Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  14

  MARIELA CARNEY’S LIVING ROOM WAS SPACIOUS AS A ballroom, well furnished and dimly lit by strategically placed shaded lamps. Mariela—or Mia, as she insisted they call her—seemed to have an eye for antiques, Banks noticed, as she busied herself making them tea: gilt-framed watercolors on the walls, a glass-fronted cabinet filled with vintage porcelain figurines, an ornate mirror, a fine-looking walnut escritoire—but the sofa and armchairs arranged around the low wooden table were contemporary in design, as was the bookcase filled with an interesting selection of literary classics and biographies. Piano music played softly from speakers Banks couldn’t pinpoint. Chopin, he thought.

  Mia was, as everyone had said, a very attractive young woman with auburn tresses falling to her shoulders, olive skin and expensive clothes—a silky aubergine blouse and light-blue designer jeans that showed off her shapely figure without a hint of vulgarity. He noticed the whiteness of her teeth contrasted with her loam-colored eyes. She wore little makeup. She didn’t need to. Her skin was naturally smooth and flawless, her lips the right shade of coral. In a way, she reminded Banks of a young Joan Baez. She had clearly dressed down for her appearances in the university pubs and student bars, but even then she hadn’t seemed able to hide her natural beauty. Ray’s sketch was a good likeness, though the real thing was a far more classy version. She set the tray down on the table and smiled at Annie. The teapot and cups were Royal Doulton. Here was a woman who clearly liked the good things in life. Poise was the word that came to Banks’s mind as he watched her move.

  “Isn’t this what they always do on TV?” she said. “Make tea when police come to call?”

  “That’s one thing they get right,” said Banks. “Thanks. It’s most welcome.”

  “My pleasure.”

  As they settled down around the table, Annie took out her notebook and set her phone to record.

  “Do you mind?” Banks asked, indicating the mobile.

  Mia shrugged. Her silk top shimmered in the shaded light. “Not at all. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “You do understand that we’re only here to talk to you, that you’re not under arrest or charged with anything?”

  “I’ve done nothing wrong,” Mia said. “I’ll answer your questions as best I can.” She rested her hands on the table, wrapping one around her tea as if she needed its warmth. She had thin wrists and pianist’s fingers, Banks noticed. She wasn’t wearing a watch but a loose gold chain instead hung around her left wrist.

  “Why didn’t you come forward?” Banks asked.

  “About what?”

  “The suspicious deaths of Adrienne Munro and Laurence Hadfield and the murder of Sarah Chen. Your name’s come up quite a lot.”

  “Why would I come forward? I know nothing about them. I didn’t mean to be elusive, I assure you.” As she spoke, she smiled, a teasing, flirtatious gesture. Banks sensed Annie bristle beside him. She hated it when women flirted with him. Or perhaps it was the way he always rose to the bait that annoyed her.

  “But you don’t deny that you knew Adrienne, Laurence and Sarah?” he went on.

  “No, of course I don’t. Though perhaps it might be more true to say we were acquainted. I didn’t really know them.”

  “Then you surely must have known we’d be looking for any information we could find about them?”

  “In that case, I apologize for not realizing and coming forward sooner. But I didn’t think I’d be able to help you then, and I don’t think I can now.”

  “Let us be the judge of that. Sometimes people aren’t always aware that they know something that could be vital to our investigations.”

  “I can see how that might happen.”

  “How did you come to know Adrienne and Sarah?”

  “I suppose you could say they were clients of mine.”

  “In what sense?”

  “I introduced them to men.”

  “Laurence Hadfield and Anthony Randall?”

  “Yes.”

  “So Adrienne became Laurence Hadfield’s mistress?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way. A companion, perhaps.”

  “And Sarah Chen and Anthony Randall?”

  “The same.”

  “Are there others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s my living. I run an escort service. A rather specialized one, perhaps, but an escort service, nonetheless.” She paused and leaned forward. “It’s what I do, bring people together. You could call me a matchmaker.”

