I watch her as she gets up, runs a hand through her hair and leaves the room. I take a look at my watch. There’s still plenty of time to get to Piccadilly in time for Sara, but I don’t know what Isolda’s plans are for the rest of the evening. I don’t want to make it seem like I’m trying to get rid of her, but at the same time, I try to keep the number of people who know what I’m doing on a job to a minimum, even if they’re kind of involved, like I guess Isolda is. Need to know, as it used to be called in the old days.
As soon as I can hear her making identifiable kitchen noises, I lean over the edge of the bed and pat the floor looking for my mobile, finally finding it under her black vest. I scroll down my contacts list, find what I’m looking for and start texting.
‘Can we open one of these bottles of champagne?’
‘Sure. Do you need any help?’
‘I think I can manage, thank you, Daniel. Where are the…oh, it’s OK. I’ve found them.’
I finish what I’m doing just as she comes in with two glasses, handing me one as she wriggles next to me, her hair falling against my shoulder and her thigh pressing against mine.
‘Cheers,’ she says, kissing me briefly on the lips before we both drink. I notice that her lipstick will have to be reapplied.
‘What are we going to be eating?’ I say, running a fingernail down her back and casually groping her bottom. It’s that old cliché: I can’t keep my hands off her. The memory that she has a boyfriend briefly echoes, like a cloud passing across the sun.
‘Stop that or we won’t be eating anything. You’ve got such a lot of stuff in your fridge, haven’t you?’
‘You never know when you’re going to need it.’
‘Do you cook a lot of Italian food? You’ve got loads of Italian ingredients. I’m making meatballs in tomato and garlic sauce with melted Parmesan on toasted focaccia.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
‘I’ll cut the bread up so we can just use forks. Sound OK?’
‘Fantastic.’
She returns to the kitchen and keeps at it. I lie on the bed and let the combined aromas of Isolda’s perfume and frying garlic waft over me. My left forearm still hurts from my climb this morning. I try not to think of what I’ve got to do later on, but it keeps nagging at me. Part of me knows that it’ll probably be a waste of time. Sara will come out of Burlington House about ten past eleven, she’ll get into a cab and she’ll be driven home and that’ll be it.
But there’s a slim chance that someone might try hassling her when she comes out, so I feel obliged to be around, not just to prevent it happening, but also to try to get to the bottom of what’s going on.
If I could just grab one of the people who’re doing all the harassment, it would be extremely useful; otherwise, I can’t really see a way in. Of course, the potential grabee may not want to talk, but there are ways of getting around that. I can be very persuasive under the right circumstances.
Isolda comes in with the food and we start to eat, while watching a documentary about white tigers with the sound turned off. She’s still interested in knowing how I became an investigator in the first place, and I fob her off with the usual convincing-sounding stuff about insurance investigation and all the rest of it.
I can make it sound interesting, plausible and mildly boring all at the same time. Sometimes I almost believe it myself, which is the best way of making lies sound authentic. I can also push you to change the subject without you realising you’ve been pushed.
She’s interested that I worked in Milan for a couple of years, and we compare notes on the place. She went to both Milan Fashion Weeks last year and managed to see a lot of the city whenever there was time.
‘I was so annoyed that the McDonald’s in The Galleria had gone! Did you know? There’s another Prada there now. McDonald’s sued Milan for millions and gave away free food to thousands of people just before they closed for the last time. Can you imagine that happening here? There’d be riots!’
‘Was Sara with you?’
‘Yeah, both times. And Thai Hunter while she was with us.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Thai was Sara’s MTA2. Melody, who you probably haven’t met, is MTA2 now. Thai was lovely. Lots of fun and great at socialising, but you have to be on the ball with tiny details in that job and she screwed up one too many times and had to be let go.’
‘When was that?’
‘I can’t remember now, but Melody has been with us for three months, so it must have been something like that.’
‘What’s Thai doing now?’
