Kiss Me When I'm Dead

by Dominic Piper

  ‘Come here,’ she says.

  I lean over and kiss her, grabbing her red hair tightly, yanking her head back, biting her neck, giving her goose pimples. She digs her fingernails into my shoulders and presses herself against me.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she says, her voice cracking.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ I say, with an inappropriate smile.

  ‘White, no sugar, you bastard.’

  ‘Back in a moment.’

  ‘Don’t be too long.’

  She flops back onto the bed. I can see her red blouse and her green jacket on the bedroom floor. Her bra is in the kitchen, though, and I wonder how that could have happened, then I remember and smile to myself.

  I put half a dozen croissants in the oven to warm up and check on how the coffee is doing. I’ll have to buy more croissants.

  ‘How long does that thing take?’

  ‘Won’t be long. It’s a bean-to-cup affair. You won’t believe the taste.’

  It turns out that she wasn’t a lawyer or a solicitor but a paralegal. Still, it was a pretty good guess. I look at the oven clock. 6:43. I’ve got a lot to do today. I want to start making some real progress on this Viola thing. I want it finished yesterday. I start thinking what I might do with the twenty thousand bonus that Raleigh promised if I cracked this.

  I’m wondering what time my paralegal has to be in work and whether she works nearby. It was about nine pm when she and her colleagues appeared in that pub, so either they worked locally and had been working late (I think she mentioned something about overtime) or had come from some other area.

  I take the coffees and croissants into the bedroom on a tray with some butter. She sits up and then changes position so she’s on her haunches, running a hand through her hair. I’m trying not to get distracted.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Inner Temple Gardens.’

  Of course. I keep forgetting I’m so close to London’s legal zone.

  ‘I’m Daniel, by the way.’

  ‘Natalie,’ she says, through a mouthful of croissant. She’s ravenous.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Natalie.’

  We shake hands.

  ‘So what’s with the squeaky hallway? You really ought to get that seen to. Sounded like a million mice being tortured. I’ve never heard such a bloody awful sound.’

  ‘I know. It’s one of those things I’m always meaning to get done, but you know how it is.’

  ‘This is a hell of a place; so roomy, so cool, so minimalistic. Was it like this when you moved in?’

  ‘Not quite. I’ve added a few things. All the buildings on this side used to be storage places; that’s why they’re all so big.’

  ‘You’re right about this coffee. It’s like fireworks in my mouth.’

  I’m going to have to make appointments with Taylor Conway, if possible, and someone at the hotel. I’m trying to think who would be the best person there. The manager? Maybe I’ll have to see him or her first. I really want to talk to someone who was on duty the night that Viola was there, whoever that may have been. I wonder what their security camera situation is like.

  I know that the mysterious female friend of Viola made her call to the police about three weeks ago, but I still don’t know the exact date that call was made or the exact date that Viola stayed there. If I can find the professional name she was using then they should be able to look it up in their files and then I can have a chat with the night manager or whatever. I’d also like to take a look at the room she stayed in. I sit down on the bed and run a hand down the side of one of Natalie’s thighs.

  ‘I’ve never actually met anyone who actually lived in Covent Garden before,’ she says. Her face is pleasantly dishevelled; hair a mess, lipstick smeared, eye shadow smudged. The overall effect is sexy and smouldering. She gasps as I dig my fingernails into her flesh.

  ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything, Natalie.’

  ‘I discovered that last night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I thought you were so worldly.’

  ‘Not that worldly, honey.’

  She places her plate and coffee cup on the shelf by the side of the bed, gets up and stands by the window, facing outwards, each hand gripping one of the fixed metal bars. She turns her head slightly to the side and glances over her shoulder so she can see me.

  ‘Please.’

  *

  It’s when I try Taylor Conway’s number as I’m walking up Charing Cross Road just after nine that someone finally answers. I didn’t actually expect this and I can hardly hear anything because of the traffic noise, so I walk into Foyle’s and pretend to look at some books.

