‘Exactly. And I may be asking you questions that you cannot or will not want to answer.’
She places an elbow on the table, rests her chin in her palm and smiles.
‘So we’re both entitled to be cagey.’
‘That’s about it.’
Gretchen comes in with the coffee things on a tray. I thank her and wait until she leaves before continuing. I attempt to juggle all the facts of the Rikki Tuan case into some sort of chronological logic that can be comprehensively explained to a stranger without actually telling them anything. It’s going to be difficult, particularly as I don’t quite know what’s going on myself. I look at her mouth as she pours two cups from a large burnt orange Le Creuset cafetière. Expensive stuff they have here. Business must be booming.
‘Your charity organised four events at the Café Royal. They were burlesque evenings. Two of them were in March, one of them was in April and the last one was in May. I take it you know what I’m talking about.’
‘Of course, I organised those events personally and they were a great success. We hope to do more like them in the future.’
I smile at her and make the tone of my voice casual. ‘What made you decide to try that form of entertainment? It’s pretty atypical for you, isn’t it?’
‘You’re right. I’m always on the lookout for new things, though, and I like to try new things out. I was talking to Connie Kazprzak from Red Awareness just after Christmas. They’re a humanitarian charity and they’ve always been a bit more showbizzy than we are. They’ve done benefits with comedians and bands and so on. She’d done a burlesque evening about a year ago and was telling me about it, so I decided to pinch the idea. Simple as that.’
‘And it went down well.’
‘Very well. Part of it was the venue. The Pompadour Ballroom is a great place to spend an evening and the luxurious surroundings meant we could charge a lot for the tickets. Also, burlesque is an up-and-coming thing now. It’s been gradually moving into the mainstream of entertainment for years. It all kind of gelled. Are you a fan?’
‘Of burlesque?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve seen a few shows.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘Fun. Sexy. Nice atmosphere. A good night out.’
‘Do you like the women?’
‘In what way do you mean?’
‘Their bodies. Their sexuality. What they do on stage. The way they display themselves.’
‘They’re all different,’ I say, noncommittally.
She nods her head and smiles. ‘That’s true. I have to say I admire them, though. I would be too shy to do something like that. I’m much too inhibited.’
‘But you’ve thought about what it might be like?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you like the idea?’
‘Yes.’
We stare at each other. I take a sip of my coffee. Things are going slightly off track here. I’m confused. Is she flirting with me?
‘So the three subsequent burlesque evenings at the Café Royal. How did they come about?’
She clears her throat, drinks some coffee and appears to be composing herself. She’s not making eye contact with me anymore. ‘The first evening was a big success, so it was decided to do it again. We thought we’d do it as quickly as possible while people were still talking about it. It got a few reviews in the papers, which is always useful.’
‘And you asked for the same three girls?’
‘It was thought that there was a certain atmosphere on that first date which made the whole thing work, which made the whole evening a success.’
‘Did you attend the subsequent events?’
‘I went to all of them apart from the one on the ninth of April. I was otherwise engaged.’
‘So you asked for the same three girls, Kara la Fraise, Misty von Tassel and Véronique D’Erotique.’
‘I love those names, don’t you? Can you remember any of the names of the girls that you’ve seen?’
She’s hedging. She was taking responsibility for things a few moments ago, but as soon as I asked her about the subsequent three shows and choosing the same three girls, she started using different language: it was decided to do it again, it was thought that there was a certain atmosphere. Then she changes the subject to burlesque stage names. It’s as if everything was suddenly taken out of her hands after the first concert, and I wonder who by.
‘I can think of a couple of them.’ Both Anouk and one of Paige’s support acts come to mind. ‘One was called Suzette Rousseau and there was another called Strawberry Sapphire.’
She looks pleased with these names and claps her hands together. ‘That’s fab. What did they look like? Their figures, I mean.’
I smile. ‘Both pretty busty, from what I can recall.’
She keeps touching her hair. ‘And is that what you like?’
‘In burlesque artistes or in real life?
She becomes serious and looks straight into my eyes. She keeps touching and rubbing her left arm.
‘Either.’
‘I’m not fussy and I like variety. So have you organised any more burlesque evenings with the same line-up?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious.’ Now I have to improvise. ‘The reason I’m asking these questions is that the woman who’s being cyber-stalked was one of the performers at those charity events at the Café Royal. I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t tell you which performer it was. She’s been receiving sinister messages on her Facebook account from someone who seems to have been at all of those events. I was just wondering if it was at all possible to get a list of everyone who bought tickets.’
This is bullshit, of course, and I’m not that interested in her reply, but I have to keep up the façade: I’ve got what I want. She shakes her head slowly.
‘No. No, that wouldn’t be possible. The tickets go through agencies. They’re mainly bought online but sometimes in person, as well. You could just go to a booking office and pay with cash if you wanted to. There are online agencies, but they would perceive the details they receive – names and card numbers and all the rest of it – as confidential. Quite rightly so, I think. We just hand the ticket rights out to these agencies and they do all the rest. We keep some tickets back for VIPs on occasion, but no – I don’t think you could find out who’s going night after night.’
