Death is the New Black

by Dominic Piper

‘They probably fancied her.’

  ‘Maybe they had more important work to deal with.’

  ‘No. They were looking at it the wrong way. They were too focussed on her flat and how you might break into it from the outside or the inside. Getting past reception was a no-no, so, then, was getting in through her windows. Case closed, let’s go down the pub. What do you think happened?’

  ‘I think whoever it was did a recce from that service road. I’ll bet you anything there’s probably some sort of door or gate going into the back garden of the house next door, and one you could easily break into if you were a pro. From what I saw, their garden’s like a jungle, so they wouldn’t have seen anyone come into their garden from the house. Once they were through the gate it was a matter of getting over that wall down the end there. Maybe they had a ladder or stood on something, I don’t know.’

  ‘And getting back over it? It’s pretty high.’

  ‘It’s high, but not that high. You could probably do it with a good run-up, if you were fit enough, and there are plenty of spaces in the grouting to get a grip with your hands or feet, if you knew what you were doing. The light isn’t too good here even in the day, but I reckon if you did a close examination of this area and next door’s wall, you’d see plenty of signs that someone had been here.’

  ‘And you think that someone could get up those cable covers and get into that bathroom?’

  ‘That’s what I’m about to find out. Who lives in that flat?’

  ‘Er, that would be, er, Mr Nuttal. He’s one of the one I mentioned that use these flats for their pied-à-terre. I have no idea what he does. Rarely see him. D’you think…’

  ‘I think our burglar had a bit of luck.’

  I put my key ring and one of my metal business cards in my back pocket, take my jacket off and hand it to Mr Kimmons. ‘I’d get out of the way, if I were you. If I fall on you and we’re found dead here, people’ll get the wrong idea.’

  I wipe my hands against my shirt to get the sweat off and do a test grip against the first section of cable coverings. It’ll be difficult to hang onto this, but that’s mainly because of the narrow width and depth. The second problem I’ll encounter will be that my weight might be too much for the screws attaching these covers to the wall and I’ll pull the whole lot down.

  I console myself with the thought that someone has already done this before me, so it can’t be that difficult. It’ll have to be quick; I don’t think something this weak will tolerate anyone’s weight on it for more than a few seconds.

  I place a foot on the grey box, grab two sections of the cable cover and launch myself upwards, so that my feet are flat against the wall and I’m hanging on to two sections of the cover. So far so good; the whole thing hasn’t been ripped from the wall, it isn’t as slippery as I thought it would be, but it still feels flimsy, the plastic bending inwards slightly with the force of my grip.

  The initial pain is in my fingers, forearms and shoulder muscles, with my calves and back not far behind. With the confidence of someone who’s just scaled an amazing two feet of a sheer brick wall, I continue upwards, one painful hand-over-hand at a time. I don’t look down or up, because I don’t want to see how badly I’m doing. I just keep my eyes on my hands, watching the muscles and tendons straining and my knuckles whitening.

  I start to stare at details in the bricks; little chips that have come off the sides, random slime and dirt, pale green and bright yellow lichens. I consider telling Mr Kimmons that that whole wall needs to be hydro blasted and re-grouted. I feel a vibration in my left pocket; someone’s just texted me. I wonder who it is. Isolda? Maybe she wants to meet for lunch. No. She’s meeting her father.

  This seems to be taking a long time, but I know that’s an illusion. To keep my feet pressed firmly against the wall, I have to pull hard at the coverings to get the balance just right. The pain in my thighs is considerable. This activity is attacking muscle groups that rarely see action.

  ‘You’re doing well, son!’ shouts Mr Kimmons from below.

  ‘Thank you,’ I manage.

  Then, suddenly, the vertical cable coverings stop and spread out into the T shape. I stretch a hand out to grab the section to my right, but it’s slippery and my hand slides off, grazing the wall, so for a moment I’m just hanging on by one hand.

