by Ava Marsh
‘Nor, I imagine, would you,’ I retort.
He laughs. ‘Don’t bet on it, sweetheart. I’m not married. And I believe that old double-standard is still very much alive – men get off far more lightly in most people’s books.’
I narrow my eyes and hold his gaze.
‘So how about that dance?’ he asks again.
I count to five and smile. Let my features soften, lifting my left hand to his shoulder as if accepting his offer. With my right I locate his balls through the thin fabric of his suit and squeeze – just hard enough to render him immobile.
Max’s eyes bulge as I put my mouth up to his ear.
‘Dance with you?’ I hiss over the boom of the music. ‘I’d rather fucking die.’
It’s gone midnight by the time I walk into the warmth of my flat. I inhale deeply, savouring the stillness, the silence, the ineffable sweetness of being entirely, gloriously alone. I search in my bag for my phone, intending to turn it off, but find a text from Anna, sent earlier this afternoon. I forgot I put the alert tone on mute.
‘Check your email. Now.’
I fire up my laptop and open her message. Inside is a single web link. I click on it and find I’m facing a report from the local evening news. I stare at the photograph, then the headline, and my breath dies in my throat.
PROSTITUTE FOUND DEAD IN BAYSWATER HOTEL ROOM
Christ, no. I avert my eyes from the screen for a few seconds, listening to the thump of my pulse in my ears.
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I force myself to look back at the picture of Amanda, her face smiling, half turned away from the camera. It looks like a private snapshot, taken at a family gathering, perhaps, or an evening out with friends. She looks happy and relaxed. Off the clock.
Tears prick my eyes. I get up and grab my inhaler. Take a couple of puffs and wait for my breathing to slow before sitting back down at my desk. I read through the report, only half taking it in.
… woman found dead yesterday in a hotel room in Bayswater, after being reported missing several days ago. Police identified the body as Amanda Mansfield, a 31-year-old prostitute known to be working in the London area. They are treating her death as suspicious, and are appealing for any witnesses who saw her on the night of the 24th.
Amanda is dead.
I say it soundlessly, my lips forming the words, trying them for size. It feels impossible. Inconceivable.
All that beauty. All that life.
I read the report again, slowly this time, sentence by sentence. Think back to Kristen’s email. The worry in the lines. My own bland reassurance.
Oh God. The urge for a cigarette strong-arms its way into my consciousness, as tangible as hunger. It’s all I can do not to grab my coat and head off to the 24-hour store on the corner.
I google Amanda’s name. Several hits, all of them news reports, none adding much to what I’ve just read. Except one, the South London Echo, which quotes a source at the Metropolitan Police saying the body had been ‘molested’ around the time of death.
I lean back and close my eyes, feeling cold, almost shivery. Molested. In a hotel room. The inference is obvious.
Amanda was murdered by a client.
17
Sunday, 1 March
Anna shivers, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her military-style coat. She looks tired, her skin a greyish pallor in the low winter sunlight. A hint of redness around her eyes. ‘Have you heard anything more since yesterday?’
I shake my head.
‘It’s all over the net,’ she says. ‘There’s a huge thread on PunterWeb about it.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Mostly speculation, of course. And a lot of hysteria. Joanne, you know, that girl who used to work with me at the agency, she’s going to take a minder to every appointment.’
‘Actually into the room?’
Anna rolls her eyes. Manages a smile. ‘Wouldn’t that be every man’s dream job?’ She sniffs, pulling up the collar of her coat against the wind blowing along the embankment. There’s a fierce bite to it, a nip of cold from somewhere Siberian.
‘Jesus, poor Elisa,’ she says. ‘I keep remembering the time we went to see a Jewish guy, over in that place in Harrington Gardens.’
‘The Bentley?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. He told her to kneel on all fours and bark. Like a bloody dog.’
‘You’re kidding. Did she agree?’
‘Like hell!’ Anna snorts. ‘She flat refused. Told him it was against her religion.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘I didn’t realize you knew her that well.’
