Brownlow was silent for a long moment. Then he took out his phone. ‘Who are you calling?’ Meadows asked.
‘The lab.’ He selected a number from the contacts list. ‘Paul? John Brownlow. Have you still got all the rubbish that was taken out of the first class cabin on the Perch murder case? Okay, great. Listen, I need you to check the champagne bottles — yeah, the black ones. Shine a light inside, and look if there’s something unusual about one of them. No, you’ll know if you see it.’
Meadows eyed him sceptically. ‘You actually believe all this?’
‘Can’t hurt to check.’ Before long, Brownlow received an answer. ‘Paul, hi. Yeah?’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Okay, check that it matches the flakes found on the victim. And give the bottle a complete workover — fingerprints, DNA, everything. I think we’ve found our murder weapon.’ He ended the call.
Gold’s face was a portrait of smug pride. ‘Do I take it that my theory is correct?’
‘It… looks that way,’ Brownlow was forced to admit. Meadows was dismayed. ‘Impossible as it sounds. So if we really have found the murder weapon, now we need to find the murderer.’
Meadows regarded Gold icily. ‘And I suppose you’ve worked out who that is too.’
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I never do things by half-measures. I can’t give you a motive, since I don’t know the connection between Perch and the killer and what inspired the latter to such an act — although I’d imagine that his paper’s editorial policy of bilious hatred played a part. But based on my observations of everyone in first class, passengers and crew alike, there’s only one suspect.’
Despite himself, Brownlow leaned forward expectantly. ‘And that is?’
Gold smiled. ‘I’ll give you the rest of my deductions first.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Meadows. ‘Another excuse for you to enjoy the sound of your own voice.’
He recoiled in mock offence. ‘I’m hurt! No, but surely you know the rules of the detective story: the murderer’s name is only revealed after the explanation has been given.’
‘This isn’t a story,’ snapped Brownlow. ‘This is a murder investigation, and if you’ve got information that can help us find the killer you need to give it to us.’
Gold’s expression became more serious. ‘Very well. Firstly, Detective Constable Meadows said that the plane’s CCTV system showed that nobody left the first class section, and that the only people seen moving around at the time of the murder were the cabin crew. But the champagne bottle was found in the galley area, correct?’ Brownlow nodded. ‘Therefore, the person who took the bottle into the galley is the murderer.’
Brownlow realised what that meant. ‘One of the stewardesses.’
Meadows took out her phone. ‘I’ll have them brought in.’
Gold raised a hand. ‘Don’t be so hasty,’ he said, to the detectives’ surprise. ‘When you watch the video, I’m sure you’ll see someone dressed as a stewardess take a bottle into the galley — and bring another one out, for reasons I’ll explain in a moment. But just because they’re dressed like a stewardess doesn’t mean they are a stewardess.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Brownlow.
‘Remember your Christie. In Death In The Clouds, the killer disguised himself as a steward. Why? Because nobody pays any attention to the cabin crew on an aircraft. The passengers see the uniform, not the person wearing it. And because of that, the killer had the perfect disguise. They could bring the fake champagne bottle on board in their luggage, change into an Air Thailand uniform in the privacy of their suite, then — at a time in the flight when the passengers would most likely be asleep and the cabin crew inattentive — quickly nip out and enter Perch’s suite.’
‘It was locked,’ Meadows pointed out.
‘If the killer could obtain a uniform, it wouldn’t be hard for them also to obtain a master key, or even make one. The locks are very simple; they’re designed to be opened from outside for security reasons, after all. So the killer goes into the suite. Perch may be awake, or not, it doesn’t matter. If he opens his eyes, he sees a stewardess — and no racism intended, but the girls on the flight did all look quite similar at first glance. The airline has strict rules regarding hair length and style, makeup and so on.’
Brownlow saw where he was going. ‘And a stewardess would be the only person who could come into his suite unannounced without him throwing a fit and drawing attention.’
Gold nodded. ‘The killer only needed to keep him off-guard for a few seconds.’ He picked up the bottle again and advanced on Brownlow, slowly tilting it down until the cork was just a few inches from the policeman’s chest. ‘Just long enough to go… pop!’
‘Shot through the heart,’ said Brownlow.
‘But who’s to blame?’ added Meadows. All three shared a small smile.
‘I’m coming to that,’ said Gold, stepping back. ‘But having killed Perch, the killer leaves his suite, uses a master key to lock the door, then takes the empty bottle to the galley to conceal it in plain sight — amongst all the other empties. If any of the passengers glimpsed the killer passing, the assumption would be that it was one of the flight attendants. They’d have to be careful not to be seen by the cabin crew, but they obviously succeeded. Then, they take a real 1996 Oenotheque from the fridge, so that when the bottles are counted as part of the inevitable investigation the numbers match the manifest. After that, the killer goes back to their suite, puts the replacement bottle in their luggage, then changes clothes again and removes their makeup. Mission accomplished.’
‘Interesting theory,’ said Meadows after a moment. ‘Just one problem with it.’
‘Which is?’
‘There were only two women in first class — and they were both white, and over fifty. Even if he’d just woken up, Perch would have realised something was wrong right away. From what I’ve read about him, he was the kind of man who’d scream at you if you put the wrong amount of sugar in his coffee, so I doubt he would’ve stayed quiet about some random passenger invading his bedroom, even if they were dressed as a flight attendant.’
Gold’s knowing smirk returned. ‘Kathoey.’
Brownlow blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s a Thai term; the name of something commonly associated with the country, much as its rulers would prefer it were not.’ Seeing that both officers were still puzzled, he elaborated: ‘The most common English translation is “ladyboy”.’
Meadows smacked her lips. ‘Now I’ve heard it all. The killer was a ladyboy?’
‘Undoubtedly. And assuming that he — or she, as most of the kathoey I’ve known prefer to use the feminine pronoun — hasn’t already disposed of the evidence, you’ll find an outfit that either closely resembles or genuinely is an Air Thailand uniform and a bottle of Dom Pérignon 1996 in her belongings. I glimpsed the outfit — it’s a very distinctive shade of lilac — in her luggage when it was being searched at Heathrow, and I know the bottle was taken from the plane’s stock because the tissue paper in its presentation box had stuck to the glass. Condensation,’ Gold added, on Meadows’ sceptical look. ‘It was cold when it was taken from the fridge, and the moisture that condensed on the glass soaked the paper.’
‘So you’re claiming that the killer was a man disguised as a woman?’ said Brownlow.
‘Actually, the male persona was the real disguise. I’m sure that in Thailand she identified as a woman full-time.’
‘You seem to know a lot about ladyboys,’ Meadows said.
Gold grinned. ‘Some of the most delightful people I’ve ever met, of whatever gender, have been kathoey. The best of both worlds, you might say. Oh, there’s that lemon-sucking Puritan face again!’ he continued, catching a twitch of her expression. ‘Broaden your horizons, Detective Constable. The sensual world is not a place of binary absolutes, whatever the tedious watchdogs of morality like the late Mr Perch would snarl. But yes; to apply some rather mundane labels, the killer was a male-to-female transsexual disguised as a man. I’m sure you can pick out the most likely possibility from the small pool of suspects.’