Appetite for Risk

by Jack Leavers

  Pete studied John before shaking his head as he said, ‘Doesn’t help now though does it? We’ve got to redo the parts of the investigations Sam can’t reconstruct, and I’ve lost all my accounts information for billing and invoices.’ He carried on shaking his head.

  Time to probe for any updates. ‘You reckon they’re going to drop it all, so you should get everything back soon, surely?’

  ‘By the time that happens… who knows when that will be. I need it all now.’

  ‘You haven’t heard anything yet then? None of the friendly spooks had a quiet word and got this thing shelved?’

  Pete looked up sharply at the mocking way I’d said the last sentence. ‘It won’t go anywhere,’ he said. ‘There’s no way.’

  *

  As for work, I needed something meaty that paid out quickly, because in a couple more weeks everyone’s thoughts would start turning to Christmas. From the end of November, I doubted there’d be much in the way of new work on the horizon until the lawyers, business owners, and other potential clients dragged themselves back to their offices in the new year.

  Sat in my office later, the situation in Iraq and lack of current or future work occupied my mind. The German firm had thanked me for my report about Basra, but my revelation that the export of scrap was controlled by the Governor’s son had led them to conclude the idea was a non-starter. They didn’t believe they would get any kind of permission to compete with him, and they were most likely right. I pondered whether Iraq was a total bust, or if I should give it another shot and explore options in the supposedly safe and booming northern Kurdish provinces. I’d already mentioned the north to Mohammed, but he didn’t sound keen.

  The one positive on the horizon was the Football to the Summit project. I’d started running a ‘real-time simulation’ along the route to assist with planning. My daily reports analysed the weather and local news in the area where the trek team would pass through in precisely twelve months to the day. Localised terrorism from different groups affected many parts of India, so the reports also focused heavily on the security situation. Fingers crossed my efforts, combined with the comprehensive proposals already submitted, would help win the contract sooner rather than later. I wasn’t being paid anything yet, but by Easter the reconnaissance trips would need to begin. Four months away which right then felt like an eternity.

  Staring out the window at the dismal November afternoon, I contemplated calling it a day when a phone call from a former colleague put a smile on my face. A retired Met Police detective, Doug worked at the investigation company I’d left the year before. He was still there enjoying the corporate side of life after his retirement from the force, and an old contact had approached him with a personal enquiry he wanted to pass my way on the quiet.

  ‘John, it’s Doug, how are you?’

  ‘Not bad, mate. Iraq’s falling to pieces so could do with some more work at the moment. Apart from that I can’t complain.’

  ‘Eddie told me you were over there again recently, but I’m glad you’re back. I might have something for you.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘My friend with the lap dancing chain is looking for some assistance. An outside audit type of thing. Undercover. Not really suitable for us here because he’s looking for a discreet investigator rather than a large firm. But I thought it might be something you’d be up for. Anyway, can you imagine Phil or Ray at a lap dancing club? Their tickers would give out, and if they didn’t, the MDs would when they filed their expenses. Those corporate boys know how to rack ’em up.’

  A grin broke across my face at the thought of the two ex-coppers he’d mentioned ever finding out that Doug had passed the job over to me instead of them. ‘Sounds interesting. Yeah, as I said I’m available to take on new work. I won’t be going back to Iraq for a while that’s for sure.’

  He gave me the client’s contact details and wished me luck.

  Straight after Doug’s call, I called the boss of the lap dancing clubs and arranged to drive over to his office, which he ran out of his large pad in nearby Kingston upon Thames. Over the years I’d visited a few clubs, but I didn’t earn the kind of money or mix in the sort of circles where it was anything other than an occasional laugh – usually overseas. In fact, the last time had been the opening of the latest club in the same chain. Doug had invited a load of us from the firm the previous year with complimentary tickets although it was only me and a couple of the younger guys who went along.

  Compared with going to a nightclub full of drunks, fights, and late-night desperation, I preferred the transactional nature of the lap dancing places I’d been to in the past. As a happily married man I could only look and not touch anyway, so it suited me. The girls seemed to be in control although I knew that wasn’t necessarily the case. Plenty of women in the adult entertainment business were getting exploited and it’s not something I’d want my wife or daughters to end up doing. However, I was a typical, hypocritical bloke who enjoyed the sight of pretty, half-naked women. It helped that it didn’t take much effort to convince myself the girls chose to talk to me because of my dazzling wit and charm.

  *

  The tyres gave a satisfying crunch as I pulled to a halt on the large circular driveway in front of the imposing mansion. A convertible silver Mercedes SL65 AMG with its roof up sat next to a black Bentley Continental. I didn’t know what else Mr Moore did, but I assumed the lap dancing business was a decent earner.

  Ken Moore struck me as a jovial guy and very switched on with it. I admired most people who built their own successful businesses. It’s easy to think it all looks very easy, but behind nearly every success story is a long history of hard work and often struggle. As he walked me into the office, he introduced his pretty wife as the office manager.

  ‘This is Christine, my wife. Chrissy, this is John. He’s the chap Doug recommended.’

  I shook the unsure hand of a pretty blonde who could have stepped out of the fashion pages of an upmarket clothing catalogue. ‘Hi Christine, John Pierce.’

