Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  ‘Sure, Doug. See you.’

  I think I can class that as interesting but of no interest. I have to make sure I don’t waste time thinking about connections that may have no relevancy whatsoever to this case. All I’ve got is that Chudwell’s wife was a patient of Footitt. That connects Chudwell and Footitt outside the confines of the lodge. It may be that’s why Footitt is in that lodge, but equally, it may not. I’ve got a lot of questions to ask Chudwell, and it’s pretty likely he’s not going to want to answer any of them.

  When I worked in Italy as an insurance investigator, a cop called Prudenzio Boni told me that when you’re investigating the wealthy and powerful, you just keep asking questions. You never stop asking questions. Eventually, you’ll either crack the case or get yourself rubbed out. I keep this advice in mind as I press the ornate brass doorbell of number one hundred and fifty-one.

  It’s a well-kept, four-storey, early eighteenth century townhouse with cute cast-iron boot scrapers on each side of the heavy wooden front door. All the windows, right up to the top, have big window boxes which are either filled with nasturtiums or petunias. Water drips off the plants and down the walls, suggesting they’ve been recently watered. More high quality detective work for Caroline to be impressed with.

  There’s a five-lever mortice lock and a Yale rim latch. Access to the basement is limited by nasty black spiked railings, but the matching gate has a two-lever mortice lock with an adorable rope effect handle that could be dealt with in two seconds if you were in possession of a hammer. The basement door only has a Yale. No security cameras and no brass plaques telling you who lives there. There is, however, a blue plaque which tells you who used to live here; David Garrick, Actor, 1717-1779.

  When no one answers the door, I take a couple of steps back onto the pavement and look upwards for curtain-twitchers. Is anyone home? The houses either side are similar, but seem to be businesses of one sort or another. I look through one of the front ground floor windows. Gigantic fireplace, big mirror, grand piano, bookshelves filled with leather-bound hardbacks.

  Then the door opens.

  I recognise her straight away from her photograph. She’s put on a few pounds since that article, but the bulging, inflamed eyes are still present. Mid-fifties. Her dark hair is dyed. She wears an inappropriate-looking embroidered rose prom dress. She looks at me as if I’ve just come to the door carrying a decomposing donkey carcass.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  Her expression is blank, supercilious and humourless. Shop assistants must love her.

  ‘Good afternoon. My name’s Daniel Beckett. I wonder if I could have a word with Viscount Ombersley.’

  ‘I’m Lady Ombersley.’

  I can tell this isn’t going to be easy. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Ombersley. Is your husband at home?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d like to have a talk with him about something.’

  She looks at my clothes. She glances across the road at something. She looks from left to right, then looks at me again. To her obvious surprise, I’m still here.

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s a confidential matter. I’d prefer to discuss it with your husband.’

  ‘Confidential.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want to speak to my husband about it.’

  Her voice manages to be both grating and characterless at the same time. I’m already getting sick of hearing it. I want to turn the sound off.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Well you have to tell me what it’s about, otherwise I can’t know whether he’ll want to see you or not. This is a private house. This isn’t some company. Who are you? Are you selling something?’

  I can’t decide whether she’s extremely rude, very poorly socialised or has the attention span and memory of the dumbest goldfish in the bowl. Probably all three. I’m going to have to come clean and see if that gets me anywhere.

  ‘My name’s Daniel Beckett. I’m a private investigator. I want to talk to your husband about Paige McBride.’

  Her eyes narrow briefly, It’s hard to tell whether this is with panic, fear or total incomprehension. Then she looks suddenly elated. ‘Has she sent you with a gift for me? What is it?’

  ‘A gift?’

  She looks across the road once more, takes a step back and slams the door in my face. My mobile buzzes. It’s a text from Daniella. Another naked selfie with ‘call me’ written underneath. Yeah. She’s pretty hot. I’ll give her a call when I’ve finished with whatever this is.

  The door opens once again. This time it’s him, though I still don’t get the feeling my tenure of the doorstep has come to an end. He looks at me with suspicion. I suspect Lady O didn’t put him in the picture.

  ‘I’m Viscount Ombersley. What can I do for you?’