  I push my feet harder into the wall, even though I know that won’t correct things. I can feel myself leaning backwards at a bad angle. In a panic, I increase my grip and scrape my knuckles against the brick surface as the covering bends inwards. I get a huge surge of adrenalin and can just hear Mr Kimmons hiss, ‘God Almighty!’

  But I recover, and manage to pull myself up using the left side of the T bar. Now I can reach up and grab the windowsill and get one foot on the cable cover. I have to be careful not to put too much weight on this as I can tell it won’t take it. Looking down, I can see several finger marks on the dark algae covering that section. It doesn’t look like there are fingerprints, so my predecessor was using gloves.

  I’m in quite a bit of pain now, so I’ve got to get this over quickly. I don’t want to fall down and have to start this all over again. I don’t want to fall down, period.

  The window doesn’t have a handle on the outside. After all, why should it? But I can see the interior handle and I have to assume it’s unlocked or there’s no lock at all. There’s been a lot of activity around here; dirt and algae are smudged against the frame and there are big smears on the brickwork below. Whoever did this made no attempt to tidy up after themselves; either too cocky or they weren’t bothered one way or the other.

  I switch hands so my left is hanging onto the windowsill, and fish one of my business cards out of my back pocket. It’s made from a thin, silvery metal and is ideal for this sort of thing. I slide it in between the lock and the strike plate until I feel the latch bolt pop back, then grab the window frame and pull. It opens so easily, it almost knocks me off and I drop my card.

  ‘Got it!’ I hear Mr Kimmons say.

  With the window wide open, I jam both of my elbows onto the ledge and slowly pull myself up and into the bathroom. The windowsill inside is clear, so I don’t knock anything off. My stomach muscles and armpits hurt and I’m panting like I’ve just sprinted half a mile.

  I’m on my hands and knees and remain there for a few moments to get my breath back. That seemed like it took about fifteen minutes, but I think it was closer to four. I get up, lean my head out of the window and wave to Kimmons. He gets the message and heads back to the reception area.

  I stand on the tiles, stretch the pain out of my muscles, massage my fingers and then close my eyes, listening and trying to pick up on any human presence. There’s no one here. In fact, it feels and smells as if there’s been no one here for some time; the air is dead and there’s a very slight smell of mould.

  I take a quick look around the bathroom. There’s no sign that anyone has broken in; nothing knocked on the floor, no footprints, no dirt and the inside of the bathroom window is clean. Whoever did this made sure there was no mess, at least not on the inside.

  As I push open the bathroom door and step into the hallway, I make another attempt to get my head around this. What sort of person are we dealing with here? Is this teenagers or opportunistic burglars? Unlikely. It doesn’t necessarily have to be a career burglar, though. It could just be someone with good climbing skills who has been asked to do this for reason or reasons unknown.

  But whoever it was, they’d be comfortable with acting outside the law and would have little fear of being caught. Whatever you want to call these intrusions into Sara’s flat (and the one I’m currently standing in), I’m sure they break a shitload of laws, burglary with intent being the least of them, not to mention trespass.

  The hallway is the same as the one inside Sara’s place. I feel momentarily dizzy as I walk down it, as always happens when I’m invading someone else’s premises for the first time. I must look into that one day.

  There’s
no problem with opening the front door. There’s a security chain, a rim cylinder lock, but no mortice lock to deal with. I open it, close it quietly behind me and a minute later I’m in the lift heading up to the eleventh floor.

  *

  When I tell Sara what I’ve discovered, she runs a hand through her hair and breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment, she doesn’t seem to know what to do or what to say, then she puts a hand on my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you. You – you can’t imagine what it’s like when something like this has been happening and when you talk to people about it you can see in their eyes that they don’t really believe you.’

  ‘You can’t really blame people for that. Not really. It’s a difficult thing to believe. Breaking and entering without any theft involved. Who would do that and why? It sounds crazy, particularly when all of the things that have been going on in your flat are things that you could easily have done yourself.’