‘I didn’t. Not really. I only worked with her a couple of times. She was a bit out of my league.’
‘She was a bit out of everyone’s league,’ I say, and Anna smiles. Tips her head back and lets the wind fan out her hair. ‘You did those parties together, didn’t you?’
‘A few.’
She stops. Leans on the wall and gazes out at the river. The water looks dark and slatey, the surface rippling in the breeze. A splay of cables suspending the Albert Bridge over the motley collection of boats moored along the pier.
‘What do you think happened?’ she asks, pinning back her hair with one hand to stop it blowing around her face.
‘I guess she ran into the wrong guy.’ A chill inside as I finally articulate what neither of us wants to admit.
‘A client?’ Anna chews her lip. It looks sore, chapped.
‘I suppose so. After all, she was found in a hotel room.’
Anna doesn’t speak, just stares out across the water.
‘I heard from her,’ I say, suddenly. ‘Her girlfriend, I mean. She emailed me after Elisa disappeared. Asking if I had any idea where she might be.’
Anna turns to look at me. ‘When was that?’
‘Wednesday, I think. She said Ama— … Elisa had vanished without a word the day before.’
Anna thinks for a minute, grabbing at a stray bit of hair that’s flapping in the breeze. ‘So she’d been missing what … three days when they found her?’
I nod.
‘And her girlfriend didn’t know where she’d gone?’ Anna turns back to the view across the Thames. ‘God only knows what she was up to.’
I grimace. Poor Kristen.
‘Come on.’ Anna links her arm through mine and we start walking again, heading towards Chelsea Bridge. ‘It makes you think though, doesn’t it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘About getting out.’ She half closes her eyes, staring into the sun. ‘I was mulling over what you asked before. Maybe it’s time to call it a day. Things are starting to get to me.’ Anna gives me a rueful smile. ‘I had a bloke last week ask me to pretend I was his wife’s best friend. So I did. Told him he was a cheat and a liar.’
I laugh again. ‘We all have those days.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t afford to start alienating clients like that. He left without paying. And he’ll probably post a shitty review.’
‘Any ideas what you’d do? If you stop, I mean.’
‘Not really. I’ve considered setting up an agency, but I can’t stand the idea of managing a bunch of stroppy Lithuanians.’
‘Stick to English girls then.’
Anna sniffs. ‘Still a nightmare. Everyone trying to rip you off, making deals with clients behind your back. I should know – I was with my agency for three years before I went indie.’
‘What about your old job? Didn’t you work for some IT firm?’
‘Telecoms. I was in corporate training.’
‘Couldn’t you go back to that?’
‘I doubt it.’ Anna pulls a face. ‘If nothing else, I’m way out of date. I’d have to retrain.’
‘So retrain.’
‘I’ve considered it, but …’
‘But what?’
Anna doesn’t say anything for over a minute. Then stops and turns to face me.
‘OK, here’s the thing.’ She sniffs agai
n and scratches her nose with the tip of her nail. ‘I’ve got myself into debt. Quite a lot of debt, actually – I can barely meet the mortgage payments as it is. I could sell my flat and use the equity to pay off what I owe, but then I’d have nowhere to live. And no income.’
She glances over the Thames towards Battersea Park as I take this in. Her face looks older suddenly, more fragile. I exhale slowly and cast caution to the wind.
‘So, how much do you owe?’
Her eyes flick back to mine.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘None of my business.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Anna takes a deep breath. ‘Just shy of thirty thousand.’
‘Thirty grand?’ Too late to hide the shock on my face. ‘Jesus, Anna, what—’
I see the look on hers and shut up. Neither of us speaks for what feels like ages. My mind spins around her revelation.
Thirty thousand pounds. Christ.
I mean, I know Anna has expensive habits, especially when it comes to clothes; I’ve clocked the stuff she wears, seen the bank of wardrobes lining her spare room. Even so, that’s one fuck of a lot of money. Business must have been worse than she’s been letting on.