  She was one of those women who could have been any age from late twenties to early forties. I suspected nearer the latter, partly because of her husband’s age, but she looked damn good for it. I might have been a little too obvious in calculating how much of her might be plastic because she appraised me with a challenging look in return.

  ‘For the mystery shopper work,’ Ken added.

  ‘Of course. Hi, call me Chris. It’s nice to meet you. I don’t think I’ve met a PI before. Oh, apart from Doug. That’s what he does now isn’t it?’ she asked Ken.

  ‘Yes. And John here worked with him until recently I believe. But now you’re freelance?’

  ‘That’s right. I worked with Doug. Well we were actually in different sections, but I left about a year ago and work for myself now.’

  I was trying to keep focused on the conversation, but across the room two stunning girls in their early to mid-twenties had stopped working and were listening to our conversation with interest. Ken followed the direction of my glances. ‘Oh, and here we have our two lovely assistants Rachel and Astrid.’

  Hollywood smiles followed as we exchanged pleasantries. The attention of three very attractive women had me questioning my life choices to date. Ken Moore had clearly made some very good ones – better than mine. I tried to keep my jaw from hanging open like a cartoon character before it occurred to me that the girls might be family and I got my game face back on.

  Like many other similar businesses, their clubs were monitored closely by Trading Standards, who regularly sent officers to the premises in their respective areas to check the regulations were being followed. Especially the strict no-touching rule between the lap dancers and customers.

  ‘We need to check the clubs are all operating in full compliance with the law and the council regulations. Trading Standards are sending in their people undercover, so I
want to know for myself what they’ll find and what they’ll be reporting back. As well as checking the girls are behaving, it also gives us an opportunity to check if there’s any evidence of pilfering from the bar staff or reception.’

  To achieve this, they intended to have a mystery shopper go to their seven clubs, put plenty of £50 notes through the tills, buy plenty of lap dances, and try to entice the girls into offering drugs and sexual services. In practical terms, it translated to blowing loads of cash on champagne and lap dances, chatting to as many pretty girls as possible, and then getting whisked home through the late-night London streets by a car and driver. All while earning a tidy hourly rate. They were talking to the right guy.

  Chapter 29

  LONDON — EARLY DECEMBER 2004

  With her pixie-like face and delicious curves, impressively set off by a perfect-fitting black basque, stockings and suspenders, the girl in the spotlight was stunning, I’d give her that. So too, no doubt, would the owners of the dozens of other eyes feasting on her. It was a shame her perfunctory style didn’t do her justice. She didn’t own the pole like some of the others, although her captivating presence was enough to mesmerise most of the audience. Not that she had relished the thought of the fifteen-minute slot all the girls were required to perform on the central stage. I knew because she’d told me after the House Mother interrupted our conversation to say she was up next.

  She’d rolled her eyes and told me it was the part of the job she hated most, but I tried to encourage her.

  ‘You’ll probably do better than I would.’

  ‘Hmm, thanks for that,’ she said, as she stood before making her way to the stage. ‘Wish me luck,’ she voiced over her shoulder as I watched her immaculate rear view gliding away.

  ‘Break a leg,’ I replied, a little louder than intended. A hot flash deep inside when she speared me with smouldering eyes and a coquettish smile. That was real, surely?

  While Monique writhed with the music, I surveyed the flattering shadows of the Hammersmith club as scantily clad women circled their prey. I saw glamour where many others saw seediness, but only if I didn’t think about it too hard.

  Monique was her stage name and she hadn’t given me the hard sell like the previous two vampires who polished off a bottle of my overpriced champagne amidst repeated demands they dance for me. Their layers of make-up, darting tongues, and thrusting breasts had been well over the top, and that was just sat at the table. Always the gentleman, I concurred of course. Their double act had been mechanical rather than sexy, but by God it was X-rated stuff.

  Once the vampires had sucked all the champagne from the table, Monique had drifted into an empty seat and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘I bet you enjoyed that,’ she said with a teasing smile.

  ‘Not bad. Not the greatest dancers though and their make-up was applied with a shovel.’

  She tried to hold it in, but a giggle escaped. ‘So, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I know. Good-looking guy. Could get his pick of the girls. Just what am I doing here, surrounded by gorgeous women and talking to the prettiest girl in London?’

  Monique let another laugh slip out as she shook her head in mock despair.

  ‘Tell you what, a bottle of champagne for the lady?’ I asked in a terrible approximation of Sean Connery’s James Bond.

  I found sliding into my playboy character easy; helped by a bountiful supply of someone else’s fifty-pound notes. I’d only had half a glass from the first bottle, so I had some leeway for a drink yet. Too many and it would end up a fuzzy recollection of cleavage, legs and lust, like a previous night at the Tower Bridge club. Lucky my small dictaphone rescued me that time, but even those whispered utterings in the privacy of a toilet cubicle had been difficult to decipher into a full report. Especially the later stuff when the alcohol had impaired my speech. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Three weeks in and I regarded myself as a bit of a connoisseur of lap dancing clubs and girls. My nights at the other six clubs had been varied. Some I’d visited on my own like tonight, others I’d invited various friends and contacts to mix up the experience and see if the girls might react differently to a couple of guys playing off each other.

