Death is the New Black

by Dominic Piper

  A smiling girl wearing a red kitchen apron and a grey t-shirt places my meal in front of me and asks if there’s anything else I need. I tell her no. She smiles at me. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Are you a tourist?’

  She has a strong Swedish accent, pretty Scandinavian looks, enormous blonde curly hair, a remarkable bust and she’s glowing slightly, probably from the heat of the kitchens. The combined aromas of her perfume and her sweat lash at my senses and I make a mental note to discover her working hours and come back here, though not as a customer. I smile at her.

  ‘No, I live in London. I’ve just been to a meeting around the corner.’

  She unwraps my cutlery from a paper napkin, leans over, and as she places the knife and fork on the table our eyes meet. Her mouth is about a foot away from mine.

  ‘Important meeting?’

  ‘We discovered how to see through people’s clothing.’

  Her eyes widen and she jokingly crosses her arms across her breasts. ‘Oh! Now I feel embarrassed.’

  I smile at her. ‘I’m sure there’s no need to be in your case.’ Was that too corny? It seems not. It was, though. I’m going to cringe whenever I think about it, probably forever. How old am I? Fifteen?

  ‘You are bad.’

  ‘It’s worse than you think.’

  She wiggles off, glancing at me over her shoulder and smiling before disappearing into the kitchens. Is women sweating a thing for me, I wonder? I must look it up when I get home. I’m sure there’ll be an article on it somewhere.

  *

  I start to eat while having a think about the street guys. From what Sara told me we have three definite semi-assaults here, could be more. If we take the three she describes as strikingly scary, they involved four different men. They were older men, which is fairly interesting, though not necessarily significant.

  These guys would also have to be paid and briefed, one assumes. Make it frightening but make it quick. Make it deniable. Make it seem playful. Make it seem sinister. Make it seem accidental. Make it seem intentional. Once again, these incidents leave no evidence other than victim complaints.

  The scratch down the side of her car was real enough, I guess, even though I haven’t had a look at it yet. That could be classed as criminal damage, but once again, it’s one of those things that could happen to anyone, particularly in the West End of London. It’s the sort of thing a kid might do on a whim, if they were carrying a chisel or a screwdriver.

  I have to get something tangible to work on here, preferably a human being. I ask for my bill, pay and head up the street to look at the Royal Academy of Arts and its environs. Just as I’m about to stick my receipt in my wallet, I notice something written on the back. It says ‘Klementina. 07002690444. Please call. I like Chinese food! ☺’.

  I’ve decided to take a look at Burlington House, where the Royal Academy of Arts is situated, adjacent to a load of other societies, most of them scientific. I can see the colourful banners advertising the latest exhibitions about half a mile up the road, but I cross over, wanting to get the feel of the surrounding area.

  I want to put myself in the position of someone who’s looking out for Sara Holt leaving a magazine launch at a little past eleven pm. There’s a good chance that nothing will happen here tonight, but I still feel compelled to check it out.

  In the space of a minute, I walk past half a dozen cafés with seating outside. I check the opening times where they’re visible in the windows and consign them to memory. About half will be still serving food and drinks late into the evening. There are no pubs, at least not on the main road. Lots of souvenir shops, which may or may not be open late, but the two I go inside are too small to loiter in without being noticed and hassled by the staff.

  As usual, there’s a lot of work being done on the buildings here, and there’s scaffolding of one sort or another every hundred yards or so. There’s constant drilling, dust in the air and an all-pervasive, caustic burning smell; sometimes it’s like tar, other times like cheap diesel.

  There are many places where someone could conceal themselves without being noticed, but if you tried it under the scaffolding, you’d just get in people’s way.

  Traffic is busy; lots of black cabs, cars, cyclists and buses. It’ll be better late at night, but not by much; just the proportions will change. It’s thick with tourists and it’s unlikely that’ll calm down until well after midnight. It’s always busy in Piccadilly, no matter what time of day it is.

  The Piccadilly Arcade is full of high-end clothing retailers, photography galleries, jewellers and art bookshops, most of which close at five-thirty or six. If you walk down the far end, you come out in Jermyn Street, to be greeted by a statue of Beau Brummell.

  But even when the twenty-odd shops here are closed, they’ll still be lit up for window-shopping, so you could saunter here without drawing undue attention to yourself. I imagine the big ceiling lights are kept on all night to encourage casual browsers and discourage thieves.

  As I look in the windows and check out the closing times, I remember the text message I received while scaling the wall. It’s from Isolda and it’s refreshingly obscene. I text something even worse back and await her response with interest. Probably won’t be for a while if she’s having lunch with her dad. When I arrive back at the Piccadilly end of the arcade, I stop and take a look at the other side of the road.

  There’s an almost direct view of the entrance to Burlington House. If I wanted to look out for people leaving without them seeing me, this would be a good place. Directly across from the entrance are two black telephone kiosks, a lamppost and a few black roadside cabinets, probably with electrical stuff inside. You could hang around there, but the shop lights directly behind you would illuminate you. The telephone kiosks would be worth remembering though, particularly if the person you were observing didn’t know what you looked like.

