Pretty Little Packages

by Andrew Crofts

  ‘So, these goons who came to get her…’

  ‘They were unbelievable. They barged into the house like some sort of SAS hit squad. There was one, covered in tattoos, who was terrifying. Thank God Nanny had taken the children out. Doris was in her room at the time, doing some sewing, and he ran straight up the stairs, while the others checked the kitchen downstairs. They seemed to know exactly where they were going. One of them stood beside me and made sure I didn’t call the police. It was terrifying, I can tell you. I could hear that gorilla laying into Doris, shouting and swearing. It sounded like he was throwing her around the room.’

  ‘What was he shouting?’

  ‘Something about her planning to escape and leading the others on.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Not that I heard. When he came down he was dragging her by the scruff of the neck. She was whimpering like a puppy. It sounded like she was praying. I felt quite sorry for her. Whatever she might have done I didn’t think she deserved that sort of treatment. And, as they went out the man stuck his face right into mine and said that, if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t mention Doris to anyone. Just pretend she never existed.’

  ‘Didn’t you think of ringing the police?’

  She looked at him as if he were mad. ‘These people know where we live,’ she said, as if that answered his question.

  ‘And you were hiring Doris illegally?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Maisie told me that Doris had just disappeared,’ he persisted.

  ‘These people lie all the time. It’s a way of life to them,’ Elizabeth spat.

  They had reached the top of the house. She opened a door into a room very similar to the one he had discovered in Brighton, only smaller and darker. There didn’t appear to be a window of any sort.

  ‘Did you tell your husband?’ Joe asked as he looked around the sparse room. There was a camp bed and a tiny chest of drawers which filled almost all the floor space.

  ‘My husband is a very busy man,’ she said, imperiously. ‘He does not have time for the details of our domestic arrangements. He leaves me to run the house in the way I think best.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you’re doing a very good job.’ Joe was surprised by how angry he felt as he stood in the meagre little room and imagined the poor frightened girl being dragged out of it by Max.

  ‘It’s not easy running a house like this,’ Elizabeth said and there was just the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice. ‘Decent staff are almost impossible to find. And when you do find them, they want the world on a plate.’

  ‘Maisie’s Amazing Maids must have seemed too good to be true,’ Joe said, sarcastically. ‘Slave labour at rock-bottom prices.’

  ‘Well, I shall never use them again,’ she said, recovering her composure. ‘Here.’ She handed him a sports bag almost identical to the one he had found in Brighton. ‘They left this. Anything of hers which we found I put in there.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Joe took the bag and started to walk downstairs.

  ‘I trust this will be the last we hear of the whole matter.’ Elizabeth’s voice rang out after him. He didn’t bother to reply. Downstairs, the dinner party was back in full swing as he let himself out of the grand front door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Hi, Jo-Jo.’

  It had been a long time since Fliss had called him that. It brought back pleasant memories which dispersed almost as soon as they appeared.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied, suspiciously. If Fliss was being nice then it was going to cost him in some way. A feeling of dread at what might come next spread through him.

  ‘Listen, thanks for going down to the school. That was good of you.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ His suspicions deepened and darkened. He allowed a silence to fall down the airwaves, determined not to allow her any reason to think he was pleased to hear from her.

  ‘Um.’ That was always a prelude to something bad. ‘I wondered if you could do me the most enormous favour.’ Even worse.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hugo has his first weekend out in a couple of weeks, and Paolo and I just have to be in Paris for a party. It’s one of Paolo’s sponsors so there is absolutely no getting out of it.’

  Joe’s heart gave a little leap of joy. Fliss was actually going to hand him Hugo for a whole weekend. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  ‘Let me check my diary,’ he said, allowing nearly a full minute to elapse before coming back on the line. ‘Yeah, I guess I can do that. I’ll have to juggle a few things around.’

  ‘You are a love. I’ll repay you, honestly. I feel terrible about it.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be great to see him. You can party with a clear conscience. Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, I gotta go. Bye.’

  He hung up before she had a chance to say goodbye. ‘Yes!’ He punched the air in excitement. Hugo all to himself for an entire weekend. There was a God after all. He peered out of the window of the bus as he put the phone back in his pocket. They were nearly at Piccadilly Circus. He stood up and walked to the platform at the rear, jumping down to the road as the bus slowed for some lights. He had thought about bringing the car up to the West End, but had decided he might want to have more than one drink over lunch with Adele.

  He walked through to Regent Street and up to the agency’s office. Adele came out to reception to meet him and they made their way down to the street, crossing over and diving into Soho. Although she was nudging fifty, Adele was still a handsome woman. She had a strong, olive-skinned face and thick, straight dark hair which she kept extraordinarily glossy. Her dark-rimmed glasses gave her a severe air, which she was only too happy to play up to, using them as props to intimidate publishers and authors alike. Her clothes were always very simple, and nearly always black. She had an openness and a directness of manner which people responded to.

  Once they were seated in the fashionable basement restaurant which Adele was currently favouring, with its original artworks on the walls and computer-connected waiters hurtling from table to table, she asked him how things were going for him.

  ‘Could always do with a bit more money,’ he said, with a wry smile.

