Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Neil? Yeah,” Sadie said. “Works here part-time as a bouncer. Sometimes I put a little business his way. Why?”

  My first thought was, Great! The missing link! Douglas Fleming must have met Neil Titley here at the Banana Club. My second was acute disappointment. I’d never imagined Douglas Fleming to be the kind of pervert who would frequent these establishments, especially to see someone he’d known as a child, perform.

  “I thought you said Douglas Fleming never came here?” I said.

  “If he did, I didn’t see him. We get a lot of blokes sneaking in here wearing disguises. Wives don’t like it, you see.”

  There was a tap on the door and Bert poked his head in. “Another visitor, Ms. Sparkles.”

  “Hi!” Annabel burst in, eyes wide with excitement. “You must be Sadie. Wow. How great to meet you.”

  “You’re the Annabel who is living with that old doctor, aren’t you?” said Sadie. I thought I detected a hint of malice in Sadie’s tone but couldn’t be sure.

  It hardly mattered. Annabel appeared not to hear and made a beeline for the vertical pole. She swung around it, flicking her hair this way and that.

  “Liam said I was a natural, but I needed practice,” said Annabel as she wrapped both legs around the pole and tried to shin up. Instead, she slid down, landing hard on her bottom. “Ouch!”

  “It takes a lot of practice,” said Sadie, stifling a snort of laughter. I had to look away so as not to laugh, too.

  “Of course, I’m in jeans,” said Annabel. “It must be easier with bare legs.”

  “Ten minutes, Ms. Sparkles,” said Bert from outside the door.

  “I’ve got to warm up now,” Sadie said. “But you should stay for the show.”

  I looked over at Annabel who was nodding her head with great enthusiasm. “We’d love to,” she gushed. “Can we watch you now?”

  “Whatever.”

  Annabel flung herself next to me on the daybed practically bouncing with excitement.

  Sadie removed her robe. She flipped her head forward, ruffled her hair, and tossed it back. I had to admit, it looked authentically messy, as if she had just stepped out of prehistoric times—although the red acrylic nail tips added a twenty-first-century flair.

  Annabel’s jaw dropped. “Are those hair extensions?”

  “Yeah,” said Sadie. “But it’s real hair. Polly on the Barbican imports it from Mumbai.”

  “I didn’t know there were blondes in India,” said Annabel.

  “She dyes it,” I whispered.

  Sadie started with a few stretches and lunges followed by a perfectly executed cartwheel. Her breasts did not move once. I studied Annabel out of the corner of my eye. She seemed utterly enthralled.

  “Tell Bert to give you house seats,” Sadie said, as she finished her warm up routine with sideways splits. “See you out there.”

  As Annabel and I settled into our seats three rows back from the stage, I reflected that the evening was going well.

  Sadie had provided another piece of the puzzle. Fleming must have hired Neil Titley to do his dirty work. I was a little nervous about confronting Titley and would have to tread carefully. I didn’t want to frighten him off—or worse—give him reason to alert Fleming that I’d been here asking awkward questions.

  I looked at my watch. “I have to slip away to meet this Go-Go Gothic chappy in a few moments,” I said to Annabel.

  “I’ll save your seat,” she said. “The place is really filling up. There are a lot of sailors here tonight.”

  I scanned the audience but there seemed to be no sign of Robin, thank God.

  “Isn’t the set amazing!” gushed Annabel.

  She was right. It was. Among fake palm trees festooned with thick green vines were a series of vertical poles set into the floor.

  Mechanical parrots squawked and model monkeys chattered from the treetops. In front of a thatched hut, a large cauldron big enough to hold three people simmered over a fake fire. African drums began to beat.

  “Compliments of Sadie Sparkles,” said a young waitress, handing us two plastic pineapples liberally adorned with paper umbrellas. “Banana Coolers. Enjoy!”

  We both took tentative sips. It nearly blew my head off. “Jeez!” I cried, “It’s practically neat rum.”

  “Omigod!” Annabel nudged me. “Over there! Isn’t that the farmer who was following us?” She squealed and ducked down. “Oh! He’s looking over!”

