Kiss Me When I'm Dead

by Dominic Piper

  Just before our car pulled off, a bright yellow Ford Ecosport, driven by a woman with strawberry blonde hair, overtook it. Her hair wasn’t tied back and I didn’t see her face during my one-second glance, but I’ll bet anything it was Wrap Dress from last night in Oxford Street.

  So now they’re mobile and there are two of them.

  18

  CHAMPAGNE AND OYSTERS

  By the time the minicab drops us both off in the West End, I’ve lost sight of our two tails and haven’t noticed either of them for about ten or fifteen minutes. I did consider offering the driver a couple of hundred pounds to pull over and let me do the driving, but I decided it wasn’t worth it, and I doubt whether he’d have played ball, surly bastard that he was.

  Both Sakura and I sat in the back of the minicab, and after a few minutes, the driver realised that we weren’t in the mood for conversation. I put my arm around her and turned to face her, talking about nothing in particular, so that it only needed a slight turn on my head to look out of the back window to see if either Yellow Car or Silver Car were following us. Sakura was a bit pale and shaky, but said she’d be fine as long as she didn’t look out of the window too much.

  For about fifteen minutes, it seemed as if we were clean, but once we were on the A3, I could see Yellow Car about half a mile behind in the slow lane. Our driver was changing lanes to overtake as the mood took him, and was travelling between fifty-five and sixty-five. Yellow Car remained in the slow lane but persistently matched our speed, changing lanes whenever necessary.

  Five minutes later, Yellow Car had dropped out of sight, but then I spotted Silver Car overtaking us in the fast lane. He was quite a way ahead of us before he slowed down and kept just ahead of us in the middle lane. Shortly after this, Yellow Car appeared again, but once more was keeping her distance.

  These two were pretty good, randomly disappearing and reappearing with no apparent logic to their movements, but one of them always had us in sight, and I guess they were communicating. If Raleigh and/or Fisher were responsible for these two, as I supposed they were, then I think they must have changed companies. There is no way that Tote Bag and Grey Hair were in the same league as Yellow Car and Silver Car. The fact that at least one of them had tailed our cab all the way down to Abigail’s is proof of that. This is slick, professional surveillance that makes the other two look like amateurs.

  Just as we were approaching Wimbledon Common, they both seemed to have disappeared, Yellow Car only fleetingly appearing again as we crossed over the Thames into Fulham. The next and last time I spotted Silver Car was when he was way behind us on The King’s Road and had got caught behind a slow-moving lorry.

  I arrange to meet Sakura after my lunch date, get the minicab to drop me outside Marble Arch tube station and give Sakura a handful of cash to pay him with. I don’t tell her about our two friends.

  Before the cab driver whisks Sakura away, I get her to open her window.

  ‘Will you come with me to Eleanor’s place? If she’s there, I don’t think she’s going to open the door to me if I’m on my own. In fact, it’s probably better if I hide around the corner until she opens the door to you. It’s sneaky, but we have to see her.’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll tell her who I am and that I’m a friend of Abigail’s. Don’t worry. We’ll work something out.’

  ‘Listen, Sakura. Could you do me a favour? Don’t answer the door to anyone and don’t buzz anyone up. Not until this is finished. I have to talk to someone regarding this case. I’ll probably be an hour or so. When I’ve finished, I’ll get a cab to your flat. When I’m outside, I’ll call you.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Daniel.’

  I don’t tell her who my lunch date is with, but it wasn’t a complete lie about it being connected to the case, just a partial one. As I run down the stairs to get the tube, a young guy in a bright yellow jacket overtakes me and bumps into my shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, patting me on the back. ‘Late for a date! Take care.’

  Well at least he apologised.

  *

  ‘You’re late!’

  ‘Only ten minutes.’

  Natalie is sitting at the bar looking sexy and pretending to fume while inspecting the menu. I’m not sure exactly why you’d have a menu in an oyster bar, but they do. She passes me a copy and it’s obvious that they do lots of other stuff and about fifteen different varieties of oyster. I order two half pints of Guinness as I’m flicking through it. I don’t want to rush things, but I can’t wait to meet up with Sakura and see what Eleanor Wallis has to say, if she’ll speak to us, that is.