This is just what Paige said. I’m going to curtail this meeting now, if at all possible. I start to stand up, but she raises a hand and points at my empty coffee cup. ‘Would you like another coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
I sit back down and watch her. Her movements are even more self-conscious now. She runs a middle finger across her lower lip as she pours the coffee. She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles. She runs a hand through her hair.
‘There are a lot of things one has to attend in a business like this,’ she says. ‘Sometimes they’re interesting, other times not. Take tonight, for example. I have to go to a fundraising ball out in Croydon. Goes on until midnight. I went to one of these before, in the same venue. A little more boring than I’d have liked.’
As she places the coffee in front of me, I get a charming smile from her. She bends forwards so that her arm touches mine and her hair briefly brushes the side of my face. I can smell perspiration mixed in with the Black Opium. If, for whatever reason, she’s trying to distract me, she’s doing a pretty good job of it.
‘Here we are,’ she says. ‘Hope it’s OK.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been to a charity’s offices before. It’s not at all like I expected,’ I say.
‘Oh, you mean the house. Well, not all of it belongs to the charity.’
‘Do people live upstairs? Do you live upstairs?’
She smiles to herself. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. If you did, I was going to ask what it must be like living above your place of work.’ I take a few quick sips of my coffee. I’
m trying to finish it as fast as possible.
‘No, I don’t live upstairs.’
‘Do you have a flat somewhere? A house?’
‘Not at the moment. It’s a little embarrassing, actually. I did have a flat in Islington, but it was on a short lease and I couldn’t get it renewed. I’m staying with my sister this week. She was down with a really vicious bug that had wiped her out, but she’s on the road to recovery now, so I’m moving out the day after tomorrow. Having to live with the parents until I get another flat sorted out. Pours cold water over one’s social life a little. And my mother…’
She trails off. I smile sympathetically. ‘I’m sure it does.’ I finish my coffee and stand up. I have to get on and have had enough of her small talk. ‘This has been very helpful, Miss Chudwell.’
‘Cordelia. Is that it?’
‘Yes it is. I just wanted to see if it was possible to trace who had gone to all those Café Royal evenings. Obviously it would be impossible to track down everyone, or if it was, it would take much too long and be ultimately inconclusive. I’d like to thank you for your time and for the coffee.’
She pushes her chair back and stands, but she’s not finished with me yet. She walks over to a side table and picks up a business card from a small pile near a computer printer.
‘Can I give you my business card?’
‘Of course.’
‘In case you need to speak to me again. My mobile number’s on there; my personal email address, too.’
Our hands touch briefly as she hands me her card. ‘Thank you.’
‘Listen. I know we’re strangers and this is a little embarrassing for me, but I don’t usually come across people who are…who have seen and like burlesque concerts. I’d like to go to some more. I find them intriguing. Exciting, if I’m being honest. But they can’t always be arranged through the charity and I don’t want to go alone. Could you – I mean…’
I put her out of her misery. ‘You’d like me to accompany you to one of these concerts, if you find one you’d like to go to.’
She blushes again. ‘Yes. Just because – you know – you’re interested and one doesn’t often…’
I hand her my card. I’m not sure this is a very smart thing to do under the circumstances, but what the hell; I’m being hypnotised here and am not responsible for my actions. ‘I’d be delighted. You can give me a call when you discover something of interest. If I come across anything suitable, I’ll give you a call. OK?’
‘Thank you. I’ll understand if I don’t hear back from you. I’ll show you to the front door.’
‘And don’t worry. You don’t have to be shy about this. Not with me.’ I suddenly remember the burlesque guide I encountered in Rikki’s flat. ‘Oh, by the way – there’s a thing called PictureRama’s Burlesque Map of London. You can probably order it online. You may find it useful. Lots of venues, events and stuff.’
‘I’ll order one now.’
‘You do that.’
‘Good luck with your investigation, Mr Beckett. I hope you find what you’re looking for.’
‘You too, Cordelia.’
She fiddles with her fingers, her eyes downcast. ‘I’m sure I will, Daniel.’
Good grief.
32
MR BECKETT, IS IT?
As I walk down the steps at the front of the house, I’ve almost forgotten what I’m doing here. Well, that was a pretty weird interlude. Was she trying to distract me? Once again, I get a feeling of some behind-the-scenes manipulation going on here. If she was involved in this in some way, I don’t think there was any malice behind it, though I could be wrong. It could be that she’s being played but doesn’t realise it. She certainly knew there were areas where she couldn’t go, though. Maybe she didn’t like people like me snooping around and asking awkward questions. I can’t wait to get back to Exeter Street and my A4 cartridge pad and start writing all of this down.
I turn left and head towards the junction with Beaufort Street. It doesn’t look as if I’m going to get a warning from Friendly Face after all. I’m just about to give Annalise a call when I hear the sound of a car in low gear about a hundred yards behind me, travelling at around fifteen miles per hour. On a road like this, that just isn’t right.