  Fortified by rum, I waved. Annabel hid behind me giggling, “Don’t encourage him!”

  Topaz stuck up her middle finger and turned her back on us just as the lights dimmed. The African drumbeat grew louder and the audience began to stir with restless anticipation. There were a few wolf whistles.

  Suddenly, there was a loud crash of simulated thunder and lightning. People screamed. A statuesque black man dressed in a loincloth wheeled an animal cage onto the stage. Someone was inside.

  “Oh! It’s Sadie!” Annabel grabbed my arm, trembling with excitement.

  Sadie rattled the bars and pretended to be scared. The drumming became more frantic as the black Adonis did a series of leaps and jumps around the cage before letting her out. She began a seductive dance around him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay any longer to see who ended up in the pot as I realized it was nearly nine.

  “I have to go,” I whispered in Annabel’s ear. “If I’m not back in half an hour, you’d better call the police.”

  “Okay,” she said, mesmerized by the black Adonis who was spinning Sadie above his head on one hand. I got the feeling that if something did happen to me, Annabel wouldn’t notice until the club shut. By then it would be too late and my body would be discovered in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant in a Dumpster.

  For a moment I hesitated about meeting Neil Titley alone but reminded myself that Christiane Amanpour must have interviewed far more dangerous people than I—African despots, Middle Eastern tyrants to name just a few.

  Plymouth Hoe was a busy place at night. As long as we stayed firmly in the public eye, I felt sure I’d be safe.

  25

  I recognized Neil Titley and his flattened nose immediately. He was standing with a man with a shaved head under a Torbay palm in front of the main entrance. The two were dressed alike in the black-suited uniform of the nightclub bouncer. Both wore earpieces and looked very American Secret Service.

  “Here she is!” Neil broke into a huge smile and engulfed me in a bear hug that was so friendly it took me completely off-guard. “Were you inside watching the show?”

  “I came with my friend,” I said, extricating myself from his embrace. “I also know Sadie Sparkles very well.” Despite Neil’s warm welcome, I wanted him to know I hadn’t come to the Banana Club alone.

  “Sadie is a darling. The punters love her,” said Neil. “This is Tyler.”

  “You say you brought a friend?” Tyler leered. On closer inspection, it looked like he had misguidedly shaved off his eyebrows as well as his hair.

  “Yes,” I said. “Why?”

  “Maybe we could make a foursome later on tonight?” said Tyler. “Are her eyes a beautiful as yours?”

  “I’m here on business, actually.” Even though the answer would have been no, I felt flattered. With all the hot dancers in the Banana Club, it felt good to be singled out.

  “Don’t take any notice of him,” said Neil. “He asks every woman out and keeps a score. How many was it last night? Eleven?”

  “Twelve, man.” Tyler gave Neil a playful punch.

  So much for being singled out.

  “As I say, I’m here on business, Neil, so can we get on with it?”

  “I snagged the small conference room,” he said, and turned to Tyler. “We’ll be about twenty-five minutes.”

  Neil led the way back into the club and up a narrow flight of dimly lit stairs. Judging by the sound of the African drums vibrating through the floorboards, I suspected Sadie was still trying to avoid being boiled alive.

&n
bsp; We entered a windowless, soulless room, containing nothing but a round table and four chairs. A titanium briefcase stood in the corner.

  I began to feel nervous, again. Did Douglas Fleming know I was on to him and tipped Neil off? What was in the briefcase—instruments of torture? Why had he brought me up here? If I screamed, no one would ever hear my strangled cries for help.

  Gallantly, Neil pulled out a chair for me then sat down opposite. He snapped open the briefcase, withdrew a spiral bound document and slid it toward me. “For your newspaper.”

  I glanced at the title page. Go-Go Gothic Business Plan—Our Passengers Go All The Way! “Goodness. You’ve put a lot of work into this.”

  “I’ve done my research,” said Neil in a pompous voice. “Now you keep your part of the bargain and we’ll both get rich.”