  I take a deep breath. I learned a long time ago to control my temper, but sometimes I can still feel it energetically rattling the cage it’s kept in. This is one of those times. Perhaps I should set it free.

  ‘Hello, Viscount Ombersley. I’m Daniel Beckett. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to have a word with you if you have a moment. It won’t take long.’

  He stares at me for a few seconds. His voice is jolly, but his eyes are dead. ‘Ah, yes! Mr Beckett. The private investigator. Of course. I was wondering when you’d turn up. Come in, come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  So he was expecting me. Tansil’s work? Cordelia’s? I walk up the steps and into the house. In real life, Hugo Chudwell’s appearance is as unflattering as his photograph. The disdainful expression and triple chin are all present and correct, but he’s a lot shorter than I’d expected, maybe dead on five foot or even a little under. This guy is pretty seriously overweight and doesn’t carry it well. I start thinking about beach balls.

  He reeks of the sort of acrid aftershave that could easily double as paint stripper and I can feel it assaulting my sinuses. He’s wearing a grey Givenchy polo shirt that shows off his gut and a pair of yellow Ralph Lauren chinos that his fat thighs are threatening to split open. He has the face and expression of an ugly, belligerent baby. Is Cordelia adopted?

  He looks me up and down as he closes the front door behind me and accompanies me through the hallway into a large reception room. He doesn’t walk, he waddles. Lady Ombersley is standing in front of the fireplace, staring at me, her expression flat and unemotional.

  As I’d expected, it’s a fabulous, lavish, tasteless place in mainly white, yellow and gold. Big sofas, big cushions, big mirrors, big everything. There are four matching yellow granite coffee tables pushed together in the centre of the room. Scattered across these are a backgammon board, a big bowl of pot pourri, two large glass candle holders and a stack of glossy magazines. On my left, there’s a big pale rectangle on the wall where a painting used to be.

  I get a jolt when I see Paige’s photograph on the cover of a copy of Burlesque Bible. It’s a big head and shoulders shot. She’s wearing a royal blue wig, pink eye shadow, bright red lipstick and seems to be dressed in a tight black latex dress which pushes her breasts up and spectacularly accentuates her cleavage. Her facial expression is a combination of humour and surprise, as if she’s been caught out doing something she shouldn’t. Beneath the photograph, it says ‘Véronique D’Erotique’s Unique Mystique’. I’m suddenly reminded of how beautiful she is.

  ‘Why are you looking at that magazine?’ says Lady Ombersley, dully. I try to remember her name. It’s Nancy. I’m not sure what I should call either of them.

  ‘I…’

  ‘Would you like to have a drink, Mr Beckett? Some tea? Coffee? Something stronger?’ says the viscount. Or Chudwell. Or his lordship.

  ‘Coffee will be fine, thank you. I’m not sure what I should call you.’

  He laughs, but I can tell he’s tense. I wonder why. ‘Oh, Hugo will be fine. Lady Ombersley likes to be known as Deborah. It’s not her first name, but she’s never liked Nancy, have you, d
ear.’

  Deborah looks at him, frowns slightly, then glances quickly at me, not caring if I notice. It’s as if she’s saying ‘What are we going to do about this?’ It’s not just her facial expression which is odd, I realise; it’s her posture, too. She stands with her hands behind her back, and slowly rocks backwards and forwards. There’s a strange atmosphere here which is making me uneasy.

  ‘So do you take milk and sugar, Mr Beckett?’ says Hugo.

  ‘No sugar and just a dash of milk.’

  ‘Just like me! Would you mind, darling?’ He looks over at Deborah, who looks baffled for a moment.

  ‘Do you want me to make you one as well?’ she asks me, looking me up and down again. These two do a lot of looking up and down. I just hope their heads don’t fall off.

  ‘Yes, darling. He would,’ smiles Hugo. There’s no emotional connection between them. It’s as if they’re strangers.

  Her face still blank, she turns to her left and walks slowly out of the room.

  Hugo turns to me. ‘We have a maid. Her name’s Hana, but she’s off with the ‘flu’ at the moment. Just one of those bugs that’s going around. One of my daughters had it. Nasty thing. Would you excuse me for just five seconds, Mr Beckett? I have to make a telephone call.’

