by R. J. Dillon
Assorted armchairs were arranged between second-hand scratched and beaten furniture, a television had been left playing, its sound almost mute, Russian stations beamed in by satellite. Posters advertising Russian films and bands Nick had never heard of brightened dull magnolia walls. In the kitchen Nick could see three microwaves and three upright industrial freezers. Marfa Dobrya, Galina’s fellow nanny arrived first, followed by Grigori Tesov who complained in a surly voice to Marfa that he had only just returned from work. Marfa slight and petite, her blonde hair gathered in a high ponytail, opted for a wingback chair looking lost between its arms. Dark, broad and tall, Grigori dropped into an armchair draping one of his legs over its side, his hooded eyes locked onto the television.
‘I’d like to question you both about Galina Myla,’ Nick began, taking out a notebook from his pocket.
‘You the guy who should be here Monday?’ Grigori wanted to know, not taking his eyes from the screen. ‘Because we lost pay.’
‘No,’ Nick explained patiently, detailing how the UK Border Agency had passed the investigation back to the police, hence his visit today.
Grigori merely snorted stretching for the remote, surfing through the channels. Not taking her eyes off Nick, Marfa had a narrow smile pressed on her lips, too scared to complain even if she resented losing her pay.
‘I’m afraid that Galina’s disappearance is part of a wider criminal investigation,’ Nick warned them, flicking opening his notebook, ‘It is a very serious matter.’
‘This a complete waste of time,’ Grigori told Marfa over his shoulder in Russian, ‘so get rid of the moron.’
Giving the impression that he had no understanding of Russian, Nick stared blankly from Grigori to Marfa. ‘Who knew Galina well?’ Nick asked slowly.
‘I was very good friend to Galina,’ Marfa volunteered.
‘Silly bitch,’ Grigori muttered in Russian, then with Nick’s sharp eyes turned on him he said, ‘Sure, I made friends with her.’
‘Did she give any reason for leaving?’
Glancing quickly at Grigori, but not without Nick noticing, Marfa said, ‘Galina made other friends also, some not so good.’
‘Where did she meet these other people?’
Crossing her legs Marfa simply smiled, leaving an empty space that Grigori was eventually forced to fill.
‘Okay I took her out a few times,’ he said and Marfa muttered an incredulous ‘a few’ in Russian.
‘You were her boyfriend?’
Grigori, deciding that he wasn’t sure what this encompassed, feigned bafflement until Nick enlightened him, ‘her lover?’
Going into immediate denial, Grigori switched off the TV and sat up. ‘Friends, okay, I just wanted a good time, Galina also wanted good time.’
‘A good time where?’
‘To bars and clubs okay,’ said Grigori, getting a little animated.
‘And this is why she left, disappeared?’ Nick considered his own question as though he’d thought of another important point in the case, making it imperative that he consign it slowly to his notebook.
Shrugging, Grigori wasn’t sure which direction Nick was taking him. ‘Sure, she wanted good time all the time,’ he admitted, waiting for the next question.
Instead, Nick turned his attention to Marfa. ‘Was Galina in trouble of any kind? Did Galina mention any problems? Did she er…become pregnant perhaps?’
‘It was not that making of problem,’ she answered, shaking her head vehemently, looking at Grigori. ‘She did drugs, got bad debt.’
Launching a verbal attack in Russian on Marfa, Grigori told her to keep her stupid mouth shut. Refusing, shaking her head, Marfa snapped back that she was sick of lying. Nick, giving the appearance of not understanding a word calmly sat through this exchange appearing totally bemused.
‘And do you know by any chance, about Galina’s drug habit?’ Nick asked Grigori when a lull had formed.
Examining his hands as though he might find an excuse or a lie there, Grigori held them out as though he needed Nick to check them too. ‘Sure, she became hooked, wild, all she do was party, became one crazy chick, missing work, staying out all night.’
‘Where did she get her drugs?’
‘We used to go to club in West End, I knew some people from back home, and she made friends with them, but I warned her, some of them are not good, got bad reputations. She wouldn’t listen okay, wanted to live her life twenty-four seven. I stopped going with her, she wasn’t good company no more and started owing more and more money for her drugs.’
‘How did she pay?’
‘She begged from us all here, asked for loans and then stole from us,’ Grigori told Nick.