When it’s about twenty feet away, I hear a gear shift, a sudden acceleration and a black Mercedes S Class sails smoothly by, pulling in behind a three-ton flat back lorry a few yards ahead. The front passenger door opens and out pops Friendly Face, looking very smart in a dark blue suit and an open-necked stripy shirt. He’s putting something back into his left inside pocket, but I can’t see what it is. He’s right-handed.
Jamie Baldwin got his physical description exactly right. Two hundred and fifty pounds, six foot two, short salt and pepper hair, big shoulders and running to fat, particularly around the face and gut. I would put his age at sixty-five, possibly even older. He’d have been quite an opponent about twenty or thirty years ago and can probably still handle himself.
He walks towards me and he’s grinning. It’s the same MO as Jamie Baldwin experienced: that affable and avuncular demeanour would stop you being on your guard and give him time to get in his request for your cooperation.
I keep walking and don’t make eye contact. After all, I’m not meant to know who he is. As he gets closer I can see the beaky nose, thin moustache and the crinkling around the eyes. A broad smile appears on his face. I’m seriously wondering if he’s going to give me some money to buy an ice cream.
‘Mr Beckett, is it?’
I look puzzled and glance behind me. Is he talking to me?
‘That’s me. Who are you?’ My tone is cautious, fractious, uncooperative. He smiles at me. It’s a friendly smile. A friendly smile from a friendly face. The car engine is still running. I can just about see his driver. He’s looking straight ahead, but I’ll bet he’s got us both pinned in the rear view mirror. I can’t tell if this is Big Bastard or not. I suspect not.
‘I just need to have a quick word about a rather important matter, Mr Beckett.’ He waves a hand casually towards the Mercedes. ‘Would you mind getting in the car, sir?’
I like the ‘sir’. Nice touch. Gives the impression that he might be police. Like Jamie Baldwin, I can tell that this might once have been the case, but not anymore. He really ought to let it go. Maybe therapy would help. I decide to needle him. I want this to escalate in a way he won’t be expecting.
‘My mother told me never to get into cars with strange men, and you look about as strange as they come.’
The smile falls away from his face. He didn’t like that. He walks towards me so we’re standing about two feet away from each other. He’s almost invading my space, which would be a terrible error of judgement on his part. His eyes are locked on mine, as if he’s trying to stare me out.
‘This won’t take long,’ he says, recovering and giving me a cordial grin.
‘I know it won’t. ’Bye.’
I turn to walk away, but he grabs my arm. A policeman’s grip: not too painful, not yet assault.
‘It concerns Miss Paige McBride.’
I turn around to face him, surprised and suspicious. ‘What did you say?’
‘I understand that you’ve recently started a relationship with her.’
‘You understand that, do you? Well understand this – fuck off.’
He smiles to himself. I’m sure people tell him to fuck off all the time.
‘I’m just concerned about her. Concerned for her well-being,’ he says.
‘Who are you? Her grandfather? What are you talking about? Well-being? What?’
‘She’s had a lot of bad relationships in the past. Made bad choices. Now she’s found someone who can care for her properly.’
I keep having to assess how the person I’m pretending to be would react to this. Not very well, I suspect.
‘What are you saying? She’s seeing someone else behind my back? Is that it?’
He gives me a look that’s so full o
f understanding and sympathy that I fear I might faint from it.
‘You’re treading on someone’s toes, sir. That’s the best way to put it. I think it would be better for everyone concerned if you backed off.’
My cover personality pauses for a few seconds, lets all of this sink in, tries to make sense of what he’s saying. I want my expression to make him think things might be going his way. But this is only a brief respite for him. I have a plan. I narrow my eyes suspiciously.
‘Who are you? How did you know I’d be here?’
He sighs with exasperation, ducking my questions. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come in the car? We can just have a quick drive around and I can put you in the picture.’
‘Listen, girlfriend. I don’t know you. How can you possibly know I’m seeing Paige? And what business is it of yours anyway?’
He places a hand on my right shoulder. I swat it away and push him hard in the chest. I want to check what he put in his inside pocket. It’s a mobile. He’s starting to lose his cool now. I look in his eyes and I know he’d like to kill me.
‘There’s no need to be like that, sir.’
‘And why do you keep calling me sir? Are you the police or something? Is this what the police do nowadays? Turn up in chauffeured Mercedes and tell people to stop going out with girls?’ I hold my hand out. ‘Show me your warrant card.’
He’s smiling again. He’s giving me one more chance.
‘Listen to me. You’re a nice-looking chap…’
‘Are you hitting on me now, sweetheart?’
He ignores this, but it’s all grist to the mill.
‘Let’s face it,’ he says. ‘Miss McBride is nothing more than a common stripper. That’s all she is. She’s little better than a whore. Go off and find yourself someone a little more decent, there’s a good boy.’
Now he’s pushed my alter ego too far.
‘Sorry. What did you just call her?’
‘I think you heard me.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I did.’
I flick out a hard, fast punch that connects with his lower lip, just enough to smash the flesh against his teeth and cause his mouth to bleed. He places a hand against his mouth and then pulls it away to look at the blood. Now the mask has dropped. His manner is malevolent and threatening.
Femme Fatale Page 32