  This place is called Gilray’s Oyster Bar and it’s situated in Carey Street, around the corner from The British Library of Political and Economic Science. I wonder if Eleanor ever goes there. From outside it looks like something out of Dickens, but the interior, at least, smells and looks new and the restaurant section at the back is bright and modern.

  Even though we’re sitting at the bar, a waiter comes over and asks us if we’d like to order now as they’re a little busy. Natalie, who’s evidently been here before, orders a dozen Gillardeau oysters with a glass of champagne and I go for half a dozen tempura oysters with wasabi, also with champagne. I don’t think I could eat a dozen oysters right now. I can always pinch some off her plate if I get hungry.

  Natalie sits up on her stool and crosses her legs, an action which gets a none-too-subtle gasp of appreciation from a couple of old guys standing near us as they get a clear view of the tops of her hold-up black stockings.

  ‘So what have you been doing since we last met, Daniel? Bare knuckle boxing or something?’ She grins and squints at my black eye. I haven’t looked at myself in a mirror since I got up this morning, but I’m sure it looks worse. They always do before they get better.

  ‘No. I was beaten up by a beautiful half Japanese/half Italian dominatrix.’

  She laughs. ‘I knew it.’ She takes a sip of her Guinness. ‘I’ve been thinking about the other night quite a lot. I’d like to do that again. Soon. I’m serious. I’m still tingling from it. When are you free next? Tonight? This afternoon?’

  ‘I’ll have to consult my diary. But as you say, it’ll have to be soon. Let me know when the tingling starts to wear off.’

  She runs a hand through her red hair. ‘I will.’

  ‘So how’s work?’

  She rolls her eyes heavenwards and sighs. ‘Bloody exhausting.’ There’s that Australian accent coming out again. ‘I run a department with four people in it and there should be eight.’

  ‘What was it you said you did again?’

  I know what she said she did, but I want to guide the conversation towards Anjukka. I think of Anjukka and that damn body of hers and for a second feel dizzy.

  ‘I’m a senior paralegal in a big law company. I’ve been working flat out for the last three months, preparing trial bundles, taking witness statements and all the rest of it. We’ve got a lot of big, complicated cases on at the moment and it’s getting me really stressed out, yeah?’ She moves closer to me, places a hand on my thigh and whispers. ‘That’s why I need…well, you know what I need, honey.’

  A waiter walks briskly by to intercept a couple in the doorway. I imagine that places like this are pretty well booked solid at lunchtimes, considering the location and the amount of workers nearby.

  ‘It sounds like a really taxing job,’ I say. ‘It’s quite a coincidence, actually…’

  She moves closer. ‘What is?’ I can smell her perfume mixed with her sweat and the alcohol she’s been drinking. I’m starting to get intoxicated with it. I have to keep reminding myself that this is the middle of the day and I’m on a case. It’s difficult.

  The couple at the doorway are quietly altercating with the waiter. His tone of voice is polite but firm. He’s having none of it.

  ‘Well, I was talking to a friend of mine the other day…’

  ‘A female friend?’

  ‘Well, yes. She was. Female, I mean.’
What the fuck am I talking about? I hear the waiter say, ‘two days.’ Is that really how far you have to book in advance for this place? That’s not too bad, actually. Natalie leans forwards a little more until her face is about nine inches away from mine.

  ‘And what did she say? This female friend of yours.’ I can’t help myself. My hand is on her leg now and it looks like we’re going to be kissing in a moment. I’m wondering if this sort of thing is acceptable in an oyster bar at lunchtime.

  ‘Miss Codlin? Your table is ready.’ A young waitress who we follow to our table rescues me. As I get up, I glance at the doorway where the couple who can’t get a table are finally giving up and going to sit at the far end of the bar instead. The woman has her hair tied underneath a rather psychedelic crimson bandana, but there’s no mistaking Wrap Dress.