  ‘But why would people think I’d be doing that?’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you – I don’t know what’s going on yet, but you’re on the receiving end of a campaign of psychological harassment. Things like the jostling in the street and the moving of stuff in your flat; these things are designed to leave no evidence apart from your complaints. The stuff in the street, calling you bitch and so on are classed as engineered intimidation.’

  Tears start to appear in her eyes.

  ‘Start crying and I quit this job.’

  This makes her laugh. Good.

  ‘So who do you think is doing this?’ she says, sniffing. ‘Shall we go in the kitchen? I can make you another coffee.’

  ‘Sure. Well, my instinct is to assume that it’s somehow connected to a rival fashion house. It can’t be coincidence that it’s all started since you announced your plans for New York and Milan. Whoever it is has got money. From what you’ve told me, they must have hired anything up to half a dozen people so far, assuming that everything is connected, which I think it is, and in the case of your intruder, you’re looking at someone with a fairly high level of burglarising skill, probably a professional. There are a fair amount of people like that around and their services can be bought.’

  Sara shakes her head. ‘It’s just so unlikely. I’ve run it over in my mind again and again and I still can’t think of anyone who might do something like this.’

  I sit down at the kitchen table while she prepares the coffee things. I’m afraid I start looking at her bottom.

  ‘This might sound like an odd question, and we’ve been over it before, but have you got any enemies at all? People from the past, perhaps? Someone who really hates your guts, possibly for reasons unconnected to your job? Someone whose boyfriend you once stole? Something like that? Anything?’

  ‘I’m not that sort of person. Not yet, anyway. I’m always nice to people. I don’t use people to get what I want. I always treat the people I work with fairly. All I’ve ever done is to work hard at what I wanted to do.

  ‘I’ve had a few relationships suffer from it in the past. Guys who thought I was not paying enough attention to them in one way or another. But there was nothing big and dramatic, if you know what I mean. No big blow-ups. No words of vengeance. No promises of retribution. That would make it all more clear cut, wouldn’t it; something like that, I mean.’

  She hands me a coffee in a cup with ‘Euromoka’ written on the side in brown script.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She turns to face me. Her eyes don’t leave mine. ‘So what happens now? Anything?’

  ‘I can always get in touch with the police and tell them that I’ve found a way of getting into your flat and have found evidence that someone managed it before me. That might spur them into a more thorough investigation.’

  She sits down across from me, takes a sip of her coffee and frowns. ‘The police were condescending towards me and made me feel like I was wasting their time. They kept looking at each other with amused expressions that they couldn’t conceal. I’m not giving them a second chance. I want you to sort this out. What are you going to do? Are you all right? You look tired.’

  ‘I’m fine. Well, as neither of us have a clue as to who’s behind this, we need to speak to one of the perpetrators and find out who is.’

  ‘What if they don’t want to tell you?’

  ‘They’ll tell me.’

  ‘Should I change the locks?’

  ‘No need. I’ll get Mr Kimmons to take down the cable coverings at the back of the block. Without those, they won’t have access to the building. That’s the only possible way they could have got in. It may not be necessary or useful, but I’ll lock the bathroom window of that flat downstairs on my way out.

  ‘And another thing, Sara, from now on, you keep whatever happens to yourself, starting with what I’ve done here this morning. You don’t talk to anyone about it, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Isolda told me that you’re at the Royal Academy of Arts tonight. Some magazine launch?’

  ‘That’s right. Dania Gamble’s. Her people have hired the John Madejski Fine Rooms from seven until eleven.’

  ‘How many people?’

  ‘Over three hundred.’

  ‘Anyone there you know or work with?’

  ‘Gaige is going. He did some freelance work as a stylist on the first issue. There’ll doubtless be lots of people I’m on air-kissing terms with.’

  ‘Have you been there before?’

  ‘To a reception? Yes. Maybe half a dozen times.’

  ‘What’s the security like?’

