Mirror Mirror: A shatteringly powerful page-turner

by Nick Louth

  ‘I’m not,’ she replied. ‘This is my usual speed and route.’

  ‘I’d say it was time to start varying your routines,’ Virgil said. ‘Different times of day, different routes. I can drive you out to different parks each time. Otherwise you are vulnerable.’

  ‘Look, Virgil, I know this is what Thad and Jonesy want you to do, but I’m not going to live my life in a bunker just because Lawrence Wall is upset over being dumped.’

  They ran on hard for another three miles doing laps around the formal riverside park, before finally finishing at the pagoda. Virgil was aware that he was breathing far more heavily than she was. Fit, certainly. As they sat on a bench, Virgil said: ‘My job isn’t just about Lawrence Wall. It’s about the threats you might not be aware of. Overly intrusive fans and hidden enemies, annoying Qaeggan, and plain old kidnappers and muggers.’

  She turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. ‘I’ve always had enemies,’ she said. ‘But I learned long ago to look after myself.’ She looked down and examined her hands, as if she was unsure if they belonged to her or not.

  Virgil wanted to ask more, but got the vibe that he shouldn’t. Not on his first day of knowing her. ‘Look, I will always disappear if you want. I won’t cramp your style, your independence, or your freedom. But keep me in the loop, so I can always be there in an emergency. Is that a deal?’

  She nodded. When they got back to the flat and finished their warm-down exercises Mira thanked Virgil for being there. ‘I really don’t want to seem ungrateful, not to Stardust nor to you. But I’ve got to have space. I’ve got to be able to breathe. You do understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Virgil said.

  Mira offered him the guest bathroom, while she went off to her own. The granite-tiled cubicle was as big as Virgil’s mother’s kitchen, and he took a good ten minutes under the powerful hot water, letting the refreshing soap course down his sweaty body. He towelled himself dry quickly, his Helmand hurry-up still second nature. Twenty minutes passed and Mira still hadn’t emerged, so he passed the time by looking through her DVD collection. Mainly mainstream rom-coms, but also a few surprising horror vids. Hostel, Ichi the Killer and Martyrs were ones he had heard of, because some of his oppos in Camp Bastion were fans, but there were half a dozen others he didn’t know. Maybe this was Lawrence Wall’s personal selection. He shrugged and then flicked through a big pile of women’s magazines stacked on the kitchen counter. He dislodged a newspaper cutting. It was from the opinion section of the Daily Telegraph back in 2013.

  The Invisible Monster Who Murdered Several Young Women

  Protected against justice by Britain’s legal system. Kept in luxury at taxpayers’ expense.

  Mr A, as he is referred to in court papers, is one of Britain’s worst murderers. His crimes, so awful as to beggar belief, involve the agonising deaths of several young women. You won’t have heard his name because his trial in 2005 was held entirely in camera, behind closed doors, in front of a judge alone. No jury has seen his face, nor assessed the evidence against him. Not even the families of his victims have been allowed to see him, nor read that evidence in full. The names of his victims cannot be published, nor the dates of their deaths, nor their number. You are not allowed to know what he looks like, to have his appearance described, or to know his name. Indeed, Lord Justice Kirby ruled at the end of the trial that nothing that may identify him can ever be published in a British newspaper. As far as the British public is concerned, he is completely invisible.

  All we can tell you is that he has been in a top-security mental institution for the last five years, is aged 46, and was born in Staffordshire. Mr A is not officially in isolation, but according to documents obtained by the Daily Telegraph under the Freedom of Information Act, he has been granted separate facilities from all other patients. He has his own personal recreation area, his own en-suite, and listens to his own music collection on expensive cordless headphones. He receives £86.18 per week in various state benefits, even though almost all his day-to-day expenses are found. A hairdresser comes to him once a week, he has a regular manicure, and his shirts are pressed daily. His is a form of luxury isolation sanctioned by a British court, the only person in British legal history to benefit from a gagging order of unlimited duration on the British press.

  In May last year this newspaper made a High Court application to have Mr A’s anonymity removed in the public interest. A separate request for Judicial Review of Mr Justice Kirby’s 2005 ruling was also refused later in the same year. This paper continues to believe that the British people deserve justice to be seen to be done and will continue to press for the removal of this order.

