‘How long has she lived here?’ he asked.
‘A year or so. Her father owns it. He owns the building.’
The lift opened on the eighth floor. The corridor stretched ahead of them. Someone had put a lot of money into making the place feel as soulless as a hotel, in the green-grey of international luxury. Belsey imagined other daughters of aristocrats imprisoned behind the polished doors. Tatiana unlocked number 26 and they walked in.
It was a loft-style penthouse, with London providing most of the decoration. Windows looked over Hyde Park in one direction, down towards the V&A in the other. The flat itself appeared to be posed for a catalogue shoot: brick-effect walls, metal stairs, a right-angle of grey sofa in the centre with wire-mesh chairs, magazines and art books on a coffee table. Chloe had collected a lot of white ceramic vases, but not whatever was meant to go in them. There was a slate kitchen with breakfast island at the back. All tasteful. Untroubled by its owner’s absence, as if grateful for one less piece of clutter.
‘Is it true I have to stay in the country?’ Tatiana asked. She collapsed back on the sofa.
‘Maybe. Were you two close?’
‘We partied. We had some good times together. I didn’t know her that well.’
‘Last night she told me she didn’t know Amber. Why might that be?’
Tatiana sighed, somewhere between exhausted and bored now. ‘They had a strange relationship. They hung out a bit. Then she went funny about her. Didn’t speak about her any more. Maybe they fell out. I think Chloe was a bit obsessed.’
‘Obsessed?’
‘For a while. She’d get the same stuff. Like, go to the same nutritionist, follow the same exercise routine. Stuff like that.’
‘How did they meet?’
‘I don’t know. I know they hung out at some TV awards. And she said she’d seen Amber at the spa a few times.’
‘Which spa?’
‘I don’t know its name. It’s the one behind Christabel’s in Marylebone. The bar, Christabel’s. Maybe that one. She was there yesterday.’
‘Chloe went there yesterday?’
‘I think so. She had her nails done. I don’t know where. Maybe there.’
Belsey saw her nails in the crime-scene shots. Immaculate. He looked out of the window, towards the park. Humanity crawled across the Royal Borough. A hard view to live up to. He couldn’t quite match the cold flat to the Instagram account. The problem with the perfect life, he guessed, is it’s bullshit. You get in and shut the door and it’s gone. He imagined days of expensive loneliness, parties that emptied, people breezing in and out of your show pad.
‘You said she tidied this place. Was it messy usually?’
‘Not messy. There were some clothes, a few papers.’
‘What kind of papers?’
‘Just sheets of paper. Like, notes.’
‘About what?’
‘Ideas. Projects. I don’t know.’
Belsey kept his hands in his pockets as he explored. Leaving a print in Chloe Burlington’s home wasn’t particularly desirable. He found the guest bedroom off the living room, Tatiana’s outfit from last night shimmering on the floor, cosmetics across a dresser.
He walked back to the living room, up the stairs to what he took to be the main bedroom. White linen had been tucked tightly over the kingsize bed. A pair of over-the-ear headphones wound in their lead lay on the right-hand pillow. Framed photos of Chloe and her family crowded the cabinets and dressing table. He couldn’t see any papers. No laptop either. On the far side of the bed he found two Hermès suitcases on their side. He took a tissue from a box beside the bed, opened them. They’d been hurriedly packed. Clothes, make-up bag, shoes.
He called Tatiana to the bedroom and showed her the suitcases.
‘Was Chloe going away?’
‘No.’ She frowned at the cases. ‘She didn’t say anything.’
Belsey went back out to the mezzanine railings overlooking the main living area and kitchen. He looked down to the sofa, up to the ceiling. A smoke alarm had been wrapped in cling film.
He went down to the kitchen. The chrome vent above the cooker was out. He wrapped the tissue around his hand, pressed a button and it retracted. He opened the fridge. It contained eye cream, sparkling mineral water, two yoghurts.
‘Did Chloe like cooking?’
