Maestra: The most shocking thriller you'll read this year

by L. S. Hilton

  28

  I gave the concierge a garish potted carnation and a Rykiel print scarf I’d never much liked. The sleepless night and the endless cigarettes had left me with a tinny ache in my ears and a twitch in my hands, but behind my eyes my mind was as shiny as the bathroom in the flat. The purple shadow of my eye sockets was also useful when I handed her a neat cardboard carton containing Renaud’s few clothes (minus the plastic wallet in which he’d taped up my passport and credit cards) and asked, as a great favour, if she could look after it in the lodge in case monsieur ever came back for his things. Feckless lovers doing a moonlight flit were standard fare in the telenovele, and despite her voluble commiserations I managed to imply that it was just too painful to talk about. I reminded her that the movers would be arriving later that day and explained that a friend was giving me a lift to the airport, thanked her in between agreeing that No Man Was To Be Trusted and lugged the holdall to the end of the street, waiting at the bus stop where I had once watched Renaud waiting for me. The bus was crowded with passengers on their way to work, I had to stand clutching the rail with my bag wedged between my knees as we swayed across the city. How long since I had been on a bus? How long until the mysterious friend at the préfecture realised that ‘Leanne’ wasn’t turning up at the airport? I had a day or two, I reckoned, before they came to question the concierge. At least she’d enjoy that. I’d miss my things, but I could always buy more. It was time for a new look, anyway.

  By the time the bus had waddled through the commuter traffic to the depot behind Sacré-Cœur I was the only occupant. I trailed behind a tourist coach staggering up to the church, then flopped down on the steps amongst the early-morning backpackers. Someone was playing the bongos and I could already smell weed. I rooted in the holdall and pulled out Renaud’s wallet. Empty, as I thought, except for a couple of notes, the ‘fake’ police badge he’d used on the Goutte d’Or and a postal slip, a receipt for a special delivery to be collected from Amsterdam. It had been a convincing touch, the fake passport. And the Amsterdam address would be useful, as I’d be needing another new one imminently. Next was Renaud’s crappy old-school Nokia, the same model as the one I’d used on Balensky’s boat. I assumed he must have had something more up to date somewhere, but he hadn’t been taking any chance on having it near me. Bless. I didn’t expect to find much, that would have been too neat, and the log lists and inbox were wiped clean, except for an offer from France Telecom that morning. The only call registered was the one he’d made to me while I was in the hotel room with Moncada.

  What I did find was photos, beginning with the sequence he’d shown me from Rome, then from the period when he was spying me out in Paris, buying the newspaper, smoking a cigarette in the Panthéon café, running in the park. And then shots I’d never seen him taking, me sleeping, a close up of my hair on the pillow, me sprawled naked on the wreck of my bed looking like a pornographic Hogarth. Eeeew. But then, the heel of my shoe as he followed me upstairs, me stooping to spit as I brushed my teeth, a half-angle, caught through the bedroom door of me fiddling with a shopping bag. Hundreds of them. I looked for a long time, and the more I looked, the less voyeuristic and controlling they seemed. There was something softly intimate about the pictures, even a tenderness in the way he had recorded so many glancing moments of my life.

  ‘Excuse. You take photo, please?’

  A Spanish couple, hefty and acne-pocked, brandishing a phone. Another effing phone. I smiled, and snapped as they posed with their arms round one another with the marble façade behind them. Happy times.

  I looked around for a dustbin, preparing to chuck Renaud’s Nokia, but it buzzed in my hands. It began with 06, a French mobile number. The text read merely ‘No sign yet’. How thoughtful of them to remind me. The one thing which had been nagging at me was that when Renaud vanished, da Silva would blame me, not Moncada’s crew. And now, Renaud was still alive, texting away from Montmartre, where the two of us had first met. So, take a punt, Judith. I texted back, ‘En route. Does the name Gentileschi mean anything to you?’ I had to know if Renaud had told them where I kept my money. The dustbin stank of the vomit of putrid fast food. A vendor came up and offered me a tray of plastic friendship bracelets.

  Another buzz. ‘Bien. Non.’