‘Just from here?’
‘No,’ Marfa said, her eyes sad, recounting the breakdown of a friendship. ‘She took from the family too. She no listen to me, Grigori, anyone. Family warn her they fire her and send her home.’
‘So where did she get the money from to buy her drugs?’ Nick persisted, not letting go of the thread.
Sitting back into the chair Marfa looked even smaller, folding her legs over each other she tried to smile but it lasted a second. ‘She tell me one of her new friends got her job at different club, helping, bar work you say….’
‘But you don’t think that was true?’ Nick pushed and Marfa shared a sorry glance with Grigori.
‘No, I think she was dancing, men pay for her body.’
‘I see,’ said Nick, as though this was the most natural thing Galina Myla could have done and he came across it every day. ‘Which club?’
‘A private club, okay,’ said Grigori, taking over from a distressed Marfa. ‘I went once to talk to her, okay, ask her to come back, we going to help her, but she not interested.’
‘Which club was it?’
‘The Connoisseurs Klub,’ offered Grigori and Nick dutifully added it to his notebook.
‘Now,’ proposed Nick, wrapping things up, ‘I would like to see the possessions that Galina left behind.’
‘I fetch them,’ Grigori gallantly offered.
Alone with Marfa, Nick laid out his final question, one that he had been saving for the very end. ‘What about Galina’s family? Anyone ever visit?’
Leaning forward, propping her elbows on her knees, Marfa took her time, taking a deep breath. ‘For sure, I think yes, her mother visited Galina.’
‘Did she,’ said Nick matter-of-factly, ‘and that would be from Moscow would it?’
‘Moscow, yes,’ Marfa said, a keenness in her voice from someone who wishes she was back at home. ‘Galina had home in Golyanovo district, I never go there, but she tell me all about it. She laugh at people on her floor, her landing, that is right?’
‘Landing, yes, landing is right,’ Nick assured her, as Grigori brought in a bright purple suitcase with only one wheel.
In the few possessions Galina had left behind Nick found nothing that might have come from Lubov; just a depressing collection of clothes, shampoos, family photographs and a diary half completed, artefacts from a different life. A profitable exchange we will all benefit from. As Nick folded his notebook away, he thanked Marfa and Grigori for their cooperation. Behind him, their sniping and accusations in Russian flowed freely as Nick offered to let himself out.
• • •
The club occupied a backstreet corner in Bethnal Green. Its stonework was painted an austere black, orange neon signs flashed the club’s name and illuminated marquee displays offered adult entertainment, lap dancing and VIP dances by the best girls in town. Nick entered a foyer gaudy and square, its décor a montage of nightclub styles. Red velvet drapes concealed a doorway to the action, guarded by two bouncers with shorn heads who chose to dress all in black.
‘Twenty-five quid entrance and that’s excluding drinks. VIP starts at eighty,’ a pale woman in her twenties decreed from behind a padded red leather reception desk, her hair tawny, her skin glossy from foundation.
‘Is Galina working tonight?’
said Nick, taking in the full sized posters of the dancers studded around the walls.
The name of Galina brought a flicker of recognition to the receptionist’s eyes, but she shook her head. ‘You’ll have to take a chance.’
‘Do I get a refund if she’s not working?’
‘Look,’ the receptionist hissed, lowering her voice as a queue formed behind Nick, ‘make up your mind, you going in or not?’
One of the bouncers stared at Nick, that hard man look normal punters were expected to respect.
‘Keep the five as a tip,’ said Nick handing over a twenty and a five.
‘Smart ass,’ the receptionist said behind his back, the bouncer glaring as Nick walked by.
Behind the velvet drapes frayed by passing hands, Nick entered a bar area and small restaurant where diners, mostly stag parties were eating overpriced steaks. Naked and semi-naked bodies locked, unlocked and fondled without much passion, idealised caresses on three giant screens. Dubbed voices, muffled and hoarse, groaned above the original Dutch on one of the films. Sited over the Central Line, every time a Tube train passed, the screens trembled. A raised area was roped off for VIP guests who enjoyed the service of topless girls and their own private bar. Waving away two hostesses trying to sell him champagne, their East European accents struggling with their sales patter, Nick headed up a spiral staircase that vibrated from electronic music pumping out above.