‘I’ve never seen her cook.’
He extracted the vent again, listened to the almost imperceptible whirr of the fan. He took a tea towel and used it to open the oven.
‘She wasn’t very good at it,’ he said. He removed an oven dish. Blackened scraps of paper and matchsticks lay half an inch deep. Belsey placed it on the side. He checked the sink, ran a finger around the plug hole. Took the strainer off it and picked out shreds of damp, scorched paper.
Tatiana walked over.
‘What’s she done?’
‘I don’t know. Can I see the necklace again?’
Tatiana brought it from her bag. ‘I hardly knew her,’ she said, holding it for a last time. Studying it for evidence of a relationship she’d missed.
‘Can I take it?’
‘Sure.’ She handed it over and seemed glad to be rid of the thing.
12
IT WAS HARD TO FIND a pawnshop in Kensington. In the end he drove to his usual, behind Victoria station: WE BUY GOLD. There were two doors, one into a bright jewellery store, all glass and mirrors, the other into its shadow twin, a dingy room housing two worn sofas and a counter divided by bullet-proof glass. Belsey rang a bell on the counter. The manager shuffled out, laid tired eyes on him.
‘Nick.’
‘Mr Kundaje. Would you take a look at this?’
Belsey passed the necklace through. The pawnbroker took his glasses off, lifted a jeweller’s loupe.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not for me.’ He passed it back.
‘What would you put it at? Just as an estimate?’
‘It’s Christmas cracker. It’s glass, gold plate. Find a nice lady to give it to.’
‘Seen one like it before?’
‘No.’
Belsey returned to his car. He hung the necklace on the rear-view mirror and watched it swing. He thought about someone panicking, maybe looking for a lawyer, throwing clothes in a case. He ignored West End Central calling his mobile.
He thought about two people who deny knowing each other.
He slipped the necklace back into his pocket and drove to Marylebone, looking for the spa they had shared. Somewhere you could establish a relationship behind closed doors. Belsey felt the ice of Marylebone as he turned onto Harley Street: the London that doesn’t belong to London; shops and restaurants that back onto St Tropez and Dubai. Nothing moved too fast. Money hung in the air like pollen.
The bar Tatiana had mentioned, Christabel’s, was on Weymouth Street. He knew it from tabloids: not quite Loulou’s, but adequate for those who wanted to recreate the effect. Behind it was Weymouth Mews. The spa was easy enough to find. It was called the Retreat Boutique & Wellness Spa and it occupied three adjoining mews houses, all painted white.
Glass doors led into a warmly lit reception with abundant plants and a miniature waterfall bubbling down plastic rocks next to a stack of fluffy towels. The air was scented with aromatherapy oils. Even the plants looked rich with wellness. The white-coated receptionist would have been at home on a perfume counter.
‘Good afternoon,’ she smiled.
‘Good afternoon. I had a quick query about one of your customers: Chloe Burlington.’
The smile froze.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend of hers. Did she come here often?’
‘Give me one moment,’ the receptionist said. She vanished into a side room and retrieved an older woman in a navy tunic and air hostess make-up. Her smile was harder. She scrutinised Belsey. He had entered the world that grew fat on the rich. And what it sold was discretion.
‘Are you a journalist?’ the woman asked.
‘No.�
��
‘Who are you?’
‘An independent investigator. I was just wondering if you were aware of Chloe attending the centre in the company of Amber Knight.’ She didn’t let anything show at the mention of Amber’s name.
‘We’ll deal with her family directly, if you don’t mind. It would be highly inappropriate for us to speak to you.’
‘I’m not press.’
She squinted at him. ‘We’ve had words with you before, haven’t we?’
‘No.’
‘If you don’t mind, I need to ask you to leave now.’
‘What if I wanted a massage?’
‘We’re booked up.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘And if it’s your photographer hanging around, tell him we’re willing to call the police on him too.’
Four-thirty p.m. He walked back into Marylebone, sat outside a brasserie and ordered a tenner’s worth of chicken sandwich.