‘So what are you going to do?’ I venture.
She kicks at a stone on the pavement. ‘No idea.’
‘You could always sell off some things,’ I say cautiously, gauging her reaction. ‘Get a lodger maybe. While you retrain.’
Anna grimaces. ‘It still wouldn’t be enough. I’d need at least twenty-five thousand to pay the tuition fees and live on in London for a year.
I reflect on this for a minute or two. ‘You ever thought about moving further afield?’
She sighs. A long, slow sound just audible over the hum of wind and traffic. ‘Yeah, I’ve thought about it – for ten seconds or so. That’s how long before I realize I’d go insane rotting away in the suburbs.’
‘It doesn’t have to be Chipping Norton, for heaven’s sake. What’s wrong with Brighton? Or Bristol?’
‘Barely any cheaper than London these days.’
I swing my eyes to the river. I’m getting the sense I’m not helping.
Another silence, then Anna tugs briefly on my arm. ‘I know I asked you this before, but what about you? What’s your escape plan?’
‘This is it.’
Anna raises her eyebrows and gives me an intense look. ‘Come on, Grace. You don’t want to still be doing this when you’re fifty.’
I pull a face.
‘I’m not joking,’ she says. ‘You remember Helen? I saw a review on her the other day, and frankly it was less than kind. She must be pushing forty-seven now.’
‘And no doubt still pretending she’s thirty-five.’
Anna grins. ‘No doubt.’
She picks up her pace, stretching out her long legs in what look like designer biker boots. I can’t help wondering how much they further they’ve taken her into the red.
‘Seriously, Grace, what are you going to do?’
I feel a flush of something hot and sour. Why does everyone keep asking me this?
‘I’ve no idea,’ I snap, more sharply than intended. ‘I’m not ready to jack it in yet.’
She ignores my obvious irritation. ‘You need to think about it. Hard. Too long at this malarkey and you end up losing your soul.’
Or your life, I think, my stomach rolling as I remember Amanda.
We arrive at the junction with Chelsea Bridge and Grosvenor Road. Anna looks up towards Knightsbridge. ‘I’d better go. I’ve got an appointment this afternoon with that bloke you referred to me.’
‘The role-play guy?’
‘Yeah. We’re doing the secretary thing first. I’m going to his office for an “interview” and I need to get a pair of fake glasses. All I can find is those cheap reading ones they sell everywhere, but they make me dizzy.’ She giggles. ‘Mind you, at least they’d make his dick look bigger.’
‘He’s going to screw you in his office?’
Anna shrugs. ‘I guess so.’
‘What about the other staff? Won’t they catch on?’
‘Who knows? Maybe that’s the attraction – you know these bloody exhibitionists. Anyway, what do I care? It’s my job on the line if we get caught.’
I manage a smile, but underneath it I feel impossibly tired. A dull sort of weariness, like the shine has worn off everything. I find myself considering Amanda’s parents, how they must know now what it was she did for a living. How it probably killed her.
And wonder if they’re aware of Kristen. Or was she another of Amanda’s secrets?
Hell, I think. Kristen. It hits me how bad she must be feeling right now. ‘Hey,’ I say to Anna. ‘Do you know where she lived? Amanda … Elisa, I mean.’
She releases my arm. ‘Not sure. Over towards Chiswick, I seem to remember. Why’d you ask?’
‘I thought I might go round and see her girlfriend. Check she’s coping. I emailed her yesterday when I heard, but I’ve had nothing back.’
Anna considers this as she buttons up her coat. ‘Try Janine,’ she suggests. ‘I’m pretty certain she knows. She used to hang out with them occasionally.’
‘Thanks.’
She leans forward and gives me a hug, a little longer and tighter than usual. Then stands back and examines my features. ‘Can I give you some advice, Grace?’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t get involved. I’m sure you mean well, but honestly, I think you’re better off staying out of it.’
She’s right. I know that.
But somehow this feels like something I have to do. The least I can do. For Amanda. For Kristen.