  The road markings are mainly double yellows with a few areas telling lorry drivers that they can’t even unload or load. I run across Duke Street St James’s and take a look in Fortnum & Mason’s window. Fortnum’s closes at eight, though you can bet there’ll be people ogling the attractive window displays well after that.

  I keep walking. More shops, more crowds, more coffee bars and another arcade. I cross over the road and turn back the way I came. There’s a Pret A Manger and that doesn’t close until eleven. There’s a fast-food place next door that closes at nine, then a couple more telephone kiosks and more shops. If it was me waiting for Sara to emerge, I could easily and inconspicuously kill time around here while keeping an eye on Burlington House.

  Another hundred yards and I’m at the main entrance. Straight ahead of me, across two hundred yards of paved courtyard, is the Royal Academy building. A gigantic banner advertising a Rubens and His Legacy exhibition hangs down over most of the first and second floors.

  On my left is the Society of Antiquaries and on my right the Royal Society of Chemistry. By the Royal Academy entrance, there’s a statue of Sir Joshua Reynolds, holding a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other. I wonder what he was painting.

  This is a big, wide area and there are a lot of people walking around, looking at the buildings, the statues and the keystone heads. I decide to take a look inside. No need to buy a ticket, as I’m not going into any of the special exhibitions. I do go into one of the shops, however, and buy Isolda a Ken Howard blue crystal necklace.

  I wander around looking for info. The place closes at six, and that’s when public access to the courtyard stops for the general public. This means that no one other than the magazine launch folk will be making that walk from the entrance to the main building across the big courtyard. Well, that’s one headache out of the way.

  I wanted to have a look at the John Madejski Fine Rooms where tonight’s event will be taking place, but the young guy I asked said they were closed to the public. Oh well. It doesn’t seem to matter that much. If anyone’s
going to try anything with Sara tonight, I don’t think it’ll be in here. Besides, from the way she described her assailants, I think they’d look and sound out of place if they tried to gate-crash, and also she won’t be on her own.

  Of course, all of this may be a waste of time, but it only took me half an hour and may come in useful for something else one day. Who knows – I may even visit the place for pleasure.

  I’ve started to notice a lot of muscular aches and pains in the last few minutes, probably as a result of the climb that got me into Sara’s place, so decide to go back to Exeter Street for a hot bath.

  I head down towards Piccadilly Circus and I’m considering walking back, then someone gets out of a black cab right next to me, so I hop in that one and tell the driver to take me to Kean Street, Covent Garden, so I can take my usual random, tortuous route home.

  Once I’m back, I run a bath, pour some Thymes Goldleaf bubble bath into the water, go into the kitchen and start up the coffee machine. The bedroom still smells of Isolda, the sheets are still dishevelled and both pillows are on the bedroom floor where we left them this morning.

  I take the necklace I bought her out of my jacket pocket and place it on the kitchen table next to the coffee maker. I hope she likes it. I get out of my clothes, dump them on the bed, then get in the bath, turning the cold tap off, but keeping the hot one running slowly until I can stand it no longer. Then I lie there, sweating from the heat, sipping my coffee and thinking.

  I decide to give Sara a call. She answers straight away.

  ‘Hi. Have you solved it yet?’

  She sounds a little more happy and relaxed now, probably the effect of having her story believed at last, or at least part of it.

  ‘Just give me another five minutes. Where are you now?’

  ‘At Maccanti’s. I left about half an hour after you did.’

  ‘Are you going to this launch tonight straight from work?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to stay late and then get a cab down. I’ve got something to change into in my office, so I won’t be going home again until it’s over.’

  ‘Tell me what you’ll be wearing.’

  ‘You sound like a pervert.’

  ‘I am. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s one of my own creations. It’s like a short, sleeveless, over-the-shoulder prom dress. One shoulder bare, the other with a bow. Elastic satin; light turquoise. I’ll be wearing lime green pumps and carrying a matching clutch bag.’ She pauses, then laughs. ‘No bra.’

  ‘Stop that right now.’

  ‘Is this turning into phone sex?’

  ‘Why do you think I rang you in the first place?’

  ‘You were lonely?’

  ‘A guy like me is never lonely, honey.’

  She giggles. ‘I go crazy when I think of you with other women. I want to kill all of them.’

  ‘OK. Just do me a favour and book a cab to pick you up right outside the office, just until I can get this sorted out. Don’t walk around hailing one. Pick a company you haven’t used before.’

  ‘Sure. If that’s what you want. Gaige will know of one.’

  ‘And make sure you get out right outside Burlington House. Try to limit your walking time. And when you get inside, forget all about this. Just have a good time. And remember to text me ten minutes before you leave.’

  ‘I won’t forget.’

  I click her off. Well, at least she sounds a little more playful now. Just as I put my mobile on the side of the bath, it starts buzzing, the vibrations almost tipping it into the water. It’s Isolda.

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Your boss.’

  ‘Did you tell her about us?’

  ‘Right down to the last detail.’

  ‘I bloody hope not! Listen – are you busy at the moment? Where are you? Are you at your place?’

