surprised to watch him open the drawer of his desk and bring out a black pipe and a tin of tobacco. Robin imagined he was playing a cameo role in a 1930’s detective movie.
Peter had been running his private detective business for five years, prior to which he had worked in the City as a
market analyst. He had always harboured a passion for American crime stories and on turning forty, decided to pursue a new career. It occurred to Robin that the task he had in mind may not fully satisfy Peter’s obsession with Raymond Chandler novels. He could politely leave now and look for someone more appropriate, and cheaper.
“So, how can I help you, Robin?” Peter asked, taking a long draw from his coconut tobacco and leaning back in his chair.
Robin felt humble sitting in the small chair on the verge of telling this intriguing stranger about his adulterous wife. It would have been so much easier if he had been offered a whiskey.
“It’s simple. My wife has had an affair, with a man she would appear to have met through an on-line dating agency. He uses the name Thunderbolt. I want you to find out his true identity and as much as you can about him: his name, what he looks like, where he lives, and where he goes with my wife. I want to know how they spend their time together. Can you do this for me? I have my wife’s computer here and I believe the clues are on the hard drive.” Robin shook his head in despair and pressed his thumb and index finger into his tear ducts. “I am sorry this is all very upsetting.”
Peter stood up, sat on the corner of the desk, and rested his hand on Robin’s shoulder.
“You know something? I come across these cases every week, Robin. The whole of London seems to be indulging in an affair. It’s great for business.” he smiled. “You will be amazed at what I can find out from the computer with a little expert know-how. My nephew is a computer whiz kid and has taught me a few tricks over the years. It would help if you could also bring me your wife’s bank and credit card statements? And also a recent photograph if you have one?”
“Yes, I have them here, and also her last telephone bill, but remember it’s the guy I am interested in, not my wife.” Robin reached down for his briefcase and pushed his chair back so that he could balance it on his knee. The case had a combination lock and he half closed his eyes to focus on the numbers. Onto Peter’s desk he laid out the laptop, her bank statements and a copy of the same photograph he had given Tom of Carla on her pergola.
“May I?” Peter asked, and before waiting on a reply, he leaned over for Carla’s photo. “Your wife’s a beautiful woman Robin.”
“Yes very beautiful but with an ugly cruel mind. How long do you think it will take, to track him down?”
“Give me three days, I will call you. You are lucky I am quiet now. I charge my fees by the hour, here are my rates .” He handed Robin a leaflet. Robin smiled.
“Money well spent, I am sure .”
As Peter was opening the door to show Robin out he noticed a coat stand in the corner with a collection of hats. There was a top hat, a bowler hat, a fedora, a panama and a Turkish fez. Robin wondered if Peter also had a passion for fancy dress parties.
“You are admiring my hats” Peter said. “I collect them, but don’t worry; you’re unlikely to see me wearing them. Goodbye, I’ll be in touch.”...
