Death is the New Black

by Dominic Piper

  ‘That was the first thing that came to mind. Then I thought why should I?’

  ‘Is the fact that you’re doing this work for these two shows common knowledge in the fashion industry?’

  ‘There was an article in Vogue about it six weeks ago. After that, it was common knowledge. Before that, only a few people in the company knew. I told my mum.’

  ‘Is there anyone at all who would come to mind as a possible culprit for all of this? Rivals in the industry, for example?’

  ‘No. It’s not the way people in fashion work.’ She laughs. ‘If someone was trying to wipe you out, they’d do it with a whispering campaign or bitchy tweets.’

  ‘OK. How about an ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘I split up with my last boyfriend just over eighteen months ago. First of all, he wasn’t the type and if he was, he wouldn’t wait almost two years before acting.’

  ‘Maybe he’s been brooding about you and it’s just come to a head.’

  ‘Unlikely. He got married to a model. Do you know Edina Balogh?’

  ‘Not intimately. Not anymore. Our work schedules were incompatible.’

  ‘Well it was her. They got married in Kecskemét eight months ago.’

  ‘What a coincidence. I own property in Kecskemét.’

  ‘Are you always this witty?’

  ‘Only when I’m on the pull.’

  This cracks her up and she almost chokes on her wine.

  ‘What about your mother?’ I ask, while she’s recovering.

  ‘My mother? I don’t think so. Besides, she lives in New York.’

  ‘So the whole thing is completely baffling to you.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. No clues at all.’

  ‘But they do know where you live. I’m assuming that the street hassle people are connected to whoever broke into your flat, at least for the moment. How easy would it be to get hold of your home address?’

  ‘I don’t know. There are online things where you can look up someone, aren’t there. My flat was bought under my own name. I’ve never made any effort to hide where I live. Why should I? I’m not really a celebrity. I’m not Stella McCartney or anyone. There’s no interest in me like there would be in someone like that. I don’t go to parties any more than I have to. I’m not photographed a great deal. I have stuff delivered sometimes by couriers. I’ve got an Amazon account. That photographer at Jessica Tan’s, for example. He wouldn’t have wanted pictures of me. He probably wouldn’t have known who I was.’

  ‘When was the last time anything happened?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. About two in the afternoon. I was walking down Margaret Street. I’d just been to see some fabrics. A guy across the road just shouted my surname. I thought I was imagining it because of the traffic noise. I only saw him for a brief instant and he was grinning to himself. Some cars and lorries went by and he was gone. He was medium height, wearing a dark green suit, black shoes and was maybe thirty.’

  ‘OK. First, I want a list of all your appointments over the next two weeks and I want to know which ones are in the public domain and which ones aren’t. Second, I want to take a look at your flat. When can I do that?’

  ‘How about tomorrow morning? I’m not going into work until after lunch. I have a few things to do at home. I have to go out at around nine for about an hour or so. How about eleven?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’

  ‘We can go back to Hinde Street now and I’ll get my MTA1 to give you all the info you need about the next two weeks.’

  ‘Sorry – your what?’

  ‘MTA1. Most Trusted Assistant. Sorry – fashion’s full of obscure acronyms. Her name’s Isolda Jennison. I have a strange feeling you’ll like her. Just call it female intuition.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to meeting her. What are you taking?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pills. What pills are you taking?’

  She looks shocked that I can tell. Her eyes dart nervously from left to right.

  ‘Diazepam. The doctor said…’

  ‘Give them to me.’

  She hesitates, then rummages around in her bag and hands me a small plastic container. It’s a low dose, which is something. I put the container in my pocket.

  ‘You don’t want your mind fogged. You’ll need all the concentration you can get for your work. You won’t need these anymore.’

  I don’t know if that’s true or not, but fuck it. It’s all part of the service and makes the client feel better and have confidence in you.

  I think, from her expression, that she’s a little glad someone’s taken her in hand. We discuss my fee, pay the bill and head back to the office. It’s starting to spot with rain and I can hear thunder in the distance.

