Maestra

by L. S. Hilton

  “What happened then?”

  “They went off and talked. He left. I tried to find out what they’d been talking about, but she was a snotty bitch. Russian. She left, anyway, a few nights later. Sacked. Got caught with a client.”

  “That figures. So, the guy, what’s his name?”

  “Cleret. Renaud Cleret. He’s French.”

  If Ashley had been a shock, that hit me like a rabbit punch in the solar plexus. I laughed, madly.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing, nothing, Leanne. Sorry. It’s just, just such a French name, you know. Renaud Cleret. Like a bad film. Whatever.”

  And then she told me the rest. That she’d panicked, been convinced that the story about James was out. She said she’d tried to text me, but of course I’d changed my number. So she’d gone to British Pictures, braved the receptionists until they let her in to see Rupert.

  “Your old boss? The one you used to do the impressions of? They were dead good when I really met him.”

  And Rupert had told her that he believed I was mixed up in a faking scam, that they needed to find me, partly in case I was playing on the reputation of the House, partly out of concern. How touching. He’d hinted darkly that these things could get very nasty, that I probably didn’t know I was playing with fire. So they’d hired Cleret, he explained, to find me. And now here was Leanne, my old friend. Would she try to talk to me? Cleret would let her know where I was, she just had to drop by. They’d pay the fare to Paris, and a bit extra on top. He emphasized that it was urgent, that he was concerned for my welfare. Really, Leanne would be doing a favor to her friend.

  “How much on top? Go on, it’s okay.”

  Two thousand pounds.

  “Thirty pieces of silver,” I said, but she just looked blank.

  “I didn’t believe them, anyway. I made out like I did, I made out like I was as stupid as they thought I was. The Cleret guy gave me your address last night, said I was to come at once.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “London. He’s French, but he lives in London.”

  “And so you came.”

  “Yeah.”

  I took another swig of wine, poured her some more. She sat up a bit straighter, her confidence renewed by her confession, cunning little eyes glittering at me.

  “So, now I’ve told you, what have you got to tell me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m not soft. That Rupert said you were mixed up in something. He said a guy had been killed in Rome, that was why he was so worried.”

  “What guy?”

  “Cameron Fitzpatrick, he said. I looked in the papers, online. A bloke was murdered. Cameron Fitzpatrick, in Rome. Not too long after you’d left the South of France. He was an art dealer, like you, Jude. And this Cleret bloke, he said you had been in Rome. You were there. When it happened.”

  Fuck. Fuck. How could Cleret have known that? Wait, breathe. My name would have been in da Silva’s report even though the newspaper had been discreet. It was public knowledge, and supposedly this Cleret was some kind of detective. Concentrate on what’s in front of you for now.

  Leanne might have been ignorant, but she wasn’t thick. As far as cash potential went, she was a rat on an open wound. I was genuinely impressed she’d managed to put so many pieces together, but seriously—what did she expect? That I would confess all and allow her to blackmail me?

  “So what? I was there. I had to speak to the Italian police. It was awful, I’d hoped he might give me a job. I mean, it was awful for him, poor man. I imagine Rupert knew I was there too, even if he didn’t tell you that. Maybe that’s where he got his suspicions from, but so what? He could have got in touch, just asked me. None of this stupid cat-and-mouse business. What’s your point?”

  “Why is Rupert so keen to talk to you? Why was he so pleased to see me?”

  “How the fuck would I know? Maybe he fancied a cheap screw.”

  That hit her like a slap, but she let it go.

  “I didn’t come here to argue, Jude. You’re into something, right? That’s why those blokes want me to talk to you. To find out. But what do we owe those posh cunts? We did it in Cannes, didn’t we? We did it together? So I thought, maybe I could help you. Two’s better than one, right?”

  “What was it that we did? That we did together? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, Jude—”

  I tried not to let the contempt show on my face, mostly succeeded. I managed a wry, cards-on-the-table smile.

  “Come off it, Leanne. You’re not here for Rupert, or because you want to get one over on him either. How much do you need? To keep quiet about James, to go back to Rupert and tell him you couldn’t find me, because that’s what you think I’m scared of, isn’t it? How much?”