  The pain is devastating and crippling. I have to use every iota of will not to drop to my knees. It feels as if someone has just crushed the back of my skull with the blunt end of an axe. I sincerely hope that hasn’t actually happened. Chudwell’s face is impossible to read. I’m seeing three of him; that’s nine chins. I quickly turn to face my assailant. It’s her, of course. She’s holding a heavy black poker with a brass handle and she’s coming in for the second blow. She looks simultaneously vacant and crazy. I can feel blood tricking down the back of my neck. There’s blood on her face. It’s mine.

  I hear him cry out. ‘Deborah! For God’s sake!’

  I haven’t got long before I pass out; maybe seconds. She raises her right arm, and as she swings down, I block it with the side of my left hand and simultaneously strike her in the face with my right. While she’s coping with that, I grab her right wrist, drive her elbow upwards and downwards and bounce her head off the floor. She’s still, and her grip on the poker has gone. I stagger a few steps to my left, sink to my knees and fall flat on my face.

  My last thought before everything goes black is, I hope I haven’t broken my nose. Vain to the last.

  37

  SEEING STARS

  When I regain consciousness, I’m careful not to take a deep inhalation or to move in any way. That’d be a sure sign to anyone observing me that I’d come round. I keep my breathing shallow and steady. I need time to think. I need time to remember.

  After a few seconds, the pain from the back of my head kicks in and it’s an eye-watering bastard. Under normal circumstances, I’d swear or at least write a letter of complaint, but these are not normal circumstances.

  I feel nauseous, have a blinding headache and can’t focus my thoughts. I don’t think I could get up even if I wanted to. Am I concussed? More than likely. If she brought that poker down on the back of my head with the same force that she attempted the second blow, then it’s a certainty. I wonder if my brains are leaking out.

  I attempt to work out some sort of timeline. Chudwell was asking if I wanted a coffee. Something about his maid, then something about making a telephone call. Then the explosion of pain. I could feel the blood on my neck. I remember her face. It had been sprayed with my blood. So what does that mean? A severe laceration to the skull? A fracture? Worse? Anything’s possible. He has his coffee the same way I do. No sugar and a dash of milk. I focus on my head. Does it feel bad? Can I feel blood trickling out of it now? Doesn’t seem like it. Doesn’t mean it’s not serious, though.

  I can’t make sense of this. Did I say something to her that triggered the attack? I think about Kina from Jamie’s gym. Did I ask her out afterwards? Was she meant to call me? I can’t remember. She was Scottish. Great cleavage. Flowery perfume. Sexy mouth. Freckles. I try to shut my thoughts down as another wave of nausea suggests that I get up and vomit.

  No. I didn’t do or say anything that would have caused that attack. She asked me if I had a gift for her from Paige. What the hell was that about? Paige was on that magazine. The one on the table. Another great cleavage. Why are you looking at that magazine? Was that what triggered it? This is awful. I actually can’t remember why I came here in the first place.

  My face is against a cold, hard surface. The reception room had soft carpeting. Or was it a rug? I’ve been moved. Even with my eyes closed I can tell that there are lights on. I wonder what time it is. I start to feel an acute pain in my ribs. Are some of them broken? How did that happen? I took down Lady O pretty quickly. It can’t have been her. Where was it that Caroline said she was going? To see Mr Sheng? I can’t remember her real name. Was it Li-Fen? No. That was the girl. It began with an F, I think.

  Then I remember the kicking. I was more unconscious than conscious when it happened and I’m not sure whether I imagined it or not. But my ribs hurt, I’ve got a dull ache in my left tricep and elbow and a terrible throbbing somewhere around the region of my left cheekbone.

  I can taste blood in my mouth and have toothache somewhere in my lower jaw. I try to remember the poker attack once more. One robust strike to the back of the head and a second attempt which I stopped. Did she get up for more after I’d thrown her to the floor? Unlikely.

  Then I can hear voices. They’re coming from a different room. A man’s voice that I don’t recognise.

  ‘I’ve given her a mild sedative. Cleaned her up. Made a little difference. Not much. Can’t give her any more. You know why. She’s mostly alright. Just shock. From what you said she was lucky she didn’t receive a more serious injury.’