  As we walk back, something makes me jerk my head over my left shoulder. I sometimes get a slight skin-crawl if someone’s attention is on me and it just happened then. But it’s nothing. Manchester Square is empty, apart from an elderly woman on a bicycle and two obvious tourists getting out of a black cab. Maybe it’s me that needs the diazepam.

  3

  MTA1

  The words ‘holy’ and ‘shit’ are the first to invade my brain the moment Isolda Jennison oozes into Sara Holt’s office.

  Sara’s MTA1 is a ravishingly beautiful woman of about twenty-five. She’s tall, extremely desirable, excessively voluptuous and for a moment I think she must be one of those plus size models that the fashion houses have been favouring for the last decade, except she’s not quite plus-sized enough. Pretty close, though. Then I decide she’s a little too carnal for modelling; maybe much too carnal.

  She’s been poured into a black silk sleeveless dress that cuts off a little above the knee and flaunts delectably wide hips and a lethal cleavage. Both these attributes are accentuated by a wide, studded silver belt around her waist that just stops short of being fetish wear.

  If all of this wasn’t bad enough, she has full, moist lips, exquisitely pretty dark brown eyes and a gorgeous mane of expensively coiffed black hair that seems to reach all the way down her back. I just hope Sara is going to say something, because I’ve temporarily lost the power of speech.

  ‘Oh. Hi, Isolda. This is Daniel Beckett. He’s the private detective. He’d like to have a talk with you about my itinerary. Daniel, this is Isolda Jennison, my MTA1. She’ll give you everything you need.’

  A less sophisticated guy than me would be thinking ‘I should be so lucky’ at this point. It’s a good job I’m so smooth and urbane.

  Isolda steps forward and shakes my hand. Now I can smell her perfume, which is heady, musky and catches at the back of my throat. I think I may need to sit down. I just hope my mouth isn’t hanging open; I wouldn’t want any flies to think they’d found a home.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ says Isolda. It’s a classless, Londony accent with a hint of Hertfordshire or maybe Essex. Her grip is firm and dry and lingers for a second too long. She’s very close; another foot and one of her breasts would be touching my forearm. My mouth dries up as I visualise this. ‘Shall we go into my office? Sara doesn’t have a computer in here.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ I say, as nonchalantly as possible. I turn to Sara. ‘I’ll come back and have a quick chat when we’ve finished.’

  Sara nods and smiles, already engaged in something else that involves a pink fluorescent Magic Marker. Despite my efforts to suppress them, the contrasting physical beauty of both women is putting scenarios in my head that are best eradicated, and fast. I have to concentrate, not fantasise. As soon as I think that, the scenarios return with a brutish, salacious vengeance. I need therapy.

  I follow Isolda down a corridor to her office and I can hear her nylons swish together as she walks. That sound: it’s a bastard. She knows my eyes are on her curves and I guess she’s probably used to it. I look at the zip on the back of her dress and imagine slowly pulling it down.

  I try to imagine the sort of lingerie she favours and my imagination kindly supplies me with a few distracting a
djectives – black, provocative, indecent, revealing, tight, evil. As if reading my thoughts, she turns and flashes me a knowing smile. ‘Come inside.’

  We turn into her office. It’s smaller than Sara’s and less cluttered. There are three shelves of books and a couple of small tables groaning with magazines, but her desk is tidy, with only a computer, a notepad and some pens.

  There are prints on the wall; something by Weguelin and Andromeda by Poynter. She picks up a spare swivel chair and places it next to hers. We both sit down. She crosses her legs, looks at me and smiles. Her eyes are a little red, like she’s been crying recently.

  She runs a hand through her hair and shakes her head quickly from left to right. This releases more of her perfume into the atmosphere and, far worse, causes her breasts to wobble slightly. It’s the ‘slightly’ bit that causes me to swallow and lick my lips, like a schoolboy nervously flicking through his first girly magazine.