  So he hadn’t told them, which meant they wouldn’t be applying for a warrant for the depository in Vincennes, which meant that if his head was ever fished out of the Seine it would be attributed to old-fashioned omerta. I wasn’t dumb enough to think that this phone contained the only evidence of my meeting with Fitzpatrick and my tie with Renaud. Da Silva would surely have the shots by now, and there was the small matter of the dead junkie, but Gentileschi could be hiring again tomorrow. Definitely time for a new look.

  I tapped back. ‘Merci. A plus’. Until later. Still, I somehow didn’t want to relieve myself of the phone. I’d never had a love letter before.

  I spent the afternoon wandering the west of the city. I could have gone to a museum to pass the time, but there were no pictures I wanted to look at. I trudged to the Parc Monceau and despite the cold managed to sleep an hour or so with my head on the holdall, waking to the offended glance of a chic young mother whose toddler was fiddling with my shoelaces. She probably thought I was a street drunk or a runaway, not the sort of thing one would wish to find in this most elegant and lifeless of Parisian gardens. I bought a coffee and a glass of water to wake myself up and looked at the papers to pass the time, more from habit than anxiety. It seemed remarkable, how many people one could kill without making the news.

  At about seven that evening, I texted Yvette. ‘Are you at home? I need to come over.’ We’d been messaging from time to time. I’d explained my disappearance from the scene during the weeks with Renaud by saying I’d hooked up with a fantastic new guy. When she replied I waited at a cab rank, thinking about how city life was turning back to a time when everyone lived in lodgings and conducted their existence in public spaces. I’d known Yvette nearly a year and it had never occurred to me to learn where she lived. It turned out to be the fifteenth, one of the rare ugly modern buildings that disfigure the façades of Paris like bad dental work. She took a while to buzz me in, as though she’d thought better of it, but in the end I heard her ‘Allô’ over the intercom and hauled myself up five flights of concrete stairs.

  It was obvious Yvette had just got up. Her hair looked like an old Brillo sponge, her skin patchy without foundation, arms and legs liverish where they showed under the skimpy crumpled sweatshirt she’d dragged on over her knickers. I thought she must make up her limbs too. The small studio was close and stuffy, a cheap patchouli incense stick failing to disguise a heavy fug of scent, smoke and garbage. Yvette’s clothes were heaped everywhere, toppling pyramids of leather and lace that half-obscured the futon mattress which was her only furniture. She looked defiant, as I would if I’d had to show off a home so squalid.

  ‘So. This is me. Do you want some tea?’

  ‘Thanks, that would be lovely.’

  She had an electric ring, a kettle and a microwave in a cupboard. While she took out two cups and two peppermint tisane bags I asked for the bathroom. ‘There.’

  Another cupboard, a tiny shower, loo and basin, smeared with grime, toothpaste coagulated on the tap. The towel on the floor stank of mildew, but I ran the water hot and rubbed myself down, brushed my teeth, quickly moisturised and made up my face. The Glock peered snubly from the jumble in the holdall. I’d thought of just killing Yvette to take her identity card, but I’d never get away with the skin colour.

  ‘So,’ I said brightly, emerging. ‘Feel like going out? My treat.’

  ‘Sure,’ she said, suspiciously. ‘It’s early, though.’

  ‘We can have a drink, and then I thought Julien’s place?’

  ‘OK.’

  We drank our tea and I spooned in a couple of mouthfuls of Nutella from the friendless jar in Yvette’s tiny fridge. While Yvette began the long process of assembling herself fo
r the night I lay on the futon and flicked through the TV news. Now she was focused, there was something concentrated, even balletic about her movements, a professional appraisal of her back view in a vintage emerald shantung sheath, the grimaces that accompany eyeliner and mascara, securing the ankle strap of a perilous Tribute sandal. When she was done it was impossible to believe, looking at her, that she might have crawled off this dungheap of a flat. My own toilette took two minutes, a simple Alexander Wang black jersey minidress and plain black pumps, no fuss.

  ‘Shall we get some coke?’

  ‘I’m good now, maybe later. You ready?’ She nodded, fiddling with her phone, sensing that something was off, but the thought of a free night on the razzle was too much for her.

  ‘You can leave that here. I mean, you can stay if you like.’

  ‘Nah, I might need my stuff.’