  ‘I thought he’d broken her bloody arm or something. Or her neck!’

  Now that voice I recognise. It’s Chudwell. I can’t bring myself to call him Hugo.

  ‘Shoulder sprain, most probably,’ continues the other voice. ‘Can’t tell for sure quite yet. From what you said, I’m astonished that chap could manage anything at all after a blow on the head like that. She has a bruise on her forehead from where she hit the floor. Lucky for her you have that thick rug there. Could have been worse.’

  ‘How is she now?’

  ‘Babbling. Crying. Keeps asking for the girl. She’s convinced that this chap is the girl’s new boyfriend, but she doesn’t understand why he’s not Chinese. She wants to come downstairs and kill him.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ says Chudwell.

  I’m in no fit state to work out what they’re talking about. The other guy takes a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry. Pharmaceuticals’ll keep her subdued for a while. I’ve never seen her this bad in all the time I’ve been treating her. It’s not my fault, my lord. I’ve done everything that I could.’

  This has to be Footitt. Chudwell must have called him after my clash with his wife. I’m a little upset that he was called in to treat her and not me. I need more immediate attention than she does. What sort of doctor is he? I’ll have him struck off for this.

  There’s silence again. I check my wrists and ankles. I’m not tied up. Do they think I’m dead or are they just cocky? Or are they just stupid? I feel warm. I still have my jacket on. I’m warm but shivering. I want to make sure that I’m alone in this room. I try to expand my consciousness to make sure I’m the only one in here, but I can’t do it yet; it’s impossible to focus. I’m just going to have to risk it and open my eyes.

  It’s a kitchen. I’m alone. I’m near some chairs lined up against a pine breakfast bar. I can see some red flowers in a vase. Fresh herbs in a wooden planter with ‘The Kitchen Garden’ stencilled across the side in black. There’s a faint smell of cooking in here and I can detect tarragon. I can see a door that must lead to a garden, but can’t see much through it.

  The light outside is starting to fade and I wonder what time it is. I attempt
to look at my watch. My arm feels as if it’s made from lead as I lift it up. It’s ten past eight. I can’t remember what time I got here. Three-thirty, maybe?

  I attempt to get up, but just stressing some relevant muscles is too much and brings with it an unpleasant spinning sensation, so I lie down flat again. I close my eyes. It feels like the room’s expanding, so I open them once more.

  I give myself a rapid physical. I touch the swelling on my left cheekbone. This is pretty tender and there’s a cut there which is maybe two inches long. I’ll almost certainly have a black eye. The cut feels wide, which means it’ll have to be stitched. This is a real pain, particularly with the dates I have lined up next week.

  I attempt a deep breath, then stop abruptly. I was right about the ribs; three of them have been fractured or severely bruised. Could be more; I can’t tell without an X-ray. I move my jacket out of the way, lift my shirt up and take a look. Bad bruising and the skin is red and broken over quite a large area. This is a real pain in more ways than one. What’s the recovery time for ribs? Three to six weeks? I rotate my left arm very slowly and bend it at the elbow. Painful, but I don’t think there’s any serious damage.

  And now for the one I’ve been keeping until last as a special treat. I touch the back of my head as gently as I can. The hair is matted with a lot of sticky half-dried blood. My touch produces a twinge of discomfort, but nothing too bad. But now I’m going to have to explore the wound, and that’s going to hurt a lot more.

  I unknot the hair where the matted blood is thickest. Each miniscule tugging motion is agonising and my hand is shaking. I close my eyes tightly and grit my teeth so I don’t cry out. It takes about five minutes of excruciating prodding and poking before I get the measure of what she’s done. I’m starting to get soaked with sweat.

  The laceration is five or six inches long and just less than an inch wide. It’s diagonal and stretches from the top of the skull almost as far down as the occipital condyle. This explains all the blood. On the plus side, the wound isn’t too deep, and I can’t feel any bone or fragments of bone, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have a fractured skull. The other damage was fixable by me, but this is definitely going to need hospital treatment. I’ll probably need a brain scan. Fuck it.