  ‘Hi. Is this Taylor?’

  ‘Yes. Who’s this?’

  ‘My name’s Daniel. Daniel Beckett. I tried to call you last night.’

  ‘Why?’

  I can tell this is going to be hard work. A woman in a blue hat stares at me. I pick up two contrasting travel guides to Barcelona so it looks like I’m in here for some reason. Perhaps it’s my wife on the phone and she’s helping me decide.

  ‘Because I wanted to speak to you. A girl answered, but then I got cut off.’

  ‘Were you the unknown number?’

  ‘That’s pretty likely.’

  ‘Why did you want to speak to Samantha?’

  ‘I didn’t. I wanted to speak to you. She answered your phone. I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  The tallest peak of the Collserola mountain range is one thousand six hundred and eight feet high. Barcelona hosted the 1992 Summer Olympics.

  ‘Was that The Architects that was playing in the background? Last night?’

  Architecture enthusiasts will be entranced by the modernist style of Anton Gaudi, as famously featured in La Sagrada Familia. Tapas is a Spanish delicacy where food is served in small portions.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah! You like them?’

  ‘Still listen to Nightmares once a day.’

  ‘Fucking yeah. Nightmares. They’ll never beat it.’

  Barcelona enjoys an almost perfect climate. No visit would be complete without a visit to the Picasso Museum.

  ‘Listen, Taylor. I’m a private detective. I’d like to ask you some questions about Viola Raleigh. Can I come and see you, please?’

  ‘What – now? Did you say you were a detective? Viola, did you say?’

  And so on and so forth for another four and a half minutes. I’m now an expert on Barcelona. Eventually I prise an address out of him. He lives in Ealing, so I walk up to Tottenham Court Road tube and twenty-five minutes later I’m in Ealing Broadway. Taylor, rather unexpectedly, lives in a small detached house in a leafy road sandwiched between a church and a small private primary school.

  When he opens the door to me I’m almost knocked on my back by the smell of dope and I’m irrationally worried about what the neighbours might think if they can smell it. He’s about twenty-five or twenty-six, but despite being seven or eight years younger than me he looks about five years older. I’m not saying it’s anything to do with his drug intake; he just has one of those old looking faces. I’m sure he was able to get served in pubs when he was eleven and probably did. His hair is long, and has that ragged, tousled, casual look that I remember trying to achieve (without success) when I was about fifteen and which probably cost him a small fortune in some overpriced salon.

  I find myself looking at his clothes (eclectic, rumpled but clean), his hair and the place he lives in, to try and give myself an assessment of how much money he must have and how much it must take to maintain his lifestyle. I don’t do this for any malicious reason; I just need to compare him to Viola’s financial background and social status to give myself an idea of how much she was slumming it by hanging around with him.

  I don’t think they were boyfriend and girlfriend, though they may have been occasional lovers. Of
course, I may be disabused of that idea after talking to him. I just wish he’d let me in and close the front door before that smell starts wafting down towards the nearby police station and my interview with him is prematurely curtailed.

  Before he lets me in, though, he has to assure himself of my credentials or lack of them. It’s obvious that the smell isn’t as powerful to him as it is to me or he’d drag me in and shut the door immediately.

  ‘You’re not, like, the police, then, are you? You’re more, like, sort of Sherlock Holmes, yeah?’

  ‘That’s right, but without the intravenous cocaine solution.’

  He laughs. ‘What?’

  I hand him my card. All it has on it is my name and mobile number, but it’s made from a thin, silvery metal with miniature micro-grills on the top and bottom. People don’t tend to throw a card like this one away. He looks at it as if he expects it to do something amazing.

  ‘Fuck. This is the coolest fuckin’ business card I’ve ever seen in my life. Can I keep it?’

  ‘Sure. Can I come in?’

  I follow Taylor into what must be called the living room, which merges into a spacious kitchen, then a plant-filled conservatory. I can just about see a large garden, which seems to be overgrown with roses and raspberry bushes. The whole place is untidy, but it’s not that bad and the furniture is comfortable.