  “Or a pimp,” said Annie.

  Mia raised an eyebrow and gave her a withering glance. “That’s not very nice at all. I agreed to talk to you voluntarily, without need of a solicitor, or so I thought, and you start insulting me.” She looked to Banks. “Do I need a solicitor?”

  “Mr. Liversedge?”

  Mia snorted and leaned back in her chair, cradling her tea. “I think I could do better than him.”

  “Come off it, Mia, you must have known what those men were after,” said Annie.

  “All men are after the same thing as far I’m concerned, my dear. But that’s beside the point. How could I know what would develop between two people I brought together? I simply made the introductions.”

  “Did the transactions you brokered involve sex?”

  “If they did, those were decisions agreed to by both parties later, consensually, at their own instigation. Not by me. And without my knowledge.”

  “How did you know Laurence Hadfield and Anthony Randall?” Banks asked.

  “I meet a lot of men like them.”

  “Where?”

  “Here and there. Certain clubs they frequent, a couple of posh pubs. Places I’ve worked from time to time. Company dos.” She gave another teasing smile. “I scrub up quite nicely, you know. I also have quite an attractive body, too, which, believe me, gets me into plenty of places where I can meet wealthy men. I could be a grid girl, or a darts girl, or one of those girls at the Presidents Club dinner.” As she spoke, Banks took in her beautiful skin, full lips and dark brown eyes, as well as the hint of cleavage her blouse allowed. He couldn’t argue with her self-assessment.

  “So you work as an escort?”

  “That’s not a word I would use. It has very negative connotations.”

  “But do you?”

  “I’m twenty-five years old, but I know I look younger. I was a student myself a few years ago. I know what it’s like trying to scrape by on a mere pittance. I went out with an older man. He was a very nice and a very cultured man, not at all like those spotty lecherous boys who hang around the student pubs. Just lonely. He paid for my company, took me places—the opera, art galleries, theater, even to Paris for the weekend once. I met some of his friends and colleagues. That’s how I know there are plenty of men like Laurence Hadfield and Anthony Randall who are more than happy to pay a good deal of money to have the pleasure of an intelligent young woman’s company and conversation. If they decided to make it a sexual relationship too, that’s their business. They both seemed like decent men as far as I was concerned, certainly not men who would force themselves on a girl, though I wasn’t always too sure about Randall. Anyway, as I said, I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t know. And I’ve done nothing to break the law.”

  Banks smiled. “Except practice matchmaking without a license?”

  Mia smiled back. “Guilty as charged. But I just make the introductions. I don’t think that’s illegal, is it? What do you call someone who does that? A lobbyist? A facilitator?”

  “Whatever fancy terms you come up with, I still know what I call it,” said Annie.

  “There you go again. Nasty. Judgmental. You must have a big chip on your shoulder, you know.”

  “Let’s move on to Adrienne and Sarah,” Banks said quickly.

  Mia shifted in her chair and pouted at him. “Let’s.”

  “Where did you meet the girls?”

  “I met Adrienn
e in the bar at Eastvale College and Sarah in the University of Leeds pub.”

  “You were pretending to be a student?”

  “I don’t remember ever doing that. I may have said I was an English student, but that’s true. I left after my second year and haven’t graduated, so I suppose I’m still technically an English student.” She smiled again. “At the very least, I am English.”

  “Any plans to finish your course?”

  “Not in the near future.”

  “So what did you say to Adrienne and Sarah to get them interested in your proposition?”

  “I talked to them, found them both intelligent, articulate and presentable, so I told them I knew of a way they could make some extra money. Both were depressed about debts and fees.”

  “By sleeping with older men like Hadfield and Randall?” said Annie.