  ‘Couldn’t we all?’ Adele agreed, reading the menu as she talked. ‘You might be in luck. There’s been a sniff at the film rights for Len’s book.’

  ‘Yeah? How much?’

  ‘Too early to say. I’ll let you know if it comes to anything. What happened with that Filipino girl who contacted you?’

  ‘Well, I was going to talk to you about that…’ A waiter arrived and they spent a few minutes ordering. Once he had gone and a bottle of wine had been brought and poured, Joe continued.

  ‘It seems there is more than one of them.’

  ‘I’m sure there are thousands of them,’ Adele agreed. ‘Everyone wants a Filipino maid these days.’

  ‘No, I mean, more than one Doris.’

  ‘Doris?’

  ‘Doris is the name of the girl who contacted me. But when I went to look for her she had disappeared. I investigated a bit further and so far I have found two more Dorises.’

  ‘They all have the same name?’

  ‘So it seems, and they’re all being brought into the country by a woman called Maisie. I think she might be Thai, although she was working in Manila before she came here. It seems that Maisie is shipping these girls over and then renting them out as virtual slaves to wealthy families.

  ‘The Doris who contacted me seems to have wanted to get away, and was in contact with at least one other Doris, possibly more…’

  Adele gave a snort of laughter. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but a plague of Dorises strikes me as just a little comical.’

  ‘Well, I guess there is a comical side,’ Joe said, doubtfully. ‘But I think these girls are actually being treated pretty brutally.’

  ‘Of course, yes. I’m sorry.’ Adele composed herself. ‘Go on.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, I thought I would keep on trying to track down the original Doris. If I find her, I’ll get her story out of her and see if it’ll make a book. Just as she suggested.’

  ‘And if you don’t find her?’

  ‘If I don’t, I think I’ll have uncovered enough background material to write the book anyway, based on a fictitious Doris, a sort of amalgam of all of them. Or I could try writing it with one of the other Dorises I have managed to find. Starting with a childhood in some remote Philippine village, how she got recruited and smuggled into the country, and then how she was treated by the rich folks who bought her services. It could be like a modern-day Dickens.’

  ‘Modest enough ambition,’ Adele laughed.

  ‘They all seem to be having plastic surgery as well, to enhance their breasts,’ Joe continued, lost in his own story-telling. ‘I think it probably isn’t being done very well. Whatever they’re doing to them is going wrong because the first Doris said they had “stolen her beautiful new breasts”, which I guess means she had to have a mastectomy. And the second Doris I met says she has been told she had tumours the size of chicken eggs.’

  ‘In her breasts?’

  ‘She didn’t say, but I assume so. It could be a great story. Imagine starting out in life as a simple peasant girl in the Third World, if the Philippines are the Third World, being brought to a strange country, used as a slave and then operated on without having any idea what’s going on. Having no one to talk to.’

  ‘So, are these Dorises going into the sex trade as well?’

  ‘I guess the prettier ones are. That would explain why they’re giving them boob jobs. Maybe they’re getting facelifts as well. If you met this Maisie woman it’s not hard to imagine her as a procuress of some sort. I posed as a potential employer and she made it damn clear that the girl I was being offered as a “housekeeper” would be happy to do whatever I wanted.’

  ‘Yuk.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Nothing personal.’

  He stopped talking as their starters were put in front of them.

  ‘Marion Ray is going to be in London next month,’ Adele said, once they were eating. ‘I thought we might set up a meeting. Are you still keen?’

  ‘Sure. What’s she over for?’

  ‘Thinking of making a movie here, apparently. They say she really wants to meet you again. She realises that she’s been messing you about. She wants to talk about the project seriously.’

  ‘Great. Just give me the dates. What do you think about the Doris idea?’

  ‘It’s good. Topical. Scary. A good women’s book.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘When you feel ready, do a synopsis and I’ll try it on a few publishers. There’s someone else I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said, tucking into the food with gusto as Adele talked.

  ‘I’ve been approached by an ex-policeman. He spent twenty years on the vice squad and then got caught with his trousers down in some massage parlour or other. He’s very pissed off and wants to spill the beans on everyone. He’s given me a synopsis which is absolutely packed with names. Everyone from cabinet ministers and cardinals to pop stars and television actors. It is an absolute “who’s who” in the world of sleaze.’

  ‘Would any publisher dare touch it?’

  ‘I don’t know. He says he has all the evidence he needs to back up his accusations. Apparently he’s been quietly removing files for years, for just this day.’

  ‘How did he come to you?’

  ‘Through your friend, Len Jones. Apparently they know each other well. He read Len’s book and asked his advice. Len gave him my number.’

  ‘So, what’s the material he’s given you like? Can he write?’

  ‘No. He’ll need a ghost.’

  ‘Have you told him?’ Joe asked, taking a gulp of wine.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did he take it?’

  ‘He doesn’t like the idea of sharing the money, but I pointed out that without a ghost there won’t be any money. Better a shared pot than none at all. He said in that case he wanted to have the same ghost as Len. Are you interested?’

  ‘I’d like to meet him,’ Joe said.