Next to him were four teenage girls, rich kids of West London. Girls who could be no older than fifteen, arranging themselves over coffee and talking with the unimpressed drawls of divorced forty-somethings.
He put the necklace on the table in front of him, blocked out their voices, and thought.
Two things Chloe Burlington did before dying: gave her friend her necklace, posted the Instagram photo. Three things. She called his phone.
He checked her social media again – the Instagram account and a Facebook page in her name. People were posting their condolences to the Facebook page, addressed to Chloe herself. ‘Can’t believe I’ll never see your face again. Remembering good times.’ Some hadn’t heard the news and were trying to get her to graduate fashion shows.
He tapped back to the bridge picture. Thirty-five people had liked it. He couldn’t tell how many preceded the death, how many were a response to it. Comments ranged from ‘Beautiful’ to ‘Rest in peace’. The bridge sat there, conclusive: her final post, like a destination reached.
His food arrived. Belsey ate and ordered a coffee. He turned to the teenagers.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ There was a flutter of curiosity. ‘Are you on Instagram?’
‘Yes,’ two of them said in unison. The others nodded. He showed them the bridge photo on his phone.
‘The people liking this, are they friends of hers? Or can anyone like it?’
‘It’s not private. So anyone.’
‘How would they find it?’
They shrugged. ‘If someone reposts. Or there’s a hashtag.’
‘And then there’s followers, right.’
‘Right.’
‘Would she have to allow them to follow?’
‘No. Anyone could follow her.’
‘Can you see their real names anywhere? Any personal details?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
The girls exchanged glances, went back to their gossip. Belsey’s coffee arrived. He drank it and rolled a cigarette. After another minute the girls left, amidst a discussion about tipping and a cloud of precociously expensive perfume.
Lives with luxurious futures, he thought. Miserable, luxurious, photographed.
Lives like Chloe’s.
She went out, said something about a lawyer. The family lawyer would be an obvious one to use. Belsey had always admired families with lawyers. With infrastructure. He found the list of contacts from the concierge in Chloe’s apartment block. Her father’s apartment block. No lawyer listed. He called the building manager and got the same slick, nervous deference as the concierge.
‘Is there a law firm that you use? That Mr Burlington uses? Sir Burlington, whatever.’
The manager provided the name and number for a person or a firm called D’Angour Strauss. According to their website, the offices were just a few minutes’ drive away. Belsey called. It had gone 5 p.m. but the phone was answered promptly and, once he’d alluded to the nature of his investigations, he got put through to a man with a slight accent.
‘Mr D’Angour?’
‘Mr Strauss.’
‘Mr Strauss, my name’s Nicholas Belsey. I’ve been asked by Chloe’s father to look into this . . . this awful tragedy.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ Belsey left it vague. That seemed to be how these people operated.
‘I haven’t been able to speak to him yet.’
‘He said I should speak to you first. Did Chloe contact you in the last couple of days?’
‘Yes. As I mentioned in the message I left him.’
‘I’d like to come into the office now. I don’t think we can afford to waste any time.’
The offices of D’Angour Strauss & Partners were halfway up Church Street as you ascended from Kensington to Notting Hill. They didn’t reveal their opulence until you’d climbed narrow stairs and stepped through a heavy door into an oak-panelled reception area with oil paintings of men in suits. Mr Strauss met Belsey inside the door, as if Belsey needed personally escorting through the front room and the receptionist might have breached client confidentiality as she directed him. Strauss was short, tanned, greying at the temples. He led Belsey into an office the size of a rich person’s living room, with similar décor.
‘Please.’ Strauss gestured to a deep, upholstered chair. He took a less comfortable one on the far side of a gleaming walnut desk. Pictures of sailboats decorated the walls.
‘So, you are working for Sir Malcolm.’
‘That’s right.’ Belsey got to the point. ‘We don’t think Chloe was killed in a random attack. We believe it connects to her contacting you.’