  Hearing Mira’s footsteps, Virgil quickly replaced the cutting. Looking at his watch, he now realised that they were supposed to be in central London in less than half an hour, but he had to remind himself that Mira’s punctuality was none of his business. Mira then went back to her bedroom, and finally emerged with a quarter of an hour to spare. He must have stared because she asked: ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Virgil said.

  ‘Not bad!’ she laughed, in mock outrage. ‘I’m meeting a billionaire!’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be impressed.’

  In the lift on the way down she described how the entire ensemble had cost less than twenty pounds: ‘Astrakhan hat from a Camberwell jumble sale, three pounds; 1940s style overcoat with sable collar, Paris flea market, seven Euros; high-collared maroon tunic, Oxfam, fifty pence; black embroidered Turkish trousers, from Istanbul, around a pound. Oh yes, well, the mauve Jimmy Choos were expensive.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Virgil asked, as they settled themselves in the limousine that had been waiting for her. ‘That Broadmoor card seemed to shock you. Is there an issue there you’d like me to deal with?’

  Mira checked her make-up in the mirror and didn’t answer for a long time. ‘No, it’s alright, Virgil. The warning on the envelope sort of knocks you back, doesn’t it? A reminder who these people are. It’s like any fan mail. You have no idea what people are capable of.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m here. To do any worrying for you.’

  ‘Thank you Virgil. That’s nice to know. But I’m not worried.’

  Virgil saw her face narrow. She was lying. And the article she had clipped proved it.

  * * *

  Caspian was an Azerbaijani restaurant in Knightsbridge famous for its caviar and quail. The reservation had been for noon, with the idea that there would be few other patrons around. However, as Mira was forty-five minutes late, there were already quite a few diners there. This was the first opportunity for Virgil to see how the general public reacted to seeing her, and walking behind he noticed how conversation stopped, how forks were suspended in mid-air. They were shown to the far end of the basement dining room, all black marble and engraved mirrors. Thad was already there, sitting in a circular booth with Ulan Kulchuk and his PA, a slender Chinese-looking woman. As they arrived, they each stood. The billionaire stood and took Mira’s hand in both of his as Thad made the introductions.

  ‘I am delighted you could make it, my dear,’ he said in a thick Russian accent. He looked up at her through thick blue-tinted lenses, his face so speckled with moles it looked like a weathered currant bun.

  ‘I’m very happy to be here, Mr Kulchuk.’ Mira sat between them at the back of the booth. Virgil was seated at a small table opposite, about fifteen feet away, where he could only just hear their conversation but could see the door.

  This certainly didn’t look like the kind of place that Lawrence Wall would feel comfortable in, but Virgil wasn’t taking any chances. Close protection in a restaurant is all about subtlety and preparation, though he’d had no time for the latter. He checked for alternative exits (one, through the kitchen), checked both male and female bathrooms (no one hiding), and assessed the other diners. Satisfied that there was no one suspicious, he ordered a sandwich and a Perrier, nothing that would get in the way of a fas
t reaction time should it be required. From the conversation opposite it was clear that under Kulchuk’s guidance Mira and Thad were being offered the works. Champagne arrived, the cork popped with great aplomb by the waiter.

  At this point the waiter appeared at Virgil’s table with a glass of Georgian champagne, a basket of toast and a small dish of caviar. ‘With Mr Kulchuk’s compliment’s Sir. As he says it is a shame for any visitor to this restaurant to leave without sampling our country’s most famous produce.’

  Virgil declined the champagne, and attempted to catch Kulchuk’s eye to thank him. However, the Kazakh was in full flow.

  ‘Now, Mira, you may be aware of next month’s Art with Conviction auction at Christies,’ Virgil heard Kulchuk say. ‘As you may know I’m the honorary president of the Art in Philanthropy Association. It does great work, and I know you are yourself involved in charitable work for access to water.’

  ‘Mira’s been a prime mover in ThirstyPlanet,’ Thad replied. Caviar arrived, and Virgil watched as Mira tucked in while Thad and Kulchuk did most of the talking. But the Kazakh’s eye’s rarely left her face, something that Virgil assumed she was already used to.

