by Ava Marsh
‘Doing what?’
‘Graphic design. I’m an artist and Amanda’s going to classes in Quark,’ she says, seemingly unaware that she’s straying into the present tense. ‘So she can handle the layout side of things.’
I take this in. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Kristen stares at me for several moments. ‘Do you want something to drink, Stella? Tea? Coffee?’ she says, forgetting she’s already asked.
‘No, honestly, I’m fine,’ I repeat. ‘And please, call me Grace. My real name is Grace.’
She drops her head into her hands, running her fingers through her hair before looking back up at me. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea who she might have been seeing that day?’
I shake my head again. ‘None. We never talked about work that much. Only the things we did together …’ I pause, suddenly embarrassed. ‘You know, like the parties.’
Kristen nods. ‘The thing is, there wasn’t anything on her computer – I checked, before the police took it. She always kept a record of appointments, their duration, that sort of stuff, but there was no mention of this one – in fact, she had nothing down at all for the day she disappeared. Or for the next few days. We’d been toying with the idea of going somewhere for the weekend and she was keeping her diary clear.’
‘She must have got a call. Went straight out without making a note of it.’
Kristen screws up her face. ‘She wouldn’t. Amanda was always so thorough with things like that.’
I keep my expression neutral. What can I say? Maybe Amanda didn’t want Kristen knowing about this one. Most escorts in long-term relationships deceive their partners on some level – too much honesty being as corrosive as too little.
‘What do the police think?’
‘The obvious,’ she shrugs. ‘That Amanda met up with a client in a hotel and he screwed her, then strangled her.’
‘That’s how she died?’
‘Apparently. Death by asphyxiation, they called it.’
I shudder. An image of Amanda’s long neck surrounded by her silk kimono.
Kristen leans her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. ‘That’s what I don’t understand, she was always so careful. Religious about security, calling them back on their mobile, checking them out beforehand. And she told me about every appointment, always – who she was seeing, their number, where they were meeting, for how long. She never forgot.’
Her fingers work at the furrows on her brow, kneading and massaging. ‘But this time, nothing … she simply upped and left without a word.’
‘Were you at work?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m freelance, I work from home, but I went out to pick up some stuff for supper and when I got back there was no sign of her. I assumed she’d gone for a run or something, over in the park, but when she didn’t return after an hour I called her. Her work mobile and her personal one – they were both off.’
‘You must have been frantic.’
She nods. ‘When it got to around half seven, I rang the police, but they weren’t interested. She hadn’t been missing twenty-four hours.’
‘Did you tell them what she did? Her work, I mean.’
‘Not then. I was worried about telling them, about them knowing. But I did later, the next day, when she still hadn’t come back.’
‘What did they do?’
Kristen pulls a face. ‘Nothing, I suspect. I imagine as far as they were concerned she was a prostitute and going AWOL was par for the course.’
‘And then they found her.’
‘Yes. In a crappy three-star hotel on Westbourne Grove, can you believe?’ Kristen looks at me, bewildered. ‘As if Amanda would be seen dead in a place like that.’
I grimace at the irony, but she appears not to notice. ‘Like I said, it doesn’t make sense.’
‘No, I can see it doesn’t,’ I admit. ‘I mean, if she went out to meet this guy, how come he waited three days to kill her? And how come they only checked into the hotel the night before?’
‘Precisely.’
‘So the police have no other theories?’
‘I honestly don’t know, they haven’t exactly told me. They just say they’re pursuing “various lines of inquiry”.’ She laughs, presumably at the cliché, then stares out the window at the darkening sky. Clouds seem to have massed out of nowhere, obscuring the sun. The flat feels chillier, the walls less brilliant white than cold grey.
Several tears inch down Kristen’s cheeks. We both ignore them.
‘So who registered the room she was found in?’ I ask. ‘I mean, that should give them some clues.’
‘She did, apparently. They said she paid for it up front, on her credit card.’