‘She went to work for Jigsaw. Not sure what she does. Once people leave, you tend not to see them again unless you bump into them at some event or other. It’s just the way it is. I can’t imagine Thai would get involved in something like this, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t think she’d be smart enough. Or rather, her mind wouldn’t work that way. What will you do if you can’t make any progress on this? Just give up and return Sara’s money?’
‘I never give up. It wouldn’t be good for my reputation.’
‘You have a reputation?’
‘Hard to believe, isn’t it.’
‘You might have to give up at some point.’
‘No. I’ll sort it. Things like this are always solvable eventually. You’re only dealing with people, and the sort of people who would do something like this are nearly always weak and/or stupid individuals. They’ll crumble.’
She laughs. ‘I wish I could be that confident about things!’
Thai Hunter. Well, there’s another little thread. Isolda collects our plates and takes them into the kitchen. When she returns, she picks up the empty champagne glasses, places them carefully on the windowsill in front of the fixed metal bars, leans against the wall, tosses her hair back and fixes me with one of her libidinous, X-rated grins.
*
When my mobile starts ringing, I know that it’s precisely nine-fourteen pm. I’d intended this as an alarm call as well as my cover story, so I’m glad when it’s Isolda that picks it up.
‘Good evening. This is Mr Beckett’s executive secretary, concubine, slave and mistress. How can I help you?’
I can just about hear the fake confusion on the other end. Male voice. North London accent.
‘Sorry? What? Is, er, is Daniel there now? Who are you?’
‘I’m afraid Mr Beckett is in a terminal post-coital coma at present. Can he call you back?’
‘Who is this?’
She giggles and hand the mobile to me, moving close, almost with her ear against it, so she can listen to the conversation. I run my hand down the inside of her thigh and dig my fingernails into the soft skin.
‘Yes, Ashley, what is it? I’m in an important meeting so make it quick.’
‘Important meeting my arse. Listen. Can you come over? It’s Millie. She was out with some of her mates and she’s taken something or someone’s given her something without her realising it. I don’t know. But she’s fuckin’ off her tits. I don’t know what to do.’
I roll my eyes at Isolda and take a deep, impatient breath. Isolda bites my neck and grinds herself against me. ‘What – what’s she doing?’
‘She’s lying on the floor. She’s already been sick once on the bed. She swears she only had three drinks. She came home early. She got a cab ’cause she wasn’t feeling so good. Her pulse rate is really high and she’s sweating like a fuckin’ pig. Can you…?’
‘OK. Listen. Get her onto her side. If she’s been sick she might be again and we don’t want her to choke on it. Get her something to drink like orange juice. Stay with her. Don’t leave her alone, understand? I’ll get over as soon as I can.’
‘Cheers, mate. I owe you one for this.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’
I click the mobile off and stare at the ceiling.
‘What was all that about?’ says Isolda, with genuine concern in her voice.
‘It’s a
friend of mine. His girlfriend has a history of, er, issues. This has happened before. He’s a bit hopeless in situations like this. I’m going to have to get over there and see what the hell’s going on this time. I’ll have a shower and get a cab. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK, babe. I think I might need an early night tonight, anyway.’
‘Are you sure you’re not pissed off?’
‘Of course not. I’ve had a great time. Three or four great times. When you’re ready I’ll walk with you while you’re looking for a cab. I’ll get one after you’ve got one.’
I kiss her on the mouth and head for the bathroom.
Of course, there’s no such person as Ashley. This is a service I discovered about a year ago. It’s expensive, but very professional and very, very convincing. You have a contract with them so they know who you are from your number.
You send them a text including the time you want the call, what the call will be about, the relationship of the caller to you and the caller’s name. They do all the rest, including the improvised dialogue.
Some bright spark set it up so people could extricate themselves from bad dates, boring business meetings and family Sunday lunches, but I found it had uses that I could employ professionally.