  ‘Okay. I’ll set it up.’

  As they continued with their meal the restaurant filled up around them and the noise level grew. When his phone started to ring it took Joe a few seconds to realise what the sound was. When he finally put it to his ear, he could barely hear the weak little voice at the other end.

  ‘It’s Doris here,’ it said.

  ‘Doris?’ he shouted. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Wimpole Clinic. I’m so sad, American Joe. Please help me.’

  ‘I’ll come and visit you,’ he said and she hung up.

  ‘Doris?’ Adele raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Where’s the Wimpole Clinic?’ Joe asked.

  ‘In Wimpole Street, I guess.’

  ‘Is that far?’

  ‘No. About ten minutes walk.’

  Joe stayed for coffee, but his mind was no longer on whatever it was Adele was talking about. He was trying to imagine what sort of reception he could expect at the clinic. There was no reason why Doris shouldn’t receive a visit from a friend, but if Max was there he would surely smell a rat. Max would almost certainly know that Doris didn’t have any friends in England that he hadn’t met. He would guess that Joe was the man she had called in her moment of panic. And what if Maisie was there? How would he explain himself to her?

  There was no way out of it. He had promised Doris he would go to her if she needed help. He would just have to take his chances. Adele gave him directions to get to Wimpole Street and, on his way, he bought a bunch of flowers from a stall, picking his way through the discarded boxes and vegetable matter.

  The Wimpole Clinic was not obvious to the casual glance. It was just another stately house in the row. Only a discreet brass plate beside the door advertised its existence. Joe tried to open the door but it was locked. On ringing the bell, a middle-aged woman in a smart two-piece suit let him in.

  ‘My friend, Doris, is here,’ he said. ‘She’s from the Philippines.’

  ‘Ah yes, Miss Brown.’ The woman smiled and Joe felt a little more relaxed.

  ‘Is she able to have visitors?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. Although you probably shouldn’t stay too long. I believe she’s very tired. I’ll get a nurse to take you up.’

  She ushered him across the hall to a waiting room. A few minutes later a nurse came in.

  ‘A visitor for Miss Brown?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Follow me, please.’

  They walked up a creaking, polished wooden staircase, past some dark glowering portraits, which Joe guessed must have been bought as a job lot with the house before it was converted into a nursing home. There were one or two pieces of antique furniture dotted along the wide landing, and none of the sterile, brightly lit bustle of a modern, purpose-built hospital.

  Just as the nurse reached a door and put her hand on the handle, it burst open and a doctor rushed out. At least, Joe assumed he was a doctor. He certainly had the face of a senior consultant; thick grey eyebrows and neatly combed grey hair, gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles and a ferocious glower. He was wearing a green coat as if he had just come from the operating theatre, but it was gaping open to show a bare chest beneath, with a small gold medallion amidst the tufts of white hair. The coat, and the green trousers beneath, were stained with blood.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he enquired in a voice which sounded more like it should belong to a friend of Len’s than a West End consultant.

  ‘The gentleman has come to visit Miss Brown,’ the nurse said. She didn’t seem surprised by the doctor’s manner.

  ‘What, that Miss Brown?’ he asked, obviously incredulous. He glanced at the flowers. ‘How bleedin’ romantic.’

  With that he strode off and went down the stairs, two at a time, shouting over his sh
oulder. ‘Don’t get her excited, laddie. And leave her fucking tits alone.’

  ‘He’s a doctor?’ Joe asked the nurse as she ushered him into the room.

  ‘Take no notice,’ the nurse replied. ‘He’s the most brilliant surgeon. He likes to shock people, that’s all. He does all the stars, gives them implants, facelifts. He’s absolutely a genius. Really.’

  The room was small, just enough space for a bed and a chair. The decorations must once have been pretty, but were now fading, the floral curtains hanging at a slightly odd angle from a flimsy plastic rail above the window. Outside, there was no view beyond a brick wall.

  Doris was lying in the bed watching the door. She smiled when she saw it was Joe. The nurse closed the door behind her. Joe put the flowers down on the table by the bed, which was bare, apart from a water jug and glass, and sat in the chair. There was a telephone attached to the wall beside the bed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Bad, American Joe. I feel I been run over by big truck.’

  Joe smiled and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘The doctor,’ she went on. ‘He has cut out all the lumps. He says there is no more cancer. He has cut it all away. No more breasts either.’

  She pulled back the sheets to show the tight bandaging around her chest.

  ‘You think I still find nice husband in England now?’

  ‘Of course you will,’ Joe said. ‘You’re a very pretty girl.’

  She nodded and smiled but he didn’t think she believed him.

  ‘Tell me about your friend Doris, in Eaton Square. The one who used to call you on the telephone.’

  ‘She make Max real, real angry,’ she said, her brow furrowing at the memory. ‘I tell her, stop phoning me because every time it ring I was frightened it would be her and Max would hit me again. He is a bad man. He drinks and takes drugs and it makes him mad.’

  ‘Did she suggest running away together?’

  ‘Sure. She had lots of big plans. I told her, where would we run to? Two poor girls in a foreign country. Where would we go?’

  ‘You could have got away from Max.’