‘She paid for it?’ I don’t bother to hide my astonishment.
Kristen nods miserably. ‘That’s another thing that doesn’t make sense. Why the hell would Amanda pay to meet up with a client?’
‘Perhaps he said he’d give her the money,’ I suggest, but the instant the words leave my mouth I realize how stupid they are. No escort would fork out for a room on the promise of a punter.
Christ, I think, my stomach growing heavy. Maybe Amanda was fooling around. Yet somehow I can’t bring myself to believe it.
‘But that’s not the only thing,’ Kristen continues. ‘I asked to see her bag. I wanted to know what was in it. They weren’t keen, but eventually they showed me the contents, though they were in plastic bags and I couldn’t touch them or anything. It was all there – her work phone, her personal one, her make-up, her client kit—’
‘Her client kit?’
‘She always carried it in the side pocket, so she wouldn’t forget. It wasn’t much, only a small bottle of Astroglide, and five condoms in a silk purse.’
I remember it now. Green silk, with sprays of pink cherry blossom. Exquisite. Probably a gift from a client.
‘And that was the thing,’ Kristen says, reaching round and pulling a tissue from a box on a little lamp table. ‘All the condoms were there. I checked.’
I look at her. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not following.’
‘They said they found evidence that she’d had sex, but no semen, only lubricant, so whoever it was used a condom. But there were five left.’
‘Five condoms?’ I’m beginning to feel a bit thick. What does she mean?
Kristen catches my puzzled expression. ‘Oh sorry, I assumed you knew. Amanda always took five condoms along to every appointment. It was one of her things. You know what a control freak she could be.’ She laughs, gloomily. ‘I always said she had a touch of OCD.’
‘So hang on a minute, you’re saying none of them were used?’
She nods.
‘Perhaps he brought his own?’
Kristen shakes her head. ‘She always insisted on using this particular brand. She ordered them from the US. Said they were the only ones that didn’t make her sore.’
I run my teeth across the top of my tongue. Come to the only other conclusion I can think of.
‘Perhaps she went bareback, Kristen. It happens. Some clients will pay a lot extra for the privilege.’
I say this as gently as I can. But not gently enough. Kristen gives me a fierce look. ‘No, Stella—’
‘Grace,’ I repeat.
‘Like I said, there was no semen.’
‘He may have pulled out …’ Come on her, I nearly add. Plenty of men are into that too.
‘No, you don’t understand. There was no DNA at all, the police said.’ Kristen’s tone is emphatic, her eyes glistening. ‘Just traces of a spermicide they use on condoms.’
‘OK.’
‘Besides, Amanda wouldn’t ever do that – go bareback, I mean. She was totally fucking paranoid about catching something – or getting pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’
‘She didn’t use contraception,’ she explains with exaggerated patience. ‘We didn’t need the pill, did we? That’s how I know she’d never take that kind of risk.’
I stare
back at her, at the intense expression hardening her soft features.
‘So you’re saying that … what … she was raped?’
Kristen presses her lips together before speaking. ‘She carried an alarm, in her bag, but she hadn’t used it. And there were no signs of a struggle, the detective said, no bruises or marks.’
I let this sink in. She’s right, it doesn’t make sense. ‘Have you said all this to the police?’
She nods, then snorts, gritting her teeth in disgust. ‘They said it could be somebody else. Perhaps a lover.’
‘But you told them about you and her? That she doesn’t like men?’
‘Of course. I reckon that was one reason they came here, to check out whether I was telling the truth, that we weren’t just flatmates or something, that I hadn’t simply made it up.’ She gives a short bark of a laugh. ‘You know, when it comes down to it, it’s surprisingly hard to prove you’re someone’s partner.’
I press my lips together as I mull this over. ‘So what’s your theory, Kristen? About what happened?’
Her face relaxes into desolation. ‘I haven’t a clue, Grace. I go over it and over it, round and round. And her father keeps phoning and yelling at me because of course her family didn’t know anything. Nothing at all, not about me … or what she did.’