Fifteen minutes later, Isolda and I are walking along The Strand, looking for cabs. When I finally flag one down, I say ‘Clissold Park’ to the driver, kiss Isolda one more time and off I go. When we’ve been driving for a couple of minutes I tell him I’ve changed my mind and ask him to take me to Piccadilly Circus. He tuts impatiently and rolls his eyes. Prick.
13
PICCADILLY AT NIGHT
I sit outside one of the coffee places that I noticed this afternoon, order a big one and watch the crowds. It’s probably as busy here as it was this afternoon, but the people are different; fewer kids, fewer shoppers, more dressed-up girls, more big noisy groups of guys. It’s dark now, and the street lamps, car headlamps, hotels, bars and shops are doing most of the illuminating.
I can see Burlington House on the other side of the road. It’s maybe six or seven hundred yards away. It’s lit up and looks good for it. There’s a lot of taxi activity outside. I can’t tell whether it’s people leaving early, people arriving late or nothing to do with the event inside at all.
Occasionally, I can spot security guys moving in and out of the courtyard, but they’re casual, laughing and smoking, not expecting any trouble. All they’ll have to do now is smile politely to exiting partygoers when the Dania Gamble function finishes at eleven.
Someone sends me a text, and for a moment I think it’s from Sara, but it turns out to be from Isolda, wishing me luck with Ashley’s problem, which I’d already forgotten about.
After ten minutes of pinning people, I idly classify them into a loose number of groups; people looking for restaurants, people looking for clubs/pubs, ordinary sightseers, local workers, late shoppers and people who want to stroll down Piccadilly because it’s Piccadilly.
Any left over, I classify as ‘others’; solitary people walking quickly but going nowhere, creepy, unaccompanied guys pretending to look in shop windows while really looking at girls, older men having suspicious trysts with much younger women, edgy, fucked-looking strangers trying to make eye contact. I get a feel for the clothing that they’re all wearing and I get a feel for the way they’re walking, noting when they stop, why they stop and how long they stop for.
After a while, I start to notice a few sub-classes. There’s a subtle bit of drug dealing going on here; inconspicuous but largely effective, as far as I can tell. Crafty-eyed, sharp-suited, smiley-faced dealers approaching likely customers, speedy exchanges of money and packets, quickly flitting out of sight and impatiently moving on to the next mark whenever they get a negative reaction.
There’s also a fair amount of prostitution, both male and female. Middle-aged businessmen having quick, awkward conversations with tough-looking teenage boys or almost-classy women, their knuckles turning white against their briefcase handles as they look guiltily from side to side as if their wives are about to appear and give them a major bollocking.
As if on cue, one of the almost-classy women sits down at the table adjacent to mine without ordering anything. Business must be slow in Mayfair tonight. She looks at me and smiles. She’s somewhere in her twenties, dyed chestnut hair, smart black suit and some good-looking jewellery.
Pretty in a wholesome, countrified way, but her eyes are frosty and she looks tired. I smile back and give her a brief shake of my head; just enough to let her know that she’s wasting her time and can try someone else. She nods her thanks, gets up and crosses the road. Great legs and doubtless worth whatever she’s charging, if you can put up with her yawning.
Two coffees later, I pay the bill and take a slow walk up the south side. When I’m opposite Burlington House, I don’t look across the road, but allow my peripheral vision to do the work for me. Two cabs, one limo, and a group of five people milling about who look like they’re something to do with the event inside. There’s a solo security guy nervously chatting up a tall girl with great silver and purple hair.
I keep watching the crowds until the night-time population of Piccadilly becomes an organic whole. I try to think of nothing as I walk along, hoping that my subconscious will alert me to any anomalies.
I look at my watch to check the time. It’s still a little early for Sara’s event to have finished, so I cross the road and even consider popping into The Clarence to see if Klementina’s there, but then realise that it’s pretty unlikely she’d be on this late if she was working the lunchtime shift and she probably doesn’t hang out there in her spare time; they never do.