  “By spending time with rich and influential—and lonely—men like Hadfield and Randall. How they spent it was up to them. Perhaps by attending parties and charming important guests, if they wished, though both Laurence Hadfield and Tony Randall were more secretive, wanted their relationships to remain private. I suppose Randall was worried about his ethics committees and whatever, and with Hadfield it was his family, the son and daughter.”

  “Did they go with only one man each?”

  “Yes, of course, as far as I know. That was the plan. I told Adrienne, Sarah and the others that I’d done it myself, and it had worked for me. It was all pretty harmless.”

  “Except both girls are dead,” Banks said.

  Mia looked down at her tapered fingers. For the first time, Banks thought he saw a hint of genuine emotion show through her slick, glib mask. “Yes. That’s sad. They were both nice girls. But it was nothing to do with me. I generally consider myself a good judge of character, but you know as well as I do that in certain extreme situations, you can’t always predict how things are going to turn out. People do desperate things.”

  “Is that what happened with Adrienne and Sarah?”

  “I don’t know what happened, but you said it yourself: both girls are dead.”

  “Do you know what Mandrax is?” Annie asked.

  Mariela frowned. “Never heard of it.”

  “Methaqualone? Quaaludes?”

  “Quaaludes? Downers of some sort, aren’t they? Why? I don’t take drugs.”

  “It’s what Adrienne Munro died of. Do you know where she got them from?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Your friend Anthony Randall?” Annie suggested.

  “Randall isn’t my friend, and I have never discussed anything remotely like that with him.”

  “Did he supply the drugs to Laurence Hadfield and Adrienne Munro? Did something go wrong? Was he involved in Adrienne’s death?”

  “Well, something obviously went wrong somewhere, but I doubt that Tony Randall had anything to do with supplying drugs. Don’t forget, he isn’t your typical NHS GP; he’s a world-renowned cardiothoracic consultant and surgeon, as he never tires of telling people.”

  “Can’t these rich and powerful men just have any woman they want?” Banks asked.

  “Ah. If only it were as simple as that. But not these days. No. Besides, that only works with a certain type of woman. Girls like Adrienne, Sarah and the others are different—rare, natural beauties. Innocent, even. Yes, they need money—what student doesn’t—but they’re not gold diggers, and they’re also bright as well as beautiful.”

  “Has Randall been in touch with you since last week?”

  “No. Why should he be?”

  “Well, you’re the only two left.”

  Mia started playing with her gold chain. “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve managed to come up with links between you, Adrienne, Sarah, Laurence Hadfield and Anthony Randall. Three of them are dead, leaving you and Randall.”

  “But why would he want to get in touch with me?”

  “I don’t know,” said Banks. “That’s why I’m asking. Unfinished business? Maybe you’ve got something on him, saw something you shouldn’t have. Something like that.”

  “Stop it. You’re making me nervous.”

  “OK, let’s move on. What can you offer that one of those online dating sites or escort agencies can’t?”

  “Personal service. Discretion. No internet footprints.”

  “Bright, attractive young girls for conversation,” said Annie. “And for sex. Are these men you set the girls up with married?”

  Mia sighed. “Hadfield and Randall, no. Some of them, maybe. I don’t ask. How they make their domestic arrangements is none of my concern.”

  “Do you give them special phones?”

  “They want privacy, so I give them dedicated phones. All part of the service. Only used to contact one another, or me.”

  “What’s in it for you?” Annie went on. “What are your motives?”

  “Oh, I do well enough, thank you very much. As for my motives, you wouldn’t understand, but as I said before, I did it myself when I was a student, and I found it beat working behind the bar in the Original Oak or some similar pub, being pestered and groped by the managers and customers all bloody night.” She dismissed Annie with a flick of her head and turned to Banks. “Not that it matters or anything, but I’m curious. How did you find me?”

  “You were pretty careful to cover your tracks, weren’t you?” said Banks.

  “I value my privacy.”

  “You were careless. You gave out your real phone number.”