Secrets, I think, examining the bare wood floor. I wonder whether to bring up again what happened at the party. The texting, the so-called family crisis. But it feels too insubstantial now, too inconsequential against the weight of Kristen’s revelations.
When I look up again, she’s crying again, soundlessly, her hands squeezed between her knees. ‘I can’t sleep, Grace. I keep seeing her face, keep imagining what it must have been like for her …’
‘You mustn’t.’ I lean forward and touch her arm.
She lifts her eyes, rimmed red with grief. ‘Her parents are insisting on organizing the funeral. But the police won’t even say when they’re going to give her back …’ her voice cracks. ‘Her body, I mean.’
‘Jesus …’ I squeeze her arm. ‘What a fucking mess.’
She gazes into my face, as if searching for something she’s lost. ‘I loved her, Grace. Really loved her. I realize that Amanda isn’t … wasn’t perfect, that she probably did stuff I’m best off never knowing, but I trusted her.’
She blinks, twice, raising her eyes to the ceiling then dropping them back to me. ‘And I know she loved me, Grace. I know she wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.’
‘I believe you,’ I say. And I do.
19
Saturday, 7 March
‘You seem preoccupied.’
‘I do?’ I resurrect my smile and aim it squarely at Joe, a hefty middle-aged lawyer from Cincinnati with a rapidly receding hairline. ‘Sorry, I was wondering if I should change my mind. About dessert, I mean. I’m feeling rather stuffed.’
It’s a stupid fib and we both know it. Truth is I tuned out of Joe’s monologue on contract law a full half-hour ago. Was almost looking forward to the sex – inasmuch as I wouldn’t have to sit here any longer pretending I give a shit about his latest wrangle with Time-Warner.
Though, evidently, I haven’t been doing a very good job of it.
‘My fault.’ His smile is rueful. ‘Shouldn’t bring my work home with me.’
‘Amen to that.’ I pick up my glass and disguise my sarcasm with a toast. ‘Here’s to a healthy work-life balance.’
He smiles, taking a slug of premier cru and relaxing into his seat. ‘So, tell me what’s really on your mind.’
I ratch him up a notch in my estimation – not quite as self-absorbed as I assumed.
‘Do you see a lot of girls? Like me, I mean.’
He looks briefly taken aback. ‘A few. Only when I’m over here – I can’t risk it at home.’
I nod.
‘Why do you ask?’
Stop it, Grace.
‘Did you ever meet one called Elisa?’
He frowns. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
I lean back to allow the waiter to serve the desserts. ‘OK. I’m sure you’d remember if you had.’
Joe picks up a spoon and tucks into his chocolate and Grand Marnier mousse, garnished with a delicate little spiral of spun sugar. ‘This got anything to do with that girl they found in Bayswater?’
Too late to stop my look of surprise. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘It’s all over the net. I saw something on it when I was checking you out.’
He swallows another mouthful of mousse. Washes it down with more wine. ‘She a friend of yours?’
‘Not exactly. We worked together a few times.’
‘Hmmm …’ He chews on the sugar, his mouth revolving like a washing machine. ‘I imagine this must have you pretty freaked out?’
I shift my gaze to his. And realize he’s right.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, it wasn’t me. I was in LA when it happened, and I can prove it.’
I attempt a laugh. ‘I wasn’t for a minute suggesting …’
‘I’m sure you weren’t. Just thought I’d put it on record.’
He finishes his dessert. Glances over at my peach and almond sorbet, slowly melting on to the immaculate white china.
‘You gonna eat that?’
I hand him my plate.
It doesn’t last long. We strip and he pulls me across his considerable girth. I bob up and down until he comes, a drawn out sibilant sound extending to a sigh. As it subsides, I realize I’ve forgotten to fake my own climax. I fake a smile instead as I dismount, making a discreet check of the time on his bedside clock.