  ‘So what I’d really like to get your agreement to, Mira, is to introduce the auction, and then stay for a couple of hours to talk to the clients.’ Their voices softened as the subject of fees came up, but their expressions seemed to indicate a deal had been agreed.

  As soon as he got home, Virgil followed up on the cutting he had found at her flat. There were numerous articles online about the legal implications of the ruling, but nothing on who the murderer actually was. However, one piece in the Independent had a little more detail, indicating that the accused had been transferred in secrecy from a prison abroad where he had been serving a long sentence. Virgil could glean no reason why Mira might be interested in such a case. Unless it was somehow connected to the birthday card she had just received from Broadmoor. But then the article was presumably clipped more than a year ago, long before that card arrived. Something else must have been the trigger. But what?

  Chapter Twelve

  Mira was away for a week in New York, with back-to-back photoshoots for Tiffanys, Saks Fifth Avenue and some top-secret new conditioner for Procter & Gamble. Virgil had wanted to know why he wasn’t going.

  ‘We don’t have the budget to send you,’ Thad had said. ‘But she’ll be safe. She’s being provided with a chi-chi service apartment just off Central Park, with its own doorman and security, door-to-door car service, and in the evening she can order in from any restaurant in town.’

  Virgil’s expression must have spoken volumes because Thad then said: ‘Yes, I know she’ll hate it. It’s a gilded cage. But she’s got friends over there, models, you name it. She’ll still have a blast. I know I keep saying this, but when the Suressence deal comes in, things will be different. I guess we may even be able to sanction the expense of having you fly first class with her. I know you’d like that.’

  Virgil met Mira on her return to Heathrow on the overnight flight. This time he was ready when she said she’d like to go for a run, with his gear already in the car. They agreed on Wandsworth Common, a few minutes’ drive south of her apartment.

  ‘I see you’ve finally got some proper gear,’ Mira said, as they set off, having parked opposite the County Arms pub.

  ‘I already had it,’ he said. ‘You just never gave me the chance to get it.’

  ‘Ah, but you see I’m royalty,’ Mira said with a sly smile. ‘Your job is to anticipate my every whim.’

  At Virgil’s request, Mira had dressed incognito this time. A New York Yankees baseball cap with a ponytail poked through the back, sunglasses, loose jogging trousers and a plain blue T-shirt. They ran hard for forty minutes, along the edge of the railway embankment, and then across the bridge up Nightingale Lane. When the rain began they took shelter under a tree by a duck pond. Virgil knew they couldn’t stay too long, because Mira had a lunch engagement in less than two hours.

  By the time they got back to the apartment they were both drenched. As before, she offered him the guest bathroom, and this time he showered and dried himself at speed, guessing that he would be a good half hour ahead of her. The newspaper cutting had intrigued him, and he wanted to do a little illicit snooping. He emerged, in a guest bathrobe, intending to have a look in her bedroom. But then he heard a text tone. Mira’s iPhone was on the kitchen counter. He glanced at it. The text was some routine reminder from Portia. But once he had the phone in his hand, Virgil couldn’t resist a quick flick through. Hearing Mira’s power shower still going, he used his own phone to take pictures of her contacts, messages and browsing history. If she had been following up on the cutting recently, there should be some evidence of it.

  * * *

  It was a while before he got a chance to look the photos. A cosmetics photoshoot had been arranged for 2pm at a studio in Islington, but first Mira had Virgil drive her to the Berners Street head office of Top Shop, for whom she was designing a range of handbags. An hour later they diverted to a couture workshop in surprisingly run-down looking facilities above a dry-cleaners in Jermyn Street to see how the work on the mock-ups was progressing. In each case, Virgil was told to wait either in reception or close to the car because he wasn’t cleared to have sight of the new product range. He found the secrecy laughable, as if he’d even know who to tell about a new line of bags or purses. What he soon began to understand, though, was how the most elastic fabric in the world of beauty was time. Punctuality was iron in the army, here it was like gossamer.