On a narrow gallery Nick pushed through the crowd, easing himself into a melee of sound. At one end of the room, a dreadlocked DJ in a white vest swayed over a deck in one corner, strobes and coloured lights timed to change on each beat. Low red shaded lights hung perilously close over round tables, as waitresses threaded nimbly through the packed crowd with trays of drinks at what could have been a wedding reception.
Except in place of a top table seating bride and groom, there was a steel cage mounted on a high stage in one corner holding two naked women smearing each other with body paint and lotion. It beat the hell out of a floral display thought Nick. In the centre of the tables a larger stage, with a dancer performing her routine around a pole moving to a different rhythm. By the stage a door marked PRIVATE, which Nick thought would be a good place to start. Pushing through the door, he entered a long corridor poorly lit. Halfway down there was a dancer pinned to the wall by a thin mean figure in his forties, verbally laying into her.
‘…care, you’re shite,’ he bellowed, bringing back his arm to strike her.
Grabbing the man’s arm, Nick swung him round. ‘That’s not very nice.’
‘And who the fuck are you?’
Behind Nick a rush of music as the door opened and closed. ‘Get rid of this joker Baz if you wouldn’t mind.’
As Nick turned the bouncer from the foyer lurched forward planting the palm of his hand on Nick’s chest, which was his first mistake. ‘…out,’ he only managed before wincing and dropping to his knees in pain. Still holding the bouncer’s wrist in a lock, Nick dodged a mistimed flail by the bouncer’s freehand, which was his second mistake. Nick’s first kick dislocated the bouncer’s shoulder, his next exploded his nose and lips which the dancer later told her friends, almost made her sick.
‘You want some?’ Nick asked, and the thin figure held up his hands in surrender. ‘You work here?’
‘I’m Ricky Penda,’ he said, as though the name should have meant something to Nick. ‘I own this place.’
‘Well Ricky,’ said Nick grabbing him by his lapels, ‘I want to talk,’ he proposed, propelling him along the corridor. ‘Your office should do us fine.’
Leading Nick up another floor, Penda unlocked his door and Nick pushed him roughly inside. ‘Take a seat,’ Nick advised him.
‘You are who?’ Penda asked walking past his desk to a trolley stocked with whisky, vodka and white rum. ‘Drink?’
Without waiting for an answer, Ricky poured himself a healthy whisky, splashed in a touch of chilled soda water he took from a mini fridge.
‘I’m interested in Galina Myla,’ said Nick.
In his neat black Savile Row suit, white collarless shirt and hand-stitched loafers, Ricky Penda was considered a diamond by his friends, of which he had many. Light and wafer thin there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His flat iron face showed the deep roots of a sunbed tan, his hair forever short by habit was crew cut, dyed black.
‘Sounds like a form of pox,’ Ricky said, enjoying his drink. He waved for Nick to take a seat on the type of metal bench railway stations provided, this one black matching the colour of the office. A converted projection room done out in black and chrome it bore all the functionality a visionary businessman would need; filing cabinets, oval desk and furniture all coordinated to a theme. Two narrow projection windows gave Ricky a view right into his main room, the former cinema’s auditorium.
‘I was told she works for you.’
‘Was you?’ said Ricky, refilling his glass, ‘was you indeed, well my friend, you’ve been misinformed.’
A house phone buzzed on Ricky’s desk and he snatched it up. ‘I bleeding know, he’s in my office,’ Ricky bawled down the line. ‘No… no Old Bill… well get him to soddin’ casualty. No… no need to come up.’ Slamming the phone down he surveyed Nick. ‘You’ve got guts, you have, coming in here like this. Baz is one of my best boys, never seen him go down like that. Maybe you ought to work for me? Only kidding,’ he added, one hand raised in mock fear, finally taking a seat behind his desk. ‘My old man used to be an associate of the Krays.’ Happy to have put Nick in the picture, Ricky sat proudly back and beat his chest, a sign of contrition, confession or pride.
‘My dad was a commander of a submarine.’
‘Your sense of humour cripples me, it really does,’ he said, his mouth hardening. ‘Now if you’ve had your fun, I suggest you leave before you get into something that you can’t handle.’