  I sit down on a sofa. There’s a huge TV screen where a fireplace must once have been. It’s tuned to some mad-looking American evangelist channel, but the sound is turned off. I can hear something that sounds like traditional Chinese music emanating from somewhere, but can’t spot a stereo or any speakers. There’s someone in the kitchen, but I can’t see them.

  Taylor sits down right next to me and examines my clothing. He catches my eye and looks embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry, but I’ve never met like a private dick before. That’s what you are, isn’t it. A private dick. It sounds so fuckin’ cool, doesn’t it? A private dick. Hi – I’m a private dick. Fuck you. Would you like a tea or coffee or something?’

  ‘Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Course not.’ He turns away from me with a surprisingly quick movement that makes my hand twitch. ‘Molly! Can we get a couple of coffees?’

  Molly pokes her head around the door, looks at me, and then looks at Taylor. For a second, I think she’s about fourteen but then I realise that she’s just very petite and thin. She wears a green and purple crew neck jumper with hash burns all over it. It’s about three sizes too big for her. When she speaks, I put her at about the same age as Taylor, perhaps a year or so younger.

  ‘What the fuck d’you think I am? Make it yourself.’

  Taylor gives me a sheepish grin, pushes himself up off the sofa and lopes off into the kitchen. I follow him. It’ll save time. He prepares the coffee things and rolls a spliff at the same time. His drug paraphernalia is in a bright red Betty Boop tin. I remember seeing those in the shops in Milan and I wonder if that’s where he bought it. He’s got a blue Francis Francis X1 coffee maker. Classy guy.

  There’s a bookshelf next to the oven with two books on Moroccan cooking, Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell and Complete Tales and Poems by Edgar Allan Poe.

  Molly has disappeared into the garden and I worry that she’ll get cut to shreds amongst the roses and raspberries. I wonder what happened to Samantha. Taylor looks up and grins.

  ‘You can’t see it, can you. There’s a greenhouse in that jungle out there. We’re growing White Widow and Train Wreck. I’ve kept the garden like that so the neighbours can’t see. Also, the smell of the roses and the raspberries masks the skunk smell and the thorns discourage visitors and animals. I’ve also encouraged stinging nettles to grow at the sides and down the bottom. They have a bad, strong smell. I planted little trees, yeah? The birds sit in the trees, they have a shit and the shit encourages stinging nettle growth. Magic, eh? D’you like raspberries?’

  ‘They’re OK, yeah.’

  ‘I’m frozen some of the ones from the garden. I’ll give you some when you go. Remind me.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  He hands me my coffee and we go back to the living room or whatever it is. The coffee smells good. Just before we both sit down, he lights his spliff and immediately offers it to me.

  ‘No thanks. I’m working.’

  ‘Of course you are. Christ, I’m stupid. You won’t be able to deduce stuff after a drag off this fucker; I can tell you that for nothing.’

  He sits on a chair to my left and stares at me, smiling. ‘I’ve never met a fuckin’, er, private detective before.’ He tips ash into a large ashtray decorated with a Picasso portrait of Dora Maar. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘D’you get bad shit pinned on you so you’ll go to jail instead of the real culprit?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Have you ever gone into a room looking for something and then someone comes up behind you and smashes you on the head with something?’

  ‘Not recently.’

  ‘What about really stacked women in fur coats turning up at your office and crossing their legs so you can see they’re wearing suspenders.’

  ‘Once or twice a week.’

  ‘Shit. So how’s Viola nowadays, anyway? She in trouble?’

  ‘Why would she be in trouble?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s what she’s like. If there was a rollercoaster with a sign on it saying next stop, trouble, she’d be the first to jump on board, know what I mean?’

  ‘OK. Well, I just need to ask you some questions. You may not be able to answer all of them, but I’ll be grateful for anything, really.’