As I approach Green Park tube station, I can see a police car parked up on the pavement with its blue lights flashing, and like a good Londoner, I walk a little faster so I can get a good look at what’s going on.
There’s a man lying on the pavement with blood oozing out of a nasty gash on his forehead and one of the police officers is holding a thin, struggling guy in his twenties in an arm lock. He’s spaced and laughing. Nothing particularly interesting to look at, so I cross the road and head back the way I came.
Just as I’m walking past The Ritz and admiring their window displays, my mobile makes its text noise. It’s from Sara and it just says ‘now’. That gives me ten minutes or thereabouts before she comes out, which I decided to spend sauntering rather than standing or sitting at some fixed point. I check my watch. It’s ten forty-four.
Still keeping to the south side of the road, I pass Burlington House and keep going, once again not looking directly at the entrance. I plan to walk all the way down to Piccadilly Circus and then walk back on the north side until Sara appears. The crowds here have increased a little, but nothing too dramatic.
There’s a big pack of tourists milling around someone demonstrating a glow-in-the-dark novelty of some sort. I weave along the pavement, sink into my Zen-like trance once more and see if my subconscious picks up on anything.
I stop to look in Fortnum’s window, mainly because it gives me an excuse to stand next to a statuesque, expensively dressed, black-haired woman in her late forties/early fifties. I look at her reflection in the glass while pretending to look at the spectacular flower display inside. She’s wearing a midnight blue dress with three strings of grey pearls. Heavy makeup, tanned, lines around the eyes, but giving off an erotic charge you could cut with a knife. Probably on her way somewhere to meet someone. Great mouth. She turns to look at me and smiles.
‘It must take them a long time to do these wonderful displays.’
Low, husky voice. Can’t place the accent. Somewhere in southern Europe. Spanish? Portuguese?
‘I think it’s worth it, though. It makes you want to go inside, doesn’t it.’
‘It’s such a shame it is closed now. I may pop in tomorrow and have a look around. I am here with my husband. He has business here for ten days, but he isn’t interested in shops. You know wh
at men are like.’
‘I’ve heard they’re terrible. I’m glad I’m not one.’
‘You look like one to me.’
‘I was just attempting to be witty to impress you.’
‘Why would you want to impress me?’
‘I can’t help it. I’m compelled to suck up to remarkably beautiful women. It’s an affliction, really. A scourge.’
This gets a laugh. ‘I hear they serve afternoon tea in the Diamond Jubilee Tea Salon. I may come in and see what they have; tea at Fortnum’s is very chic, I have heard. I may be there around three tomorrow.’
And then I see him.
I can feel in the pit of my stomach that this is my guy. I don’t turn around but keep checking him out in the reflection of my window. He’s almost directly opposite on the other side of the road, trying to be as inconspicuous as I am, but not nearly as successfully.
There are a million interesting windows to look in down this road, but he’s chosen to be intensely interested in a small jeweller’s which has had the window display removed for the night and a thick metal grill drawn over the glass. His clothes aren’t right and his facial expression is uncomfortable and tense.
He keeps looking to his left, in the direction of Burlington House. He walks away from the jeweller’s, then, as if he’d decided it was much more interesting than he’d realised, walks back to it. A couple of policemen stroll past him and he automatically scratches his head in an almost quaint attempt at innocent nonchalance.
‘Are you staying in a hotel round here?’ I say.
Suddenly, this woman has become useful in a way she can’t imagine. She smiles smugly to herself before she replies, pleased that she’s got my interest and basking in the flirtation. I can smell her perfume now. Intense and spicy.
‘Yes. I’m staying at the Hotel Café Royal. Do you know it?’
‘A few minutes from here, I believe. Regent Street, isn’t it?’
‘That’s correct.’
He’s in his late sixties with receding short grey hair, a fat gut and a rough-looking face with deep lines down the cheeks and around the eyes. Lived-in. Hard-looking. This is almost certainly the guy that called Sara a bitch. Are they, whoever they are, running out of staff?
Death is the New Black Page 12