  “Of course,” I said weakly. “I do have a few questions—”

  “I’ll be taking questions after the presentation.” Neil got to his feet and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Looking me directly in the eye, he launched into a highly impressive presentation of his long-term goals for Go-Go Gothic. Neil spoke of profit and loss calculations, projected sales over a five-year period, an interactive presence on the Internet, and—the ultimate—a Go-Go Gothic Global empire. “After all, Virgin’s Richard Branson started with just one airplane.”

  I applauded politely and couldn’t help wondering if taking money to dispose of a body was also in Neil’s business plan.

  “I want to make Go-Go Gothic a household name,” Neil went on enthusiastically. “And with your newspaper behind me the world is our oyster.”

  “I have to talk to the editor, first,” I said hastily, kicking myself for not mentioning that the Gazette was just a little weekly newspaper. “Let’s talk about you.” I took out the small notepad that I always carried with me. “How did Go-Go Gothic begin?”

  Neil pointed to the spiral-bound document. “It’s all in there.”

  “Great. I can’t wait to read it,” I said. “But how do you attract your clients? I couldn’t find you on the website.”

  “Technical difficulties,” Neil said. “I’m using a virtual consultant in Mumbai. Should have it up and running next week.”

  “So you’ve been relying on word of mouth? Referrals?”

  “Sadie puts a lot of business my way. Stag nights, hen parties, that kind of thing. I give her an intro cut.”

  “Why don’t you take me through a typical booking?” I said slyly. “How about the Fleming funeral last Thursday?”

  “That was a favor,” Neil said. “I don’t like doing coffin transfers—that’s what we call them in the business.”

  At last I felt I was getting somewhere. “Really? Why?”

  “Coffins are heavy—”

  “Because they’re lined with zinc?” I put in. “Hence the hospital gurney?”

  “That’s right,” Neil nodded. “You have to hire extra people. Pushes the cost up.” Neil pointed at the spiral bound document again. “You’ll see on page nine—”

  “So Sadie referred Douglas Fleming to your company?”

  “No.” Neil shook his head. “It was a woman who made the booking.”

  “A woman?” This was puzzling. “Was her name, Eunice Pratt? When did she call?”

  Neil reached into his jacket pocket and brought out an iPhone. His hands were the size of hams. “Here we are, April twentieth. Melanie Carew. She called me at nine-oh five.”

  Melanie Carew? Good God! I found that hard to believe although Melanie hadn’t seemed too bothered about Scarlett’s demise. “Did Go-Go Gothic supply the coffin?”

  “Too much trouble. A custom-made one will set you back a few thousand and if you buy one on the Internet, you don’t know what you’re getting.”

  “So you’re saying that Fleming supplied the coffin?”

  Neil shrugged. “Must have done and I’ll tell you something else, it was a very fancy coffin. Egyptian looking. Covered in hiero-whatever.”

  “Hieroglyphics?”

  “That’s it. And a snake was carved into the lid.”

  “That does sound fancy.” And expensive. My Internet research had also revealed that so-called fancy carved coffins took weeks to build.

  Fleming was guilty all right. A prebought custom-made coffin! A prebooked car! A premeditated murder!

  “Bollocks!” Neil said looking at his watch. “They’ll have my guts for garters. I’ve got to get back on the door.”

  Thanking Neil for his time and promising him to call should I have any further questions about Go-Go Gothic, I picked up the PowerPoint report and followed him out of the room.

  I found Annabel wandering around the corridor downstairs looking agitated. “For God’s sake! I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she cried. “Where the hell have you been? We’ll be late!”

  “I thought the clubs didn’t close until two.”

  Rather than answer, Annabel merely grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the Banana Club. I tried to say good-bye to Neil but he was handing out his business card to a bunch of young women waiting to get in. I heard snatches of “discount for parties of six or more” and “yes, we can provide a Chippendales stripper.”

  Annabel walked briskly along the Hoe. I only just managed to keep up and was surprised that she hadn’t bombarded me with questions about my meeting.

  Suddenly, Annabel stopped next to the illuminated statue of Sir Francis Drake, famed Elizabethan circum-navigator of the world.

  “I’m tired,” she said, and promptly sat down on a stone bench at the base of the statue.

  “I thought you wanted to go clubbing.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said irritably. “I want to sit here for a minute.