  ‘I’m having a bath.’

  ‘You mean I’m talking to a naked man?’

  ‘A first for you, I’m sure.’

  ‘Ha. I’m finishing here in a few minutes. Just have to courier some stuff. Can I get a cab to your place? I’d really like to see you. I was going to suggest we have dinner again, but I don’t think I can wait that long. I’ve been thinking about you all day.’

  ‘Sure. There’s a buzzer on the street level door.’

  ‘OK. Mwah!’

  I try to work out how long it’s going to take her to get here. I would say about fifteen to twenty minutes. That gives me another ten minutes soaking time. Whatever she has in mind, I’ve going to have to extricate myself from her at some point so that I can get down to Piccadilly to check on Sara.

  I am aware that I’ve put myself in a difficult position as regards confidentiality here, but then it was Isolda’s suggestion that Sara contact someone like me in the first place. Still, it isn’t good business to let a third party know what’s been going on under any circumstances, so I’m going to have to be diplomatic, which’ll involve lying, which I’m very good at. I close my eyes, feel the sweat drip down my face and the pain slowly leave the muscles in my back and shoulders.

  12

  A HANDS-ON PERSON

  I’m still in my robe when I hear the buzzer, and push the button in the kitchen to let her up. When I open the door I think it’s a different woman. Her long hair is tied back off her face, making those gorgeous eyes and plump lips more noticeable. She’s wearing a navy blue jacket with wide shoulders over a black low-cut t-shirt that narrowly avoids showing any cleavage but accentuates the broad swell of her breasts.

  She’s wearing a short, black skirt, but this time it’s patterned with interlaced gold and is a little longer than the one she had on last night, reaching maybe three inches above the knee. High heels once again – black, suede, five-inch stilettos that make her almost as tall as me.

  I grab her by the waist and push her against the wall. She moans as I kiss her neck and stops me as I lean across her to close the door, which is wide open.

  ‘Keep it open,’ she whispers, her voice hoarse.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are people downstairs.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  In between kisses, she removes my robe and lets it drop to the floor. When I start to undress her, she shakes her head. ‘No. Like this.’

  Her lovemaking is intense, crude and demanding. Her body responds with enthusiasm, though her eyes are unfocussed, clouded over, as if her mind is elsewhere.

  When we finally get into the bedroom, she looks disorientated, but her craving is even more urgent, until she loses herself completely, her demands profane and violently coarse.

  During what can only be described as a brief interlude, she stands up and finally strips off her work clothing. Her body is flushed and moist, the sweat streaming from her skin and hair, livid red lines where bra straps and garter belts have dug into the pale flesh.

  She crawls up the bed, leans over me and runs a hand up my chest. ‘I’ve been waiting for this all day. Don’t think I’ve finished with you yet.’

  I grab her hair tightly in both hands and flip her over onto her back. ‘So how’s your day been? Any interesting developments?’

  She presents herself to me with cupped hands.

  ‘Busy. I’ve been sourcing materials from a couple of new suppliers for Sara’s new designs. It’s all going according to plan with that side of things, anyway. Sara came in this afternoon and she seemed a little more up. Having you around has changed things. Something’s being done about all of this now. I’m so glad.’

  She clasps her hands behind her neck and arches her back, grinning wickedly as she sees where my eyes are going. I try to stop myself holding her waist just below the ribs, but it’s impossible. ‘It’s a tricky case; difficult to penetrate.’

  ‘Mmm. It sounds frustrating. Have you been to her flat?’

  ‘I had a look this morning.’

  She places her hands on the back of mine, slides them about six inches up he
r body, closes her eyes and gasps. ‘Did you see anything the police had missed? Anything you wanted to grab onto? Any big theories you felt compelled to embrace?’

  ‘There were a couple of things that interested me.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re a hands-on person.’

  ‘I’m starting to run out of innuendo.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem that way to me! How secure was her flat? It still freaks me out, thinking about someone creeping around the place.’

  ‘I couldn’t see a way in through the windows. Even if she had easily openable window locks, which she didn’t, the walls of her block are pretty sheer. A professional mountaineer could do it, but they’d be noticed. Besides, you can’t really approach that building without someone noticing and the security team are pretty hot.’

  Still gripping the backs of my hands, she slides herself directly beneath me, raising her legs. ‘So it looks like the intrusions into her flat might be all in her mind after all, unless there’s something that even you are missing. Are you alright?’

  ‘Making a full recovery. You?’

  ‘Mm. Never felt better. A little restless now, perhaps; all this talk of penetration and intrusion, particularly the intrusion.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to cause you any discomfort.’

  Once again, her eyes meet mine. ‘You won’t. I’m used to discomfort.’

  ‘So how did lunch go?’

  Her expression changes very slightly; a tiny crease in between her eyebrows, a miniscule pout on those full lips. Something not right here – an argument with her dad?

  ‘It was fine. We went to a Romanian restaurant.’ The pout disappears and she’s smiling again. ‘Now you’ve got me feeling hungry, talking about food. Have you got anything here?’

  ‘Go and have a look in the kitchen.’