Caroline Chow told me that Rikki’s meeting with Mr Sheng was on the sixteenth of July, but I don’t know the exact date that his hassle began or what form it took. Perhaps I never will. But it was probably sooner rather than later, so I draw a line from the sixteenth to the nineteenth of July and write ‘?Rikki Hassle Begins?’
It occurs to me that the hassle that Rikki was referring to might not have been unrelated to the first warning that Jamie Baldwin got; when Friendly Face popped out of the Mercedes and told him he was pissing off those very important people.
I have to close my eyes to dredge that date up from my subconscious. It was the twenty-sixth of April. At that point, Jamie and Paige had been seeing each other since the seventeenth of April; I clearly remember Paige giving me that date this morning.
Jamie got the iron bar treatment on the sixteenth of May and he dumps Paige the next day, the seventeenth, a month after they started seeing each other.
I copy all of the dates/events that I’ve got so far onto the wall calendar, which is still stubbornly refusing to stay flat without help from the mugs.
But there’s some other information from Paige. She said that the last time she saw Rikki was at The Electric Carousel on the thirtieth of July. That’s eleven days before Lee Ch’iu last saw him.
She also said that costume designer Philip Hopwood introduced her to Rikki roughly two and a half months ago. Ten to twelve weeks. That would make it sometime around the beginning of June. I draw a line on the calendar from the first of June to the tenth and write ‘?Paige/Rikki?’ next to it. I just hope I’ll remember what that means tomorrow morning.
I think that’s all I’ve got at the moment. I pin the calendar to the noticeboard and take a look at it, hoping that something magical will jump out and help me solve the case. As usual, it doesn’t.
The gap between Jamie getting the first warning and getting assaulted was a little under three weeks. I can’t be as specific with Rikki, unfortunately.
So Rikki’s meeting with Sheng was on the sixteenth of July, but his ‘hassle’ could have been any time after that, up to the point he mentioned it to Lee on the ninth of August, but probably closer to the meeting with Sheng than to the time that Lee spoke to him. So maybe the gap was a little over three weeks.
This is frustrating. Without more accurate information I can’t tell if there’s a pattern there, even though I’d like there to be. Something like: you get a warning about Paige and if you’re still seeing her three weeks later, something bad happens to you.
And now we turn to Friendly Face, Big Bastard and Dr Barnaby Footitt, the Ferrari-driving mountaineering psychiatrist and possible Charles Dickens character.
Friendly Face first. First of all, it’s pretty certain that he wasn’t threatening Baldwin for his own personal benefit: he was doing someone else’s dirty work for them, latterly with the weird assistance of Big Bastard. He was a foot soldier. All that ‘very important people’ stuff – it may not have been an elite cabal of Véronique D’Erotique admirers, but it would have been at least one person. I’m not going to bother myself with that now, however.
There was a bit of skewed logic going in all of his threats. The pressure and intimidation were all over the place, in fact, but if you were the disorientated victim of it, like Jamie was, you wouldn’t notice.
First of all, it was for Paige’s benefit that Jamie would have to back off. She had a great future ahead of her. Jamie was a bad lot and Paige’s career might be damaged if he continued to be a fixture in her life. The ‘bad lot’ part was, by implication, his Olympic doping incident, unless he was implying that boxers were a bad lot generally.
This doping incident was, and had to be, a closely guarded secret, which had suddenly and mysteriously come into the public domain, or at least Friendly Face and Big Bastard’s version of the public domain, and whoever they were working for, of course. That was a careless piece of information for Friendly Face to drop and is a loose thread that I may have to tug later on.
Then he told Jamie that if he walked, Paige’s career could get back on track again. But who said that Paige’s career was off track in the first place? She seemed to be doing OK to me and didn’t mention anything when we spoke. Anouk didn’t mention anything, either. Not about Paige’s career, anyway. I’ll check this with Anouk and Paige, just to be sure.