  There had been a few highlights: falling instantly for a dancer in the Holborn club, who promptly got the sack after I reported the details of her tactile lap dances; similarly being smitten with a gorgeous Spanish girl at the club in Euston who gave me more than one memorable lap dance I didn’t report in full; Jim coming up from Poole and being solicited by one of the girls desperate to go home with him; Mohammed paying for two statuesque Russian blondes to give me an XXX-rated five minutes using the spending money I’d given him; and dozens of conversations with beautiful young women in various states of undress.

  The best part of the job, chatting to the girls, could also be the worst. They sashayed amongst the tables, waiting for an opening to sidle in and extract cash from the welcoming punters. Great if a girl with some personality dropped in on you, and many of them came across as smart and funny, but a real drag trying to get rid of others who were all show and no substance.

  ‘How about you let me dance for you first?’ cooed Monique, with an expression that dared me to say no.

  She needn’t have worried. I was hooked and had no intention of turning her down. It would also keep the House Mother happy; important because she watched her girls like a hawk to make sure they worked the room efficiently and kept to the strict no touching rules. The girls were self-employed sales people, selling themselves. I couldn’t begrudge them that and a momentary prickle of regret as the reality of the situation encroached on our flirting soon dissolved.

  I made a show of thinking about it. ‘I’ve just had a great dance and I doubt you’ll live up to such a high standard. But okay, I’ll give you a try-out.’

  A smile creased her lips as she raised her sculptured eyebrows in a look that said, ‘We’ll see about that,’ before she took my hand and led me to an empty booth. If making women laugh was the secret, then I seemed to be on fire tonight. Claire wouldn’t have seen the funny side though, as Monique proceeded to reward me with a highly erotic lap dance which straddled the border to the wrong side of acceptable, before finishing with a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘I never kiss customers, but that’s for making me laugh,’ she said, as she located her basque and sought to pour herself back into it.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she said, turning and indicating I should assist with the countless hooks on the back.

  What a job.

  *

  Monique was in high demand after her stint on the pole, so maybe I’d been harsh with my critique. A good job I’d kept that to myself. I didn’t see her again for a long time as I went through the motions with a couple more girls. Until the last hour, the big push for the dancers was to lure the customers into £250 per hour private table time. This occurred in a separate VIP area I didn’t have the budget to access.

  The place was bursting at the seams with customers and dancers. Pretty girls adorned every booth and table, laughing, hustling, drinking, and dancing for mesmerised punters. I caught myself scanning the room for Monique even though she would almost certainly have bagged a VIP client. Twice I thought I saw her looking in my direction through the crowd, but when I checked there was no sign of her. Pointless wishful thinking on my part.

  At the end of the night she slid back into the seat next to me.

  ‘This job drives me mad. I’ve just spent an hour earning loads of money with a table full of idiot bankers, but times like that make me want to give it up.’

  ‘Is this the part where we go all “Pretty Woman” and I make an honest woman of you?’ It was an unwelcome attempt to break her introspection and her eyes flashed with venom.

  ‘I’m not a hooker,’ she hissed.

  ‘That’s not what I meant… sorry.’ My size nines had gone
right in it as usual.

  ‘Ignore me, I’m just tired. I need to get going now. If I don’t give it all up soon, then maybe I’ll see you again one night.’ But this was said in a matter-of-fact, friendly manner, rather than a flirty and suggestive tone.

  I tried to laugh off my regret. After all, I was just another punter overpaying for drinks and handing over cash to watch gyrating, skimpily clad women getting naked. Not exactly something that would enhance my CV.

  ‘Yeah, I need to get going as well. Have you got the number for a taxi driver who won’t rip me off going south of the river?’ I might struggle to convince a black cab to go south all the way to Epsom and the firm I’d been using had no-one available that Friday night.

  Monique fished a card out of her small black purse. ‘These are the guys me and most of the girls use. They’re only round the corner. Mention my name and they should sort you out okay.’

  Another reminder that for Monique this was her working environment. I didn’t even know her real name. It would just go down as one of those moments in time shared with a stranger, although in this case a beautiful stranger, both in and out of her expensive lingerie.

  *

  ‘So where are you from?’ I asked the taxi driver as we cruised across Putney Bridge with the lights of late-night London illuminating the river. With his black hair and a hint of the Middle East in his features, we might have something in common to chat about. His hairline was receding, but he must have been my age or younger.

  ‘Kensington,’ came the reply in accented English.

  ‘I mean originally.’

  ‘Kurdistan. North of Iraq.’

  That piqued my interest. ‘Really? I’m thinking of heading there soon. I’m John by the way. What was your name again?’

  With communications now dried up from Faris in Baghdad and Essam at Al-Nura, prospects for Baghdad and Basra didn’t look promising. Mohammed was pessimistic about the situation throughout Iraq, but I had read several reports saying the northern Kurdish provinces were a safe and booming environment. Until now I had no links with anyone from that region and hadn’t made any efforts to establish any. This was my first conversation with someone who might be able to shed some light on the situation up there.