  Now this is taking the piss. It’s almost laughable. Perhaps the whole point is to unsettle me, but why? If I was Raleigh, and was hiring me, the last thing I’d do would be to bother with all of this crap. It might genuinely put me off my stride and the end result would not be as expected, vis the discovering of what happened to Viola. It might annoy me so much, that I’d resign from the case, which is what I’ve been close to doing the whole way along. I can only assume that Raleigh is not as bright as he seems, and is a little naïve when it comes to hiring private investigators.

  Two glasses of champagne are placed in front us. Natalie, already missing the physical contact, twines both of her legs around one of mine. This is very off-putting and I’m having difficulty remembering what I was talking about. Oh yes.

  ‘Well this friend of mine is a paralegal. Works for some big company, gets a very good salary, but she’s moved away from the legal work and wants to get back into it.’

  ‘How much notice does she need to give?’

  ‘Well, between you and me, I reckon she would walk out this afternoon, if something else came up. She’s getting a lot of unwanted male attention where she works. She fucking hates it, to be honest.’

  Natalie rummages in her handbag, pulls out a business card and hands it to me. ‘Tell her to give me a ring. Once all the paperwork’s sorted I could take her on next week and screw her old job.’

  Our oysters arrive. Wrap Dress and her friend (or should that be colleague?) are sitting at the bar. ‘That’s great, Natalie. She’ll be delighted.’

  ‘I hate guys who fuck you around in work. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the absolute worst thing that you can do. All these little men exercising their wanky power over girls who wouldn’t look twice at them in real life. It’s pathetic.’

  She sprays lemon juice over her oysters and swallows two of them in quick succession. The wasabi paste on mine is extremely hot and my eyes start to water.

  ‘You’ve been here before, I assume.’ She nods her head. ‘Is there another exit apart from the one over there?’

  ‘You planning on running away from a girl who’s gulping down aphrodisiacs?’ She’s taken her shoes off under the table and is rubbing one of her feet against my leg.

  I decide to tell her the truth. Fuck it. ‘I’m a private investigator, Natalie. I’m working on a case at the moment, and a side effect of that case is that I’ve got these people following me everywhere.’

  ‘You’re fucking with me, yeah?’

  ‘No. Don’t look over at them straight away, but there’s a couple at the far end of the bar by the front door. The woman’s got a red bandana on. They’ve been trailing me all morning.’

  She runs a hand through her hair and shakes it from side to side, quickly taking in Miss Wrap Dress and her pal. ‘Got ’em. Jesus Christ, Daniel, is this true? Fuck. You being you and you doing that – so fucking exciting. I need to go to a hotel with you right fucking now.’

  ‘So is there another way out? Don’t worry – I won’t be leaving until we’ve finished lunch.’

  ‘See over there by the sign pointing to the toilets?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s an exit there. It comes out at the back of this place, but you’re right by the rear entrance of the pub next door. You can go through the pub and come out the front and skip down Star Yard. Then there’s a little road straight ahead of you that comes out on Chancery Lane.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘So do I get a reward for telling you that?’

  ‘Another glass of champagne?’

  ‘Not quite the reward I was hoping for, but that’ll do for the moment.’

  By the time we’ve finished lunch, I’m thinking about what to do. It’s difficult, because all of Natalie’s conversation leans towards sex and it’s a bit distracting. Still enjoyable, though. Part of me can’t be bothered to shake these two dummies off, but another part feels I’m obliged to, just for the practice, if nothing else. Initially, I thought they’d been told to wait until a table was free, but now I just think they’re hanging around the bar waiting for me to leave.

  ‘They certainly can’t take their eyes off you, can they,’ says Natalie, grinning broadly. ‘You want to give them the slip now?’

  ‘It might be an idea.’

  ‘You owe me big time for this, Daniel. I’m helping your friend out with a job, I’ve given you a getaway route and now this!’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Call me and make it soon. My brain is frying.’

  She wipes her mouth with a serviette, gets up and strides straight over to Wrap Dress, stops and stares at her, and then slaps her across the face. Hard. ‘You fucking bitch! You leave him alone or I’ll fucking kill you, you cow!’