  They arrived at the studio just after three. A washed-out skinny girl of perhaps eighteen was waiting for Mira outside the converted Victorian warehouse, fag in hand, hopping from one foot to another and anxiously scanning the traffic. On seeing the car, her rigid face almost collapsed in relief. ‘Oh thank Christ,’ she said as Mira emerged. ‘Richard is in meltdown. He’s looking for someone to kill.’

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t be you, Miranda’ Mira observed. ‘Let me apologise to him.’

  Virgil followed them up a scruffy staircase into a cavernous loft-type space, lined with white paper and stuffed with lighting equipment. The photographer, a pony-tailed leather-jacketed Cockney in his sixties called Richard Day, was leaning against the far wall, bellowing over the phone to someone and pounding the wall with his fist for emphasis. ‘But where is she now, Kelly? I’ve had two make-up girls and the fucking hairdresser here since half one, you useless cretinous asinine dimwit. Just get her here, for Christ’s sake.’ He hung up and muttered to himself. ‘Fucking Stardust, couldn’t organise a drug rave in Keith Richards’ kitchen.’

  Day’s assistant coughed nervously. He turned angrily to her, and then swivelled his eyes to Mira. The truculent thug persona evaporated instantly, replaced by a broad grin, as he spread his arms in delight. ‘Ah, Mira, my one true love. Anoint me with your grace, darling!’

  ‘Richard, nice to see you. So sorry for the delay,’ she replied.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ He flicked the suggestion aside like an irritating fly. They air-kissed, and he held her arms. ‘God, you look so delicious I could eat you with a spoon.’ He turned his head aside. ‘Miranda, tell Yvonne she’s here and get us all a nice cup of Lapsang souchong.’ Mira was shown into a side room packed with a now frenetic bevy of young women, and did not emerge for almost an hour. Virgil sat on a chair in the corner of the studio with his phone out, examining the photographs of Mira’s browsing history. There was plenty of it, and he’d need a larger screen to check it in detail, but nothing stood out as alarming.

  When Mira emerged, her hair was shorter and wavy, her eyes highlighted by huge amounts of green and purple eyeshadow. The photographer arranged her on a white leather settee, and keeping up a continued monologue of breathy encouragement, took hundreds of close-up photos.

  ‘Pout for me, love.’ Click, click. ‘Marvellous.’ Click, click, click. ‘Okay. Now eyes left and high, you’ve seen somethi
ng you adore on a high shelf.’ Click, click, click. ‘Fantastic. Brilliant. Now reach for it, extend that lovely neck.’ Click, click. ‘Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.’ Click, click. ‘And again. Lovely.’

  Virgil blocked out the racket as best he could. He’d found a website that from her browsing history Mira seemed to look at every day. It was entirely blank and white except for a single heading above a large picture of an antique clock.

  ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN DAYS

  In the centre of the clock was a digital counter labelled with days, hours and minutes shown in red. As he watched the counter the minutes dropped by one.

  107:05:16

  What on earth could this mean to Mira? He had no idea, and couldn’t ask without revealing that he had been spying on her.

  * * *

  Virgil spent most of the evening squeezed into the lounge at his mum’s flat, poring over the legal files from Stardust’s solicitors. These covered the most serious threats to Mira. The TV was on in the background as he munched his way through a packet of jaffa cakes. There was nowhere near enough space for all the paperwork, so he had it stacked around on the carpet, and on the seat next to him. Only a week until he’d have a place of his own, a one-bedroom flat in Balham, newly-decorated with a skylight in the bedroom. Until then he’d have to be careful about all his stuff, which was monopolising all the high cupboards in the hall.

  So far he’d come across three cases which were with the police for specific violent or sexual threats made through social media. Two were ongoing cases less than six weeks old but one, the most persistent, had been identified as a fifteen-year-old boy from Colchester. He had e-mailed and Facebooked Mira with suggestive comments, culminating in sending her a Snapchat video showing himself masturbating. The police had not disclosed his name, but he had served a short sentence in a young offenders’ institution. Virgil realised that while the boy was only doing what many thousands of others of his age probably did when fantasising about Mira, only today’s technology made it possible for them to let the world, and the victim, know all about it.