The lawyer joined his elegant fingers in prayer and pressed them to his lips. He gazed into the bright reflections on the desk’s surface. When Belsey didn’t continue he said:
‘You understand I cannot say anything before I speak to the family.’
‘I don’t understand that.’ He tried a bluff. ‘The press already seem to think she was involved in something criminal, and Sir Malcolm has given me instructions to find out what was going on before they do.’
There was that flash of the concern you only get from very well-paid employees.
‘A crime.’
‘She visited you, Mr Strauss. Yesterday. Why?’
‘She didn’t visit me, she called to arrange an appointment.’
‘She didn’t come in?’
‘No. She was due in today. Around now.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She was asking about confidentiality. She was crying. It was very hard to understand what she was saying. She said she had fears about her phone calls being listened to. We made an arrangement to meet in person. And then . . .’ He spread his hands, cufflinks glinting.
Belsey felt himself sitting where she would have been. Not a pretty transformation.
‘Why did she think her phone was under surveillance?’
‘I don’t know. In my experience a lot of people do. Half the time they are right.’
‘Yet she was calling from her mobile?’
‘No.’
‘Whose phone was she using?’
‘It was a landline.’ He opened a desk drawer and removed a memo. Slid it across the desk’s leather top. The area code looked like west London, but not the expensive part.
‘Do you have access to a reverse directory?’
‘I’ve already run it. On the back.’
On the back was an address: 5 Tonbridge Drive.
‘Does it mean anything to you?’ Belsey asked.
He shook his head.
‘Has Chloe been in trouble before?’
‘No.’
‘Anything she might not have told her father?’
‘Quite possibly. But I have not had direct contact with her before yesterday. I know very little about her.’
‘And no indication of what she wanted to talk to you about?’
The lawyer hesitated. ‘There were people with her.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘
A voice. Someone called the name Conor.’
Conor. Belsey searched his memory. Conor – the name had come up. Was there a Conor at the club? No. Before that – Amber on the phone, pacing downstairs, Belsey on the landing in her home, wondering whether to leg it. He’d overheard her. She said it was Conor she was worried about . . . She’s just not dealing with it . . .
‘Who do you think he is?’
‘My guess? A man she was seeing. Someone in trouble. The reason she was calling.’
Belsey looked at the address, stood up. The lawyer stood too.
‘What is this about? What is Sir Malcolm saying?’
‘He’s saying hold tight. He’ll be in touch in due course.’
13
TONBRIDGE DRIVE WAS A HORSESHOE of semi-detached homes tucked away on their own little development next to the sprawling White City Estate. Sedate, ragged around the edges but with pretensions to suburbia not shared by its brown-brick neighbour. None of it made any sense as a part of Chloe Burlington’s life.
The front window of number 5 showed a family home, living room with a dining table at the back, rug and TV, a box of toys. The front garden was a touch neater than the neighbours’. Belsey stood on the doorstep. He heard the TV inside. A tap. A woman’s voice, then a man’s. He’d turned up on a lot of doorsteps needing answers, never quite as empty-handed as this.
A dog barked when he rang the bell. The tap stopped. A woman called out: ‘I’ll get it.’
She answered the door, wiping hands on a tea towel. Tall, dark hair with streaks of grey, hollow-cheeked. A small boy ran up and clung to her legs.
‘Is Conor in?’ Belsey asked. She looked puzzled, smiling uncertainly.
‘Conor?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Conor.’ She lowered a hand to the boy’s head. A man paused behind her as he crossed the hallway. He saw Belsey and came to the door. He was also tall, with messy, thinning hair, shirtsleeves rolled up above the elbows.
Conor stared up at Belsey. He held a felt-tip pen. Six or seven years old; light brown hair, brown eyes. He was pale, like his parents, but seemed in good health.
‘What’s this?’ the man asked. Conor lost interest. He released his mother’s leg and walked back into the living room.
The House of Fame Page 10