‘I haven’t even started,’ said Nick and before Ricky knew it, Nick was at his side, one hand tight on the back of Penda’s neck as he slammed his face into the desk.
‘Nice one son,’ sniffed Ricky, staunching the blood with a handkerchief, head pressed back into his leather chair. ‘Now you and me have history,’ he promised and spat a mouthful of blood into a bin by his desk.
‘The only history I’m interested in is on Galina Myla?’
Ricky now proposed total submission, both arms raised above his head and Nick backed away from the desk.
‘She may have worked for me,’ Ricky confided and seemed to mean it. ‘I don’t know why you’re so interested.’ Nick gave him no lead and passed him the bottle of whisky. ‘I need more than a name if you want me to help?’ Ricky said, pouring a double.
And while Nick thought this might have a ring of truth, he ventured no encouragement.
Guarded, Ricky tried for a smile but it never quite came off. ‘I’m doing a public service with this place, helping punters let off steam in private, no one minding what they’re up to as long as they don’t make too much of a mess. Hours of dreams over in a minute, so why spoil it for the poor wankers. That’s why I use the best girls.’
‘She’s Russian, enjoys clubs and parties, maybe got a taste for dugs too?’
‘Drugs? I haven’t the foggiest what you’re on about, honest I haven’t. Swear on my old mum’s grave, strike me blind and make me dumb.’ His little head lolled to one side as he sluiced away the last of the blood into his bin.
‘Her regular work was as a nanny and she came here looking for a job. Am I right?’ Whether Nick was or wasn’t, Ricky didn’t intend saying. ‘She started to miss work and maybe used her body to pay off her debts. You listening?’
Ricky wasn’t really sure, his body seemed to have frozen, only his head could manage a weak nod. ‘Now this is where you help me,’ Nick explained. ‘You tell me where I find Galina and you don’t test how long the waiting times are at A&E.’ Ricky’s dry mouth managed a croak that Nick took as a sign to continue. ‘Galina, where do I find her?’
‘
Galina… Galina… I think I remember her now, got her details somewhere,’ Ricky said, going for a filing cabinet then halfway there changed his mind.
Almost at the door Ricky’s slight frame crumpled as Nick charged him. Ricky’s small fist caught Nick a glancing blow to the chin, jarring his teeth. Pinned up against the wall Ricky’s breath exploded like the air out of a balloon.
‘The first sign of guilt is when you run,’ Nick explained to him, relaxing his forearm easing the pressure on Ricky’s slender throat. ‘Where is she?’
‘Sod off.’
‘I think we’d better sit down, Ricky,’ suggested Nick, kicking Ricky’s legs out from under him.
‘You’re a real comedian, know that,’ decided Ricky, looking up from his position on the floor.
‘Galina?’
‘Look she did work here, but I get a bit nervous about these things because some of the girls aren’t always up front about paying their taxes.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘Left hasn’t she, went to a place in Greenwich, Pelton Road, place run by someone called Lovell, number 56,’ Ricky said, ‘she went to work for him. He’s the one to ask.’
‘You’re telling me this from the goodness of your heart?’
‘Look,’ said Ricky, inching slowly back to his feet. ‘I’ve no bleedin’ reason to lie,’ he proclaimed, his voice coarse. ‘Me and you got off on the wrong foot, let’s put it down to a genuine misunderstanding.’
Holding out his hand Ricky waited for Nick to shake, but his offer wasn’t accepted. ‘Misunderstanding,’ said Nick, he liked that.
‘Trust, that’s all we’ve got,’ said Ricky, in a philosophical moment, replenishing his glass. ‘Call back another time, VIP tickets on the house,’ he promised raising his glass in a toast. ‘Timing, that’s important too.’
Nodding slowly, Nick closed the door on Ricky. Taking the same route back through the club Nick waited for Baz’s friends to come and pay their respects, but no one did. Ricky is concerned about something Nick decided, that’s why he’s not having me beaten to a pulp. The world survives on threats reasoned Nick on his way out. Threat, counter threat. Here comes the candle to light you to bed, here comes the chopper to chop off your head. On one of the giant screens a secretary was being ridden doggy style as she licked and sucked her boss. A train rumbled by below shaking the screens, the bodies going at it with the rhythm of pneumatic drill. Out on the street he made a call on his phone and waited.