  ‘Meeting your new bloke?’

  ‘Maybe later.’

  I hoiked the holdall unsteadily onto my shoulder, thrown off by my heels.

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Freed from her squat of a home, Yvette was more herself, telling me about a massive night someone was organising in a warehouse by Saint-Martin, an art and fashion happening that was bound to get a lot of attention. Yvette was ‘styling’ it, though as far as I could see from the swag in the flat, her styling career began and ended with half-inching whatever samples the press offices were mug enough to let her call in. It was still only nine, so we had an aperitif at a neighbourhood place before making for the Rue Thérèse. Apart from the Nutella, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, so I grabbed a handful of urine-soaked peanuts from the bar. I couldn’t have my hands shaking.

  We got to Julien’s about ten, just as the door was opening. I’d hoped to put Julien off from asking any questions by going in with Yvette, but it was the bartender on reception. He waved us through and we made our way down into the deserted club. He dashed after us to fix us up with a cognac.

  ‘This is lame,’ Yvette said pointlessly, kicking her leg against her stool.

  ‘It’ll warm up. Look.’

  Two guys were coming in, tall, fair, gym-toned.

  ‘Check out the Hitler youth.’

  They came straight over and offered us a drink. The music was switched on and after half an hour of chat the room started to fill up. Yvette was getting a little drunk on the cognac, left for the cubicles and returned in a black lace thong and bodice, oozing herself round her Aryan, who didn’t need any more invitation to drag her to the darkroom.

  ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘In a while.’

  They skipped off, while I watched the girls intently. There weren’t too many of them, and I needed someone with roughly my hair colour at least. The last Amsterdam train from the Gare du Nord left at twelve minutes past midnight, but it was 11.20 when they walked in. A youngish woman with a much older man, he clutching her hand possessively, she more composed, experienced. She brushed his lips lightly and headed for the cubicles while he approached the bar. In a few minutes she was back, in a pink high-cut lace leotard, her nipples squashed and dark against the fabric. Perfect. I nodded to my blond, who was already checking out the bon bons, slid off my own stool and went the way she had come, still clutching the bulging holdall. Only one of the changing booths was closed. I had no idea how to pick a lock; I just crawled under the slatted door and made straight for the bag, a soft black Prada clutch. I tipped it out, riffled through the usual detritus for the wallet, scattered a few credit cards and receipts until I had the ID in my hand. It was hard to see in the dim light, but Marie-Hélène Baudry was my lucky doppelganger for the night. She was married, and somehow I doubted it was to her old chap. Naughty girl. I considered leaving her Leanne’s passport, but it had my picture on it, so I reassembled the wallet, scooped the junk back into the clutch and slipped the ID into the pocket of the holdall. It was 11.32. Tight, but possible.

  I took a quick peek into the darkroom before I left. Yvette was under her blond boy, heels spiking at his back. She’d be stuffed for the bill, but then she’d never even offered to pay back that 500 – not that I’d have taken it, but, still, good manners. I was in the lobby at 11.35, the curtain ajar, my hand on the door, when Julien swam up out of the shadows.

  ‘Mademoiselle Lauren?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Julien, I’ve really got to leave.’

  He reached around and gently closed the door. ‘Not just yet. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘OK, OK. But quickly.’

  ‘Bien sûr, mademoiselle.’

  He stopped under the reception counter and showed me into the back office. No pretence of louche luxury here, just a desk with a computer, a cheap office chair, a spike of receipts in the glare of a striplight. I put the holdall on the desk.

  ‘Mademoiselle Lauren, I’ve had another visit. The police this time. Asking questions. Again.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today, yesterday. I can’t quite remember.’

  I really didn’t have time for this elegant cat and mouse shit.

  ‘How much do you want?’

  He eyed the bag. ‘Are you planning a trip?’

  ‘None of your business. Just tell me how much.’

  ‘Five thousand.’

  ‘For what? What do you think I’ve been doing?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘I don’t have that much on me.’

  ‘Then whatever you do have. And you’re not welcome here anymore.’