  Mia looked away. “Leila,” she whispered. Then she went over to her cocktail cabinet and poured herself a large Courvoisier.

  Banks didn’t confirm or deny it.

  Mia sat down with her drink. “I knew I shouldn’t have done it,” she went on. “But she was so . . . you’ve met her, I assume?”

  Again, Banks said nothing.

  “Of course. You can’t say anything. I get it. It’s all right. I’m not angry. I’m not going after her or anything.” She shook her head slowly. “It was just bad timing, that’s all. I could have fallen for Leila in a big way, but I just couldn’t afford to get involved with anyone emotionally at that time. It hurt to cut her off like that.”

  Not as much as it hurt her, Banks felt like saying, but kept quiet. At least he now knew that Mia had used her real name with Leila. Perhaps that would be some compensation. “So what happened with Adrienne and Sarah? Were you emotionally involved with either of them, too? Were you looking at Leila as a replacement?”

  “God, no!” said Mia. “No matter what you think of me, I’m not promiscuous and I’m not a heartless bitch. Leila just sort of came out of the blue when I least expected it. Knocked me for a loop. And I don’t know what happened to Adrienne and Sarah. I didn’t see them again after the introductions. They were on their own.”

  “Didn’t you talk to them from time to time?”

  “Once or twice. Just to see how they were doing.”

  “And?”

  “They said they were doing fine.”

  “But three people are dead, Mia. So what do you think went wrong? What’s your guess?”

  “As good as yours. Or maybe not, given that you’re the detective.”

  “Don’t you feel guilty about what happened?”

  “I feel terrible about what happened to Adrienne and Sarah. They were lovely girls, and they didn’t deserve to die. But they did. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why.”

  “You had no idea why Adrienne Munro would take her own life?”

  Mia shook her head. “None at all. As I said, I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, and I never saw Adrienne as a potential overdose, whether by intent or by accident.”

  “Do you think it was an accident?”

  “I don’t know. I assume you have more information on the subject than I do.”

  Banks studied her for a few moments. The mask was firmly in place again, and he realized he wasn’t going to get anything more out of her. He g
lanced at Annie, who nodded and put away her notebook and phone.

  “Don’t feel too bad, Superintendent,” Mia said as she showed them to the door. “It’s not as if I’m getting away with murder. I really didn’t kill anyone.”

  HAWKINS HAD been behaving strangely ever since he caught Zelda in the archive. She would notice him watching her through his office window and frowning at her as he talked on his phone. He also turned up with alarming frequency at her desk asking about some petty matter or another. It wasn’t like him, and it worried her that she might have set off an alarm bell by her actions. Did he know that she had taken a copy of the photograph? Was it obvious from her behavior?

  Five o’clock, rush hour in London in the rain. Not that every hour wasn’t rush hour in London, but things did gather a bit of momentum around five. Looking down from the office window Zelda noticed an undulating sea of umbrellas, rain bouncing from their taut convex covers. Lights from Old Compton Street and the “Harry Potter” sign lit up the darkness and reflected in puddles by the roadside. A string of buses lumbered along Charing Cross Road, splashing pedestrians who jumped back as if they’d been scalded and waved impotent fists at the culprits. Shaftesbury Avenue was jammed up with traffic at the Circus and hordes of people stood at every traffic light waiting to cross. The occasional impatient soul made a dash for it, only to be startled by the blast of a car horn, which somehow managed to sound angry, though Zelda knew the sound was intrinsically neutral.

  There were people everywhere. People under umbrellas. People going bareheaded or wearing rain hats or hoods. People heading home from work. People heading to the West End for a night out. People trudging towards Oxford Street to do their Christmas shopping. The lights were already strung up over the streets. And despite the rain, Zelda also noticed the occasional knot of tourists, Japanese or Korean, perhaps, standing patiently by a building while a guide lectured them on its importance. Naturally, the Palace Theatre was a big draw. Perhaps they were fortunate enough to have tickets.