  I never got to find out how much the poor dumb bitch wanted because the half-dozen benzodiazepine I’d mixed into a rather nice bottle of Madiran had kicked in and Leanne’s head had fallen back against the cushion, her half-empty glass tipping from her limp hand and spilling over her lap. Sedatives and slimming pills: French doctors are so obliging. That’s why French women don’t get fat. Lucky I’d got the sofa in black.

  If only French cabbies were as compliant as their medics. It took forever to slap Leanne into a semblance of consciousness and get some water down her, it took an age to half walk, half carry her down the stairs and along to the boulevard, an eternity for a cab to draw up, and then he wouldn’t take us because she obviously looked pissed and he was afraid she’d chuck on his nice synthetic seats. I hoped she didn’t throw up, I couldn’t have that. I was murmuring encouragingly, don’t worry, no problem, just a bit too much wine, you’ll be fine. I got her into the second cab, where she immediately passed out again, solid against my shoulder. It wasn’t far across the river to the Place des Vosges. I had time to hunt for her room card in her bag and pass a twenty over to the driver and we were there. Hauling her through reception was even worse, with her weight and both our bags over my spare shoulder, not to mention the large umbrella I’d unfolded to protect her from the showers, but with my left arm gripping her around her back I managed to stagger to the lift. If anyone raised an eyebrow I’d just say apologetically that she was English, but there was a party of Japanese tourists arriving and the receptionist and porter were busy. Her room was on the third floor. I had to put the brolly down to fiddle with the key card, and Leanne slumped almost to the floor, her legs splaying in a puppet’s plié.

  I got her coat off and propped her on the bed with a couple pillows behind her, half sitting. I locked the door and put out the good old Do Not Disturb, turned the TV on, flicked through until I got MTV, not too loud. As I turned back to the bed she moaned and her eyelids flickered, startling me, but she slipped back under in seconds. I pulled on antiseptic plastic gloves and took the works I’d picked up in Belleville from my bag, along with a black sequined elastic belt from H&M. Then the pack of Camels I’d taken in the café, where I’d also lifted a teaspoon. I hoped to God Stephane hadn’t gypped me—there hadn’t been time to have a little chase of the gear, even if I’d felt like passing a couple hours monged out, but Yvette used him, he was bound to be reliable. I’d seen it done, most recently by Lawrence in bloody Chester Square. I took off Leanne’s boots, fetched an Evian and a miniature of Johnnie Walker from the minibar, and tipped a bit of the whiskey down her throat. Most of it dribbled down her cheek, but that wouldn’t matter.

  I really, really don’t like needles. Rihanna was singing about diamonds in the sky. I had my Cartier lighter and a cotton pad; the gear was the color of strong tea. Holding the belt taut between my teeth, I fixed her up in the crook of her left elbow, half of what I’d bought from Stephane, more than enough. She twitched a bit as I hit the vein, but I was pressing down on her shoulder and I was strong. A couple minutes, I’d read, unt
il the body forgets to breathe. One of the nicer ways to go.