  ‘Effective. It has to be. No one gets in without an invitation. They’re always very strict because the rooms are seventeenth century and have works of art in them – Hockney, Constable, Gainsborough. There are always loads of huge shaven-headed guys in suits with earpieces.’

  ‘What’s the hassle like when you leave?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Coats, cloakrooms, queues.’

  ‘Fairly quick. Big cloakroom area, usually six or seven staff.’

  ‘So from the moment you say you’re leaving to the point where you’re standing on the pavement in Piccadilly looking for a cab. How long would that be?’

  ‘Exchanging cards, air-kissing, getting your coat; I would say ten minutes.’

  ‘OK. When that process starts, text me. Just one word will do. I’ll know what it’s about. Don’t forget.’

  ‘Do you think something’ll happen?’

  ‘No idea, but I have to start somewhere. You’ve had a couple of days without incident, so you’re due for a spot of engineered intimidation, I would say.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be OK.’

  We both jump when there’s a knock at the door. It’s Kimmons. He’s brought my jacket and business card. He looks embarrassed and apologetic, staring over my shoulder at Sara.

  ‘I take full responsibility for this, Miss Holt. It won’t happen again.’

  He looks at me. ‘I’m going to take all of those plastic casings off the electric cables at the back there and have a word with the people in the house next door. I’ll check their back gate for them and give them suitable advice – put the frighteners on them so they act quickly. I’ll get that wall re-grouted on our side and suggest they do the same on theirs. I’ve already rung the electrical contractors and told them what’s happened. They’re sending someone over here at two o’ clock. They sounded like they were shitting themselves and so they should be.’

  ‘That sounds fine.’ I had considered leaving everything in place at one point, but that would be putting Sara at too much risk. Kimmons grins at her and points at me.

  ‘It took him a quarter of an hour to work out what those detectives couldn’t manage in two separate visits. I’m not a big fan of the private sector, but I would stick with this bloke, if I were you.’

  She smiles at him. ‘Thanks, John. I will.’

  He pokes me in the chest. ‘D
on’t fuck this up, private fucking detective.’

  11

  BLUE CRYSTAL NECKLACE

  Green Park station is only three stops away from St John’s Wood on the Jubilee Line and after an eleven-minute tube ride I’m standing in Piccadilly.

  I head towards Piccadilly Circus with The Ritz on my right, then turn left into Dover Street and go inside The Clarence pub, which is much quieter than I’d expected for the time of day. I get a double vodka and soda and, as I’m feeling in a sophisticated mood, order scampi and chips with tartare sauce.

  I sit down and start to think about whatever it is that’s going on with Sara Holt. If it were a spiteful ex-colleague, bitchy acquaintance or something similar, they’d have to have some pretty dodgy contacts to pull off something like this.

  They’d also have to have a fair amount of time on their hands to organise it all and a good amount of disposable income to pay the perpetrators, who, for the moment, I have to assume aren’t doing this for free.

  Let’s take the intrusions into her flat first. If I were organising this campaign I’d have to find out where she lived. Then I’d have to find someone who had the skill to break into her apartment block undetected. Someone who was smart enough to scope the place out without being noticed. Someone who was able to get themselves into next door’s garden, scale the adjoining wall, climb up those cable coverings, break into Mr Nuttal’s deserted pied-à-terre (a lucky break if ever there was one) and get past Sara’s locks even when she had her security chain on. Someone who knew to wear gloves so there were no fingerprints. The question is: how would I know someone like that?

  Also, there would have to be a discussion about what happened once this person was in Sara’s flat. The sort of things they would do, things that a third party would find hard to believe, things that would disturb or frighten her, things that could give the impression that she was making it all up, things that would leave the police incredulous.

  Then there would be other contingencies to discuss. What was to happen if Sara woke up while the intruder was in her flat at night? Attack her? Knock her out? Who would these things be discussed with? Who would have the knowledge, experience and maybe even the imagination to discuss them? The more I think about it, the more it seems that this has to be the work of a professional criminal or criminals.