  Annabel closed her eyes, which was just as well because Topaz’s Capri cruised slowly on by. Even though Topaz kept her eyes firmly ahead, I knew she’d seen us. Twenty yards farther on, the car mounted the pavement and Topaz cut the lights. She was beginning to give me the creeps.

  “Can we go back to the car?” I said. “I’m getting cold.”

  Annabel’s eyes snapped open. She glanced at her watch and looked toward the end of the Hoe. A tall man in a leather trench coat was walking toward us. “Wait . . . I don’t believe it.” Annabel got to her feet and waved. “Dino! Is that really you?”

  The man drew closer and smiled. He had thick, wavy hair, a hooked nose, and wore heavy-framed spectacles. “Annabel Lake. Well I never! What are you doing here?”

  They exchanged a stiff hug. “We were just leaving,” she said. “This is my friend Vicky Hill.”

  “Hi,” I said, looking from one to the other suspiciously.

  “You’ve got beautiful eyes,” said Dino.

  “Everyone tells her that,” Annabel laughed. “Don’t you think they’re an unusual sapphire blue?”

  “Very unusual.” Dino nodded thoughtfully. “Why don’t I take a photograph of you girls together and e-mail it?”

  “Oh, lovely.” Annabel clapped her hands. “Would you?”

  “It won’t come out.” I hated having my picture taken. “It’s too dark.”

  “Stand closer together. Under the light . . . and smile!” Dino withdrew his iPhone from his jacket pocket and took a snap. “I’d suggest a drink but I’ve got a meeting.”

  “I think we’re off home. Aren’t we, Vicky?” Annabel gave a dramatic yawn. “Gosh. I can’t believe I am so tired! Bye, Dino—oh! And don’t forget to send the photo!”

  Once we were on the road home, I couldn’t stop thinking about Annabel’s bizarre exchange with this so-called Dino. Why had he wanted to take our photograph? Did Annabel think I’d been born yesterday?

  I knew it was a prearranged meeting—I’d witnessed plenty of those with Dad—and yet money had not changed hands.

  “Dino seems a nice guy,” I ventured. “Have you known him long?”

  “Actually, he’s an informant,” said Annabel. “It’s always awkward to bump in
to one’s informants. I never know what to say!”

  “I thought you were having a rendezvous,” I said lightly. “Meet me by the statue at ten, kind of thing. I wouldn’t have minded.” I could have begged Topaz to take me home.

  “What an extraordinary thing to say,” Annabel laughed. “You are funny.”

  “You were all excited about going clubbing and suddenly—poof—you’re tired.”

  “Guilty as charged,” said Annabel. “The truth is, seeing those pole dancers has got me thinking.”

  “You’re going to change your job?”

  “No silly. I’m going to perform for Jack. Didn’t you say I should spice up my sex life? Well, I’m going to start tonight and can’t wait to get cracking.”

  “Oh, lucky Jack,” was all I managed to say.

  Annabel had neatly changed the subject, which meant she was up to something, but I couldn’t think what.

  The journey home was spent listening to Annabel’s colorful account of what Sadie endured at the hands of her handsome captor. I decided against telling Mrs. Evans about her daughter’s raunchy performance—although recalling Mrs. E.’s steamy afternoon trysts, I concluded that the apple did not fall far from the tree.

  As I lay in bed later that night, my thoughts turned to Fleming and Melanie Carew. An affair with the secretary was such a cliché. Was it possible he was leading two women up the garden path while courting Olive Larch?

  Armed with Neil Titley’s startling revelations, I couldn’t wait for tomorrow to come. Douglas Fleming would be attending the GSRF first race of the season at the Three Tuns and I had a lot of questions to ask him.

  26

  “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!” came a cheery voice.

  I opened my eyes and bolted upright. Topaz was standing over my bed holding two mugs of tea.

  “What are you doing here?” I looked at the clock. It wasn’t yet eight. I’d been hoping for a lie in. “It’s Sunday morning!”

  Topaz looked a wreck and was still dressed in her farming gear—though I was glad to see she had removed the heavy mustache. Even so, a faint line of gray glue was visible on her upper lip.