So it’s likely that he contradicted himself as far as his assessment of Paige’s career was concerned. First of all, she had a great career ahead of her, then her career had to get back on track. Lots of interpretations here. This sounds as if he was making it up as he went along. Or perhaps he was just as confused as I am.
Then he gave Jamie a way out. Suddenly Jamie splitting with Paige and the advantage it would give to Paige’s career, on or off track, went on the back burner. Now an X-rated spectacular of Jamie and Paige’s sexual activities (as dictated by whoever) would suffice instead. This, of course, contradicts the idea that whoever is behind this had some sort of caring, concerned attitude where Paige was concerned. They were obviously fuckers of the highest order.
And Friendly Face, it would seem, has access to state-of-the-art camera and sound equipment. He, or somebody else, had the wherewithal and knowhow to create an undetectable professional surveillance setup in two separate locations. This, as well as the Mercedes S Class and ‘chauffeur’, points to there being money behind Friendly Face. This money, no doubt, coming from whoever is behind the whole thing, who I’m going to christen Mr X.
But when it became obvious that Jamie Baldwin would never, in a million years, cooperate with the filming idea, we flip back to Jamie just backing off and dumping Paige. It’s almost as if Friendly Face (or someone) was thinking ‘Oh well. It was worth a try.’ when the D’Erotique porn film deal fell through.
But this time, things had become a little more menacing and nasty. Not only is Jamie going to get a taste of the iron bar as a ‘warning’, but now, out of nowhere, comes the threat of Paige’s rape and disfigurement, with a view to making Jamie feel guilty (if he wouldn’t be feeling bad enough already).
On the one hand, this is something that Friendly Face could have thought up on the spur of the moment, to put the shits up Jamie. Well, on that level, it certainly worked. But if you combine that with the filming of Paige having sex (with choreography advice from, presumably, Mr X), then there is, possibly, an interesting subtext of a none-too-subtle hatred and contempt for Paige, or perhaps women generally. And it’s a morbidly sex-fuelled hatred. It also has strong hints of an unhealthy obsession with her. Now where’s that coming from?
This contradictory, sloppy, logic-free mess of threat, appeasement and punishment could have another rationale, of course. Friendly Face and Big Bastard had to use everything to hand, everything they could possibly think of to scare Jamie Baldwin off. It had to work because of who they were doing it for. It could not fail. The very important people were much too important to let down, hence the sledgehammer-to-crack-a-nut approach.
Someone, somewhere, has given this whole thing a great deal of thought. There’s not only money behind it but there’s also good intelligence (the discovery of Jamie’s doping) and planning, not to mention willing and able personnel.
There’s also the fact that they knew of Jamie’s existence in the first place, of course. They found out about him and what he was, hence that particularly ruinous damage to his right arm. Does Paige use social media? Would Jamie have turned up on it in some way? Is she being cyber-stalked?
On top of that was Jamie’s instinct that Friendly Face and Big Bastard were either police or ex-police. If they were currently serving, they were putting themselves at incredible risk pulling something like that.
If they were no longer on the force, which seems likely in sixty-something Friendly Face’s case, they were still at risk, even if it was just from a powerful right hook from an angered professional light heavyweight boxer.
Unless, of course, they didn’t feel they were at risk in th
e slightest.
Unless, of course, they felt they were invulnerable.
And then there’s the matter of the ambulance. They were confident (or stupid) enough to allow Jamie to be taken to hospital in an ordinary NHS ambulance, presumably driven and staffed by people who were not party to the whole affair. If it had been from a private medical company, that would have been something else, but it wasn’t. Logical, really; using a private company would have been a liability for everyone concerned. I, for one, would be speaking to them right now. Jamie’s case disappearing into the NHS would have been the best bet. Only Footitt wearing his ID badge let the whole thing down. Perhaps he thought it just wouldn’t matter.
Jamie lived in Wandsworth, and unless I’m mistaken, the Chelsea and Westminster would have been the closest hospital with an emergency department. So off he and his morphine drip go, he tells them the Big Lie, has his operations and then gets his complimentary visit from Footitt.