  I’d like to say I hadn’t meant to do it. That I was reaching into the bag for the cash and the gun just sort of jumped into my hand, your honour. The thing was, I really didn’t have the time. I could have given him a line, that it really wasn’t his lucky day, that he shouldn’t have made me angry, because he wouldn’t like me when I was angry, but this wasn’t the moment for style, either. I leaned over the desk, shot him twice in the chest, tugged off my shoes and hit the Rue Thérèse running.

  I’d been having drinks with Renaud once at the bar of the Crillon when a couple had a row at the next tiny marble table. They were young, even younger than me, he unshaven and scruffy enough to be a famous actor, she properly beautiful in an Uma Thurman-before-Botox-happened way, ash-blonde hair drawn severely off a Picasso-planed face. Her coat was exquisite cream cashmere, a little heavy for the weather. She had ordered two martinis; he arrived late with a shabby bunch of corner-shop flowers. They spoke quietly for a while, then as the drinks went down she started to cry, prettily, Swarovski tears dripping from alarmingly turquoise eyes. Then she stood, and the way she did it let me know she was aware that she had the eyes of every man in the room. She gathered the soft collar to her long throat and leaned forward.

  ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t do it anymore. I’ve had enough.’

  Then she picked up the sagging blooms and cracked him across the face with the bouquet before dropping it to the floor and stalking towards the lobby. He rose slowly, plucked a single carnation petal from his jaw and stared round, the picture of wounded bewilderment. As one, the waiters lined up like a cheerleading squad with cries of encouragement, ‘She went that way! Go on, monsieur, that way!’ and he ran after her. We spotted them later, over the river, kissing and giggling on the quai. Her coat was open and under it she wore a cheap denim skirt and a man’s pyjama top. It was a beautiful way of cadging a drink. Maybe they were film students, or actors. The point being that the citizens of Paris are brand-aware – they know that theirs is a city which is supposed to love a lovers’ quarrel, so barefoot girls with desperate faces running through midnight streets rarely attract attention. As I ran, I thought of another girl, running barefoot through evening streets, but even that summer’s evening seemed so innocent now. It’s 1.6 miles from the Rue Thérèse to the Gare du Nord, and I made it in sixteen minutes, not bad going with a heavy bag.

  I slipped panting through the usual gaggle of drunks and gypsies at the station entrance and bought a single to Amsterdam fro
m the ticket machine. Of course, it wouldn’t take the fifty-euro note, but I couldn’t use a card. I smoothed the banknote against my thigh, an eye on the clock. Not a train ticket, not now. I couldn’t get done on that. Like Al Capone with the taxes. There was a strange bubbling noise; it took a moment to realise that it was me, giggling crazily. Twice, three times, the machine spat the note rudely back. I stood, breathed, twitched the corners hospital-neat, fed it in again. For twenty seconds I might have believed in God. Aller simple, 1 adulte. Thank you, Jesus. I even had time to punch the ticket in the machine at the end of the platform before my filthy soles clambered after the holdall into the train.

  EPILOGUE

  INSIDE

  It was the first big night of the Biennale, nearly a year since I’d left Paris. The sky above San Giorgio Maggiore was an improbable pink and blue; everyone said that it looked like a Tiepolo ceiling, as everyone always does in Venice. A supple line of Rivas bobbed by the island’s jetty, waiting to ferry a squawking gaggle of dealers and art-whores across the lagoon. Up towards Zattere, I could see the Mandarin tucked between two brushed-carbon leviathans. Their bulks squatted over the white Massari church, a surrealist installation in themselves. Steve would have to get a bigger boat if he wanted to keep up. I was to dine with him later. I wouldn’t let him take me to Harry’s; we’d have drinks on the perfect floating terrace at the Gritti, then La Madonna in San Polo for sea urchin risotto whether he liked it or not. I had three Quinn casts in mind for the garden of his new London house, magnified renderings of embryonic babies, curled in granite like mysterious sea creatures. Actually rather pretty, for once. But first there was the Johnson Chang party at the Bauer, for the Hong Kong gallerists, and I thought I’d have time to look in at the Prada Foundation too, before I met up with Steve. I held out my hand for the water taxi driver to grip and stepped neatly down into the boat, followed by a posse of stylists and photographers who were covering the shows for Vanity Fair. I made vague conversation with Mario Testino’s buyer on the short crossing, but really I just wanted to take great heady gulps of the view.