  Another girl appears, and sits on Taylor’s lap. She’s maybe twenty or twenty-one, bright yellow skirt, very tight t-shirt, no bra, no shoes. He gives her the spliff and she takes a deep, deep drag from it. Taylor produces my business card from somewhere and hands it to her. ‘Look at this fucker! Is that class or what?’

  The girl looks at the card and looks at me. She’s much better looking than Molly. She has violet eyes, which may be tinted lenses and black hair which looks natural. There’s an upturn to her eyes which makes her face beautiful and she has good cheekbones. Perhaps this is Samantha. ‘So what – are you selling business cards?’ she says, a little contemptuously, crossing her long legs and leaning back on Taylor like he’s not there. I recognise her voice from our brief telephone encounter. It’s Samantha.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I can do you a thousand cards with your choice of design for only a hundred and sixty quid.’

  ‘He’s a private detective,’ says Taylor from behind her back.

  ‘Fuck,’ says the girl, getting up and leaving. ‘Are you going to have me followed, you shit?’ She leans over to me on her way out of the room and whispers loudly in my ear so that Taylor can hear. ‘He thinks I’m fucking other people.’ I see she’s still holding my card.

  Taylor watches Samantha leave the room and goes into a sort of trance for a minute. Then he starts running his hand under the sofa as if he’s looking for something he’s lost. Then he loses interest in whatever it was.

  ‘So,’ says Taylor, ‘are you not meant to give me some sort of money? For info? Isn’t that what you do? You slip me a ton and I spill the beans over my best mate.’ He’s smiling. It’s hard to tell whether he’s serious or just smashed.

  ‘Sure. When we’ve finished I’ll give you two hundred. Think that’ll cover it?’ What the hell. Ultimately this is Raleigh’s money. Taylor’s eyes light up and I’ve now got his full attention.

  ‘Sure. Sure! Fuckin’ hell. This is really exciting. This is just like a film. And if it turns out to be bullshit information, you’ll come back here an’ fuckin’ really work me over, yeah? And there’ll be a car chase.’

  ‘That’s about right. And I’ll tell the police to come and have a look at your hidden greenhouse.’

  He laughs. He knows I’m not being serious.

  ‘OK.
Fire away.’

  ‘This is the situation. Viola’s father…’

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Her fuckin’ father. He always sounded like a real asshole.’

  ‘OK. Well anyway, her father reported her as a missing person two years ago. Have you seen her in the last two years?’

  ‘What did he say about me?’

  ‘He said you were the kingpin of a bad crowd she used to hang around with.’

  This makes him laugh. ‘Kingpin? Is that the actual word he used?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen her in the last two years?’

  ‘Definitely not. Last time I saw her would have been…it was actually just after my birthday, like a belated birthday party thing, so it would have been close on three years ago. Three years two months, maybe, or just a little bit more than that, three years and three months. And there wasn’t any bad crowd, y’know? That sounds like a bunch of rich twats who all go to the same nightclubs and snort coke when they’re fuckin’ skiing in Phuket or somewhere. She was just like a friend of a friend, who introduced her to me because she wanted a reliable and steady source of dope. It turned out that the dope wasn’t enough for her, though, y’know? People like that, they’re always going to find some way of achieving the oblivion they seek, yeah?’

  ‘Was she your girlfriend?’

  ‘Well I shagged her a few times, but I think girlfriend is too strong a word. I shag Samantha who you just saw, but I wouldn’t refer to her as my girlfriend or anything like that. You know – if you were hanging out with Viola, she was usually ripped and you could just fuck her if you wanted to. I’ll be honest with you, though, man to man…’

  This is too much for me and I start laughing. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just the way you’re describing her.’

  ‘You’re not baked, are you? I’m not giving you secondary euphoria or anything?’

  ‘I’m fine. Keep going.’

  ‘Yeah. OK. Where was I? So man to man, Viola wasn’t fuckin’ much good at it. She never really got into it. You might think it was because she was off her head on skunk, but it wasn’t anything to do with that. Molly out there is high most of the time and she’s fuckin’ great at it. Same goes for Samantha.