And maybe for myself.
18
Monday, 2 March
Kristen’s flat is in a two-storey terraced house in a narrow side road just off Chiswick Common. Pale London brick, a big bay window surrounded by a small paved garden, the front door freshly painted in high-gloss navy blue. The window box under the bay is filled with ivy and spring bulbs, while a pair of dwarf conifers stand like sentries each side of the porch.
Smart, yes, but somehow lacking the glamour I always associated with Elisa. It’s almost impossible to imagine her in a setting this prosaic.
I study the tags alongside the door bells. ‘Shelton, D’ in neat script by the lower one; above it ‘Mansfield/Grainger’ in black type.
Amanda Mansfield. Such an ordinary name.
I press the top bell once. There’s no sound that I can hear, but a minute later the door swings open and I find myself looking at a girl with light-brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Her face bare of makeup, her eyes puffy and dark.
‘Kristen?’
She squints into the sunlight. ‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Stella. You contacted me about Amanda?’
A blank look.
‘I emailed you the other day when I … when I heard. But you probably haven’t had a chance to respond.’ She carries on staring at me as I gabble. ‘I just wanted to check you’re OK. If there’s anything I can do or …’
I stop, feeling suddenly foolish. Anna was right. It was a mistake to come.
Kristen turns abruptly and walks back through the hallway. I pause in the entrance, then assume this is an invitation. I follow her up the stairs and find her waiting at the top, holding the door.
The flat isn’t large, but a skylight floods the lounge with light and the white walls are clean and fresh. A couple of giant canvases add big splashes of colour, and the outsized L-shaped sofa, which should make the room appear smaller, somehow gives it a more generous feel.
‘It’s nice of you to come.’ Her Scottish accent is soft – Edinburgh maybe, or somewhere further north – but her voice has the slow, heavy tone of someone still in shock. She attempts a smile, but it’s like her features have forgotten how; the corners of her mouth turn up for a second then subside.
We examine each other for a moment. She’s mid-height – barely taller than me. Pretty, but not spec
tacularly so. That said, there’s a quality, a certain vibrancy about her that I could imagine Amanda found alluring.
‘I hope you don’t mind me barging round like this,’ I begin. ‘I was—’
Without warning, Kristen bursts into tears. A snuffling, anguished howl, her arms hanging by her sides as if broken. I hesitate, then step forward and give her a hug. She lets me hold her for a few seconds before pulling away.
‘I’m sorry,’ she chokes, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. ‘I’m so exhausted. I can’t sleep and I’ve just got back from the police station. They’ve been asking me questions for hours.’
‘Surely they don’t imagine that you …’
She frowns. ‘I don’t think so, not really. They wanted to go over everything about Amanda – her work – you know. They’ve already been round the flat, taken her computer, her personal phone, other stuff.’ She sighs. ‘They took my laptop too – that’s why I never got your email. I’ve no idea when I’ll get it back.’
‘Why not? They can’t keep it, can they?’
‘They can, at least for as long as they need it for the investigation. I asked.’ Kristen looks out the window, chewing her lip. Then turns back to me. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee or tea?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. Really. I only popped round to see if you were all right. And to tell you how terribly sorry I am. Amanda was lovely, truly one of a kind.’
Kristen’s mouth starts to tremble. She sinks on to the enormous sofa. I lower myself into the leather beanbag opposite.
‘We bought this place together three years ago,’ she says, her voice quivering. ‘We were doing it up before we got married.’
‘Married?’ My voice betrays my surprise and Kristen looks at me.
‘We’d set a date. June next year, our seven-year anniversary.’
‘Oh.’ I can’t think what else to say.
‘She was going to stop, you know, stop working.’ She’s talking faster now, the earlier lethargy in her voice superseded by a kind of manic energy. ‘We had an agreement, you see, that she’d carry on till the wedding. By then she planned to have saved up enough for us to set up a business together.’ Tears start to roll down her cheeks again.