An hour to go. Perhaps he’ll revive and take another run at it. Or maybe not. Which makes this, what, £800 quid for three minutes of pleasure?
But that would be missing the point. The Michelin-starred restaurant is the point. The wine, the food, the studied elegance of the dining room is the point. And the chance to bore the pants off someone who otherwise wouldn’t look at you twice.
Joe drapes an arm over me, heavy as ballast. I let my head sink into the feather pillow. Close my eyes for a moment and conjure up an image of Alex, trying to revive my appetite for seconds. But this particular stimulus to desire feels too worn now, and my mind drifts home to my flat. A bath. The book on my bedside table.
I open my eyes. And almost groan. I’ve fallen asleep.
Fuck.
I roll towards the shadowy bulk of my client, praying nothing gave me away.
‘I should sue you,’ he says. The room lights are dimmed and I can’t make out if he’s serious.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I consider making some excuse, but realize it’s pointless.
‘Breach of contract,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t remember anything about downtime in your terms and conditions.’
I lean across and kiss him. ‘I’ll stay a bit longer if you like.’
‘Go home,’ he says, looking at me. ‘Get to bed.’
My smile is genuinely contrite. ‘Sorry, really. It’s inexcusable.’
He gets up. Hands me the money. I stuff it into my handbag and pull on my clothes, pausing by the door. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’
‘Likewise,’ says Joe. ‘But seriously, Stella, get some more sleep.’
I’m wide awake by the time I arrive home, my mind too restless for reading. I check my emails. Nothing much. A couple from clients, another from a web designer touting for business.
And one from Kristen, about the funeral, her mobile number tagged to the end. It’s in four days’ time.
I make a note in my diary and turn on the TV. Flick to the news, hoping for an update on Amanda. Several channels picked up the story in the days following her death, but I haven’t seen much since – either there’s nothing new to say or the press has simply lost interest.
I sit through the usual economic doom and gloom. The endless conflict in the Middle East. More instances of tax evasion by major corporations. The perpetual sense that everything’s going to
hell. The shadow let loose in the world.
Where did I hear that? My brain worries at it for a minute or two. My therapist, I suddenly remember, the one who supervised my training: a committed Jungian with a penchant for rummaging about in other people’s unconscious. ‘None of us escapes our shadow,’ she’d say. ‘Just take a look around you.’
She was right. And I should have looked harder.
I’m about to hit the off switch when I see a face I recognize. Not Amanda’s. That man. James. The nervous guy from the party, the one who left early.
He’s hurrying away from a building, flanked by several men in dark suits. The House of Commons, I realize, the distinctive gothic architecture looming into view. The camera trails him to a waiting car, then cuts to a nearby reporter clutching an umbrella and a microphone.
‘Edward Hardy, parliamentary under-secretary of state for defence equipment and support, appeared yesterday before the parliamentary select committee on government arms procurement—’
Edward Hardy.
‘—where he defended his department from accusations of corruption …’
The picture zooms in on Hardy as he ducks into a black limousine, then switches to the news studio and the face of a woman in her fifties. ‘Shadow defence minister Jane Goodall’, the caption reads at the bottom.
‘Hardy insists his department followed all the guidelines, but there are still a lot of unanswered questions that need to be addressed,’ she says with calculated indignation. ‘He’s simply echoing the assurances offered by the defence secretary in the Commons last week when asked about the leaked information on the Abstar contract …’
The scene changes again. A cartoon this time. South Park. Kenny holding a firecracker which explodes, blowing him to pieces. Shit. I’ve been gripping the remote so tight I must have hit the channel button. I try to flick back, but when I find the right programme the news has moved on to a feature on NHS redundancies.
‘Fuck.’
I grab my laptop. Type in Hardy’s name and ‘arms inquiry’ into the search engine. It rewards me with dozens of hits. I click on the first. It doesn’t take long to get the gist. Leaked emails suggested that senior politicians have received kickbacks from several large international defence firms in return for favourable treatment in the tendering process.