  It was the second time I had watched a person die. I could have run a little montage in my head—Leanne with her original chestnut hair at school, pleated navy skirt hiked up to her thighs, Leanne twirling her cocktail at the Ritz, Leanne and I dancing in a club on the Riviera. All swirly and happy and poignant. If I’d been that kind of person. Or I could have thought about the sound a thirteen-year-old girl’s head makes when it hits the red brick of the sports hall, and a slim figure with carefully tonged hair who stood there and did nothing. But I wasn’t that kind of a person either. So I waited until Leanne’s body forgot, then I waited a little longer, and while I waited I opened Leanne’s phone. I remembered her birthday; I’m good like that. She was twenty-seven, like me. I called Stephane from her phone and hung up before he answered. I copied a French mobile number from her phone to mine, then I wriggled gently off the bed, letting her fall onto her side, and went meticulously through her things with the gloves on; the wheelie bag on the luggage stand, the cosmetics in the bathroom. There was a collection of business cards in the pocket of her Chanel bag, hopefuls from the Gstaad Club, presumably. Rupert’s card was among them, I didn’t see much point in taking that. Her wallet contained a few hundred euros and an open-return train ticket. I pocketed that, her passport, her bank card, everything with her name, as well as her hairbrush and a stray lipstick, the kind of things that might fall out if the bag’s owner was jacked up and careless. I was guessing the Cleret guy would have checked in, as he was shouting the room, and walked her in later. One look at her and the front desk would have known better than to ask questions: this was Paris, after all, and the Pavillon is a stylish hotel. No photos, no book or magazine on the night table, the rumpled clothes low-end and obvious. A nonperson, really. I didn’t know where she lived, or what had become of her parents; she was nothing to me. Rihanna was singing her umbrella song. I picked up mine and left. Just like you imagine, it does get easier. Perhaps I didn’t need to kill her. But then, I hadn’t killed her because I needed to. That was the third time, and it wasn’t an accident at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TWO WEEKS. That time in Como had just flown by in comparison. Two weeks of pacing and smoking and conjecturing, playing it out, over and over again. When, finally, I saw Cleret loitering at the end of my street one evening, it was all I could do not to rush through the traffic and kiss him.

  Still, the Rules say that one must never be too eager to greet a gentleman caller. I went home and forced myself to pay attention to two long articles in the Art Newspaper. Some time later I looked at my watch, a slim pink gold Vacheron Aronde 1954: nine-forty-five p.m. I brushed out my hair and changed my sweater for a ruffled Isabel Marant blouse, swapped my boots for neat Saint Laurent heels, gorgeous claret patent, but not too high. Time to go out to play. I swung down to the boulevard and crossed next to the bus stop, passing close enough to him that he could smell my scent (Gantier’s Tubereuse, good and strong). I walked on to the corner, aware that my tight gray jeans and heels were snagging a few stares, and turned left down the Rue Vaugirard, cut down to the taxi rank on the Place Saint-Sulpice. There was a bar I was fond of on the Rue Mazarine, done out like Julien’s orgy to look like a bourgeois drawing room, quiet in the week. They made good cocktails, but tonight I ordered straight bourbon, drank it slowly, looking straight into the street over the artful net curtains. It took him twenty minutes to find a position in a doorway opposite. We were just meters apart as I exited the bar and turned left again, heading down to the river. No footsteps behind me, the soles of those shoes, thick and brown like supermarket pastry, must be rubber-soled. Not bad, stranger.

  This was sort of fun. I came out on the quai and waited at the crossing in a crowd of tourists on a romantic late walking tour. I walked over to Cité, round Notre Dame and over to the Île Saint-Louis. Quite the stroll for him, work off some of those spare kilos. It was an unusually warm night for November and the cafés at the head of the island were crowded, the queue for ice cream at Berthillon snaking along their terraces. I felt electric, vividly alive, aroused, the muscles in my thighs and arse alert to his seeking gaze. I took the Rue Saint-Louis en l’Île, crossed once more at Pont Marie to the Right Bank. Eleven-fifteen p.m. There was the usual bunch of tramps carousing under the bridge. I could smell their filth under cheap spirits, my senses as vivid as an animal’s. I perched on the thick balustrade, lit a cigarette, waited some more. He couldn’t be that far behind. I felt almost sorry if he’d lost me that easily. Then there he was, coming toward me, his face shadowed under the ornate streetlamp. I’d have bet he looked irritable. I had the number ready, the one I had taken from Leanne’s phone. I pressed “Call.” He paused to take it, his head moving as he scanned the bridge for me.

  “Allo?”

  “Monsieur Cleret, it’s Judith Rashleigh. It’s been a while.”

  “Alors, bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

  “I’m at the end of the bridge,” I said, and hung up.

  I hopped down, walked a little farther to the front of the cab rank that served the Hôtel de Ville, waited again. I could sense him quicken his pace as I opened the door and asked the driver if he was free—he couldn’t risk losing me to the Parisian traffic, perhaps, or he hadn’t the funds for another taxi. I stepped back, holding the door open as he came up.