But what if Jamie had lived somewhere else? What if he’d lived in Hampstead, for example? He’d have been taken to The Royal Free. Would there have been a Footitt waiting there with a reassuring smile and a mountaineering anecdote? Do they, whoever they are, have a Footitt in every hospital?
By the time Anouk arrives, I’ve been in The Zone for about ten minutes, staring at the thick metal grilles on my kitchen window. There’s something about all of this Friendly Face business that I find disconcerting. It’s as if one part of me knows what’s going on, but isn’t letting the other part of me know out of spite. Occasionally, I get vague and hazy hints of what the answer might be, but they soon disappear into the mist.
‘So what do you think?’
After I embrace Anouk and we drift into a long, passionate kiss that almost ends up in the bedroom, she pulls her skirt up and places a high-heeled foot on one of the kitchen chairs. She peels the plastic wrap away so I can see. It looks good and it looks brightly coloured and new. I run my finger gently over it and she flinches.
‘You’ll have to avoid that area for a while, my love,’ she says.
‘Don’t worry.’
I get her to sit down and I turn the coffee machine on. She’s wearing a loose-fitting blue/black skirt and a dark green blouse. The colour of the blouse makes her blonde hair seem lighter. She smiles at me.
‘Paige’s show was really something, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘I could tell you were enjoying it.’
‘Oh, she’s at the top of her profession. I don’t steal from her, but I can allow myself to get inspired, you know?’
‘It must be a precarious career for some, though.’
‘Maybe. Yes. But not for Paige. At least I hope not. She has always gone from strength to strength. I mean, now she’s even getting her own clothing line. There is a launch tomorrow night at The Steel Yard. Do you know it? I was going to go, but my sister is over and I’m having dinner with her.’ She suddenly looks excited. ‘We’re going to The Hard Rock Café!’
I look mock-shocked. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a sister.’
‘As I said before, you are evil.’
‘But you like it.’
She glances downwards. ‘Yes.’
So much for Paige having a career that needed to get back on track, then.
‘Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat now?’ I ask her. ‘I can make…’
‘Not yet,’ she interrupts. ‘Just coffee will do for the moment. You said you were working later on tonight, my darling,’ she says, slipping the blouse off and letting it fall to the floor.
‘I have to leave here at about eight-twenty.’
‘Can I stay here when you are out?’
‘Of course. Just don’t answer the door to anybody.’
She reaches behind her back and undoes her bra. She slowly pulls each shoulder strap down and then crosses her arms across her chest.
‘You must promise to be careful.’
‘I don’t make promises I can’t keep.’
‘Good. I am glad.’
*
The tiny chimes of my watch alarm drift into my subconscious. I let go of Anouk, turn over, switch it off and take a look at the display. Eight o’ clock. I get up, have a quick shower to revive myself, go into the kitchen and make some coffee. I’ll let her sleep.
I find my mobile and send a text to Paige: ‘I have to speak to you. Can we make an appt for tomorrow? Daniel.’
While I’m waiting for her to reply, I find my battered leather messenger bag and dump it on the kitchen table. Then I go into the bathroom. One of the wide stone tiles on the floor of the shower is removable. This is one of the last places in the flat where you would look for a safe, but this is where it is.
I press the top right and bottom left corners of this tile twice and the springs below allow it to pop up and be removed. Beneath it is a Burton Claymore Underfloor safe. I type in the five-digit code and after ten seconds of deliberation, the door finally decides to open.
I pull out a Nikon D610 digital camera and a night vision zoom lens. The lens is big and cumbersome, but just about fits into my messenger bag. Once everything is back in place and locked up, I head back into the kitchen.
Paige has replied to my text. ‘Last night at Bordello. Party after. Call me 11am tomorrow. PS – who are you?’
I text her back: ‘Send nude pics bbe.’