  ‘You were my idea, you know,’ she says, pursing her lips in a knowing half-smile. ‘Sara’s told me everything about what’s been going on. I said that she should get a bodyguard. I was half-kidding, but…’

  ‘Well, I’m not quite that,’ I say. ‘To have someone shadowing her twenty-four-seven would be impractical and much too expensive. And you’d need more people than just me. Also, if we’re going to catch the perpetrators and make all of this stop, we want to make them think that it’s business as usual for her. I don’t want to scare them off. Not yet.’

  ‘So what do you want to know?’ She uncrosses her legs, and then crosses them the other way. Her skirt is now higher and I can see black metal suspender clips gripping her stocking tops. Her thighs are heavy, white and firm. I must focus.

  ‘On a couple of occasions, she’s been hassled after leaving events or dinners that someone could find out about by reading magazines or checking the net. If this is some sort of stalker who’s following her, perhaps someone who’s obsessed with her in some way, then I’d like to know what she’s doing socially over the next couple of weeks if that’s possible. As much detail as you can give me.’

  As I’m talking, Isolda is slowly running a hand up and down her bare arm. Whether it’s intentional or not, and I think it is, she’s giving herself goose pimples. This is a clear message and I’m intrigued and stimulated.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I’ll just get her social diary up on the screen.’

  I watch her as she taps away on the keyboard. She’s a fast typist. I notice that her nail varnish is silver, matching her belt, shoes, necklace and earrings. The necklace and earrings are genuine silver. I wonder who bought her those.

  She’s wearing heels, but they’re only about two, maybe three inches. Any more than that and she’d be too intimidating for most people. She has great legs and nice ankles. Her toenails are silver, too.

  ‘OK. Here we are.’ She points at a load of lines and words on the screen. ‘This is two weeks’ worth. If you like, I can highlight the stuff that anyone could find out about and leave the rest as it is. Then I can print off a copy for you.’

  ‘That would be great. That’s exactly what I want.’

  She uses the mouse and the keyboard together and I watch her lick her lips as she concentrates. I’ve already forgotten what it is she’s doing and why I’m in her office. It’s that bad. I close my eyes and inhale her perfume, only paying attention again when I hear the printer clatter into life.

  ‘She’s actually got something tomorrow night at The Royal Academy of Arts. It’s a magazine launch. Do you know Dania Gamble?’

  ‘Not anymore. Big falling out.’

  She laughs. Good.

  ‘Well, it’s her. She’s American. Used to be a stylist for Vogue Japan. She’s been working on this new magazine that’s about five inches thick and only comes out four times a year. It’s called Mode. That’s ‘fashion’ in French. Clever, eh? Mainly photographs by top photographers, beautiful ads and the odd interview. Expensive. Heavy to lift. Vogue need fear nothing.’

  I don’t say anything. I just stare at her mouth.

  ‘This party is the UK version of one they had in NY last week. Sara got to go to that one, too, as she was over there at the time for a lightning visit, so I think she’s already got a proof copy of the magazine. If she gets two we can use them for weight training.

  ‘They’ve invited a load of fashion bloggers, online fashionistas, stylists, editors, suits and designers. The first issue has got a spread that strongly features work from Sara’s last Paris collection. There’s an online version that you’re meant to be getting on your iPad, but they’ve been having trouble with it. Something to do with the sheer bulk of the material. They’ve tried to be clever and have animated bits like Vogue do now, but something got overloaded, it crashed and they can’t get it back up. I’m sorry – would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks. Black with a dash of milk. No sugar.’

  I watch her as she walks over to a coffee area. She has an awesome, ample ass. She has the same cafetière as Sara, except hers is black where Sara’s was white. When she returns with the coffees, she seems a little more relaxed. We stare at one another, both trying to think of something to say. She holds my gaze for about ten seconds, flicks her hair back with her hand, then slowly rubs the side of her neck.

  ‘So what does an MTA1 do, exactly?’ I say, trying hard to look at her face and not her body.