  “I thought you might like a drink.”

  He didn’t speak, just slid along beside me on the broad seat of the Mercedes. I leaned forward and asked the driver to take us to the Ritz.

  “Rue Cambon? I have a feeling for the Hemingway.”

  He had been silent all along the Rue de Rivoli; now he turned to face me. He looked weary but faintly amused.

  “As you like.”

  We waited while the bartender fussed impeccably, setting water glasses with floating cucumber and red currants on frilled coasters, producing a rose martini for me and a gin and tonic for him. As he reached forward to taste his drink his shabby jacket fell open over the slight swell of his belly, the absurd monogram. I felt a swift, alien spasm of desire.

  “So. Shall we begin?”

  “Where?”

  “Well, since you’ve already fucked me, perhaps we can dispense with polite conversation.”

  He raised an eyebrow, rather well.

  “The monogram. On your shirt? The party at the town house in Montmartre. I believe you know Julien? At least you went to his club to check up on me, La Lumière on the Rue Thérèse?”

  He inclined his head, faintly gallant. “Indeed.”

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. I’d worked it out a few weeks ago. We’d met at the club, that night we both behaved so naughtily in the dark room. What I couldn’t work out was the sting. Until I knew exactly what he wanted, I couldn’t play this. But then, we knew each other already, he and I. That dim incense-scented room, the burn of the leather on my palms, his teeth in my neck . . .

  I shook myself back into the present, took a long swallow of my drink. God, I wanted a cigarette, I wanted to be able to exhale a slow plume of smoke in his eyes. “You remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  There was something absurdly unreal about this Bogart-and-Bacall routine we seemed to be pulling. Stick to the point, Judith. So what if he’s already banged you months ago in some lousy swingers’ club? I sat up straighter, tried for a hard, flat tone.

  “You were following me then? Because you are now, obviously.”

  “No, not then. Not exactly. But it seemed a pleasing coincidence.”

  “I want to know why.”

  “I should have thought that was obvious.”

  “Cheap shot. Why are you following me?”

  “Because you killed Cameron Fitzpatrick.”

  Now I really wanted a fucking fag.

  “That’s absurd.”

  He sat back a little, drank
some water, and remarked conversationally, “I know that you killed Cameron Fitzpatrick because I saw you do it.”

  For a few seconds, I truly thought I might faint. I stared at the cocktail stick spearing the pale pink rose balanced on the edge of my glass. I wished I could faint. My instinct had been right, that sudden frisson of fear, the sense that I was being watched there, back under the bridge. A rat, sure enough. A rat who scented blood.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please tell me, now, why you are following me.”

  He reached forward and gently touched the back of my hand.

  “Don’t worry. Finish your drink. I haven’t got a squad of cops outside. Then maybe we can go somewhere more private.”

  “I don’t have to listen to a word you say. You have no right . . .”

  “No, you don’t. No, I don’t. But I think you will. Now finish your drink.”

  I let him pay the bill and walk me through the long corridors, glowing pink like the inside of a shell, past the naff glass cases of jewelry and scarves, past the disdainful porters, to the Place Vendôme. I followed him mutely round the square, across to the arcades of Rue Castiglione, right to Concorde. It was chilly now, and my low heels were beginning to rub after so much walking. I was glad when he sat down on a bench at the locked entrance to the Tuileries.

  “Take this.” He handed me his jacket; I was shivering. I let him arrange it around my shoulders, a waft of sweat breezing from the synthetic lining, my eyes fixed on the lights of a bus crawling up the Champs. I tried to light a cigarette, put the filter in my mouth. Smooth.

  “So, Mademoiselle No-Name, you can call me Renaud. I’ll call you Judith, unless you prefer Lauren?”

  “It’s my middle name. Lauren. My mother was a fan of Lauren Bacall. Cool, no?”

  “Okay, Judith, then. Now, I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen.” He took my lighter from my shaking hand and lit my fag. “Okay?”