It’s still warm and summery, but I put on my leather jacket, grab the crash helmet and sling the messenger bag over my shoulder. As an afterthought, I grab a copy of the London A-Z Street Atlas and stick that in the bag as well. Five minutes later I’m on the Ducati and heading towards the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.
23
ROUGH TRADE
I turn off Fulham Road into Nightingale Place, park next to another motorcycle so I look relatively inconspicuous and flip up the visor on my crash helmet. This is the road right next to the hospital and the one you have to drive along if you’ve been in the Chelsea and Westminster car park.
I get the London A-Z out of my bag, open it and pretend to read it, not looking up but listening for approaching cars. I’m going for the ‘motorcycle courier who doesn’t know where the hell he is’ look. Despite sitting on twenty thousand pounds’ worth of Italian engineering, I know that in London, at least, I’ll be virtually invisible.
The Psychiatric Assessment receptionist said that Footitt didn’t stay in work for a moment longer than was necessary, so I’m hoping I won’t have to hang around here for too long. I take a look at my watch. It’s another six minutes before he finishes. I get a text from Paige. It’s a still of her from one of her shows: naked apart from the black G-string. I have to laugh. I text back: Sorry. You must have a wrong number. I remember that I haven’t had a saucy selfie from Daniella the cryptographic consultant for a while. I wonder what the next one will be like. I kind of hope she doesn’t lose interest.
I look up as I hear a car approaching, but it’s a grey Lexus NX. I attempt to work out what information I’ll need to get from Paige tomorrow, but can’t really focus. That minder/chauffeur or whatever he was still irks me. What was his name? Declan? Such a strange, unpleasant attitude. The anger and contempt on his face when Paige had given him a mild bollocking about letting unaccompanied males into her changing room.
Of course, it could be that he was a bit of a simpleton, but that look when her back was turned worried me a little. If I was her manager or whatever and had caught that look, I’d have fired him on the spot. I’d have thought she wasn’t in safe hands.
So, relevant or not, I have to keep in mind a tenuous link between Declan’s attitude and Friendly Face’s more unpleasant threats. I can imagine the two of them getting on really well in the pub.
I’m just wondering whether Nightingale Place is named after Florence Nightingale when I hear the unmistakable growl of the Ferrari. I concentrate on my A-Z but scope out the car with my peripheral vision. It’s definitely him. In a second I spot the MPB and the dyed black hair. He’s wearing a dark blue suit
, a white shirt and a pale yellow tie. With his left hand he rubs the hair on the back of his head and looks from left to right. He doesn’t look in my direction at all. When he gets to the end of the road, he indicates and turns right. I count to ten, fire up the bike, flick the visor down and follow him.
I keep a hundred and fifty yards and three cars behind him as we proceed down Fulham Road. He’s doing about forty, which I can easily keep up with. A part of me knows that I’m doing this out of a sense of desperation. For all I know he may be just going home and having dinner. But even if I can find out where he lives, it’ll be something. It means I’ll not only have a name but an address, and I can always give his house a visit later on, if I have to.
It’s getting a little darker now, so I turn the lights on. I’d prefer not to, but that would just make me seem conspicuous and open to a pull from the police. The Ford Focus immediately in front of me turns left into Drayton Gardens. I decelerate and drop back about ten yards. I’m probably being a little too careful, but old habits die hard.
I can see the Ferrari signalling left and a moment later he turns into Cranley Gardens. Thirty seconds later I’m behind him again. One of the remaining two cars kept going straight ahead, which was a bit of a pain, but the orange Mini still tags along behind him. In fact, the Mini is tailgating him slightly, which will be useful; it means his attention will be on it and not on me.
This road is relatively narrow, due to the car parking on both sides, so he drops down to thirty. I decelerate again. I can see traffic lights in the distance, and I want at least two cars between me and him. Luckily, the silver BMW behind me gets impatient and overtakes.
I don’t think I’ve ever been down this road before. There are big, four-storey houses on my left and what must be the actual gardens on my right. Looks expensive, but then it is Chelsea.
Femme Fatale Page 22