  She starts to speak, stops herself, then takes a deep breath. I wish she wouldn’t do that. ‘It’s a difficult job to describe and it’s different for every assistant. It depends on who the designer is, too. With Sara, most of my work involves helping her with the colours and patterns that she’ll be using for whatever collection she’s working on. I do a lot of research on the themes that we’ll be dealing with.’

  ‘Sounds like you’d be pretty busy most of the time.’

  ‘Well, not all of the time. You have to keep some space for yourself.’

  I get a seriously meaningful flash from those dark, dark eyes. It’s so blatant that I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

  ‘I also help with the sourcing of fabrics and things like that. But that’s only a small part. I’ll also do technical sketches for the manufacturers, work out trend boards and have to be continually plugged in to whatever’s going on in fashion all over the world and with every designer. You have to live and breathe it. It’s just wonderful. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else and working with Sara is a dream.’

  She flicks her hair back again and licks her lips.

  ‘So you have to be as creative as she is, in some ways,’ I say. ‘Did you go to college to be able to do all of this?’ My interest in her education isn’t as intense as it may seem to her. I just want to keep this going and listen to her voice, which is pretty damn sexy. It’s the sort of breathless tone that most women reserve for the bedroom. I wonder if it’s an effort for her to keep it up all day long.

  ‘Well, I got a BA from Central Saint Martin’s. It’s the only place to go in the UK if you want to work in fashion. I mean – there are other ways in, but Saint Martin’s is still the best.’ She looks down and slowly rubs the inside of her wrist. ‘But what about you? How one earth did you become a detective? Were you in the police? I’ve never met a private investigator before. It’s quite exciting.’

  ‘I just downloaded an app with a load of multiple choice questions and started the next day.’

  She laughs at this. ‘Everything’s so easy nowadays, isn’t it!’

  ‘I’ve asked Sara this, but I’ll ask you as well. What the hell’s going on? Could she have made enemies who’d be doing this to her? Could she have a deeply disturbed fan?’

  She purses her lips and her expression darkens. ‘I just can’t imagine what’s going on and I’ve thought about it a lot. The first thing I thought was that it was some guy who’d seen her in a magazine or something. It’s just possible, isn’t it? Someone flicking through Vogue in the dentist or something and there’s a photograph with
her name underneath and she’s a beautiful woman and they get obsessed with her and then all the rest.’

  She leans forward. I wish she wouldn’t. I keep my eyes firmly focussed on hers. ‘But the thing that frightens me is that stuff with people moving things around in her flat. Like, just to let her know they’ve been there? Isn’t that the creepiest thing you’ve ever heard?

  ‘If it’s true, if she’s not imagining it, then it’s downright scary and I’m amazed the police haven’t been taking it more seriously than they have. And the fact that it wasn’t just when she was at work, it was while she was in the flat, asleep. I’ll tell you, if that was me – and I live alone, too – I’d be sleeping with a fucking huge knife under my pillow, or a gun, if I could get hold of one. I don’t know how she can stay there, to be honest.’

  ‘I think she thinks she can stay there because she’s not sure whether it’s really happening or not. Also, she’s a bit stubborn, as I’m sure you already know. But you’re right; it may not be safe. I might discuss that with her tomorrow. Tomorrow is officially Day One of the investigation.’

  ‘So you’re not doing anything else for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Not officially, no. But there’s someone I want to talk to about this when I leave here, if they’re available.’

  ‘Do you work in the evenings?’

  ‘If necessary, yes.’

  ‘But you’re not working this evening.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Do you know where William IV Street is?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  It’s conveniently and pleasingly close to where I live. I know what’s coming. Welcome to my parlour, as they say.

  ‘Well, Gaige was raving about a new Vietnamese Restaurant that he and his crew went to the other night. It’s called The Perfume River. It sounded great. I just wondered, without being too forward, if you’d care to escort me there this evening. Unless you’re too busy with detective things, of course. The food’s meant to be gorgeous.’