  I don’t wait to see or hear what happens next, much as I’d like to. I get up, walk over to the toilets and follow Natalie’s escape route until I’m on Chancery Lane and can hail a cab. Nice lunch, though; my eyes are still watering from it. I put a hand in my pocket and pull out the piece of paper that Abigail Gastrell handed me this morning. It just has one word written on it: ‘Call.’

  19

  COFFEE AND CIGARETTES

  Eleanor Wallis lives in a white, wisteria-covered detached house in Stockwell Park Crescent, about five minutes’ walk from Stockwell tube station. It’s a tidy looking place and appears to have been recently decorated. It’s got a basement and I can see that the front part has been converted into a kitchen.

  It’s a quiet, very leafy road and would be a nice place to live. I wonder if she rents this or shares it with anyone else. If she’s saving her money, I doubt that she owns it, though I’m sure she could afford it, from what Abigail was saying about her work rate. Parking is by permit only and there’s a brand new red Alfa Romeo MiTo outside, which could well be Eleanor’s.

  Sakura is wearing sunglasses when she gets out of the cab and I wonder if that helps her condition, but I don’t ask. We stand outside the house for a few minutes, just looking.

  It’s a flat-roofed house. There are three upstairs windows and the blinds are down on each one of them. Two downstairs windows, either side of the front door have curtains which are both drawn, one of them only partially. Everything is still.

  There’s a gate at the side of the front garden, which leads to a small garage, which has both doors closed. There’s no obvious way to get to the back of the house, other than climbing over the garage roof. I listen for any type of noise that might indicate there’s someone inside, but there’s nothing; all I can hear is the tweeting of the birds and the sound of distant traffic.

  I decide that we’ve stood around looking suspicious for long enough and indicate for Sakura to follow me up the eight concrete steps to the front door. I stand to the side, out of sight, as Sakura presses the doorbell just once, for about two seconds. It sounds like the bell is at the back of the house.

  There are two glass panels on the front door. I didn’t know this before we came here, but just in case, asked Sakura to wear something ordinary so as not to alarm anyone who might be inside looking out. Ordinary, for Sakura, is a dark blue silk Stella McCartney V-neck dress complete with five-inch heel
strappy sandals. Her legs look great and with her hair slicked back and full, fabulous makeup, she looks like a model. It’s hard to believe they’re the same legs that almost crushed my ribcage the other day.

  After thirty seconds of silence, she gives the doorbell another press. Still nothing. Then I hear a dull bump from inside the house. It’s so faint, that for a moment I wonder if I imagined it, but about thirty seconds later, there’s another one. There’s definitely someone or something inside.

  Sakura rings the bell for a third time, then turns to me quickly and nods sharply. Soon after, I can hear someone walking inside. She opens her clutch bag and produces what looks like a very small box of chocolates. I give her a questioning frown and she smiles and shakes her head at me. She’s looking into the hallway and speaks to someone that I can’t see.

  ‘Darling? Are you alright, darling? Abigail was worried you were ill. I’m Sakura. I’m a friend of Abigail’s. We’ve know each other for twelve years. I live near you. She asked me to bring you some chocolates. She asked me to ask you if you needed anything. Any shopping or something.’

  Well, if I was Eleanor, I certainly wouldn’t answer the door now. Someone I don’t know trying to gain access to my house through proffering sweets would be pretty damn suspicious, not to mention terminally creepy. Sakura holds the box against the glass.

  ‘They’re Vosges, Eleanor. Caramel marshmallow by Vosges. Abigail said that you loved them. But it’s OK. I can take them away and bring them back another time. Or I can leave them on the step. Actually, no. Someone might take them if I leave them on the step. I’ll go. I hope you feel better soon.’

  I can hear the lock on the door slowly opening and the second I hear the latch click I hit the side of the door hard with the ball of my hand. This has two results, the door opens wide and Eleanor Wallis is knocked against the wall, and her arm is pinned against it by the door.