by Lana Citron
‘Yes, a week ago, in the garden.’
He asked me questions similar to that of the first policeman.
‘And it still hasn’t turned up?’
‘What, the finger? No, unfortunately not.’
‘And, my dear, you’ve searched everywhere?’
‘And some.’ I explained the circumstances leading to the loss, then quickly changed the subject. ‘So have you found the murderer?’
Intrigued by the gruesome, I wondered if perhaps the culprit was a serial murderer who hacked off his victims’ fingers as some kind of trophy.
‘Well, my dear, the thing is she wasn’t actually murdered.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Her finger was hacked off after she died.’
OK, so he was confusing me.
‘The finger was hacked off after she died?’
Interesting, very interesting, but let’s get down to basics: who was the deceased?
THE DECEASED, GOD REST HER SOUL
Sarah Bloch. Originally Viennese, seventy-nine years of age. She lived but two doors down from me in apartment no 24, Antrim Mansions, Antrim Road, Belsize Park. She had been there twenty-five years.
‘Tell me, did you know her? Do you recall seeing her out and about?’
‘What did she look like?’
‘A fine-looking woman, slight in frame, about five foot five. She wore a check tweed coat. Ring any bells?’
‘Wait, something’s coming.’ I focused hard and, through the twitching net curtains of my cerebral matter, a shape, a figure, a . . . ‘No, sorry, old women are a dime a dozen.’
‘She was very active for her age, worked in a charity shop in St John’s Wood.’
Wait . . . I frequent those musty bargain dens. Only a couple of weeks since I tried on an old Agnes B. trouser suit and the woman selling it had said, ‘You’re getting a bargain,’ to which I’d replied, ‘That’s why I’m here.’
She winced at my feeble wit and muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t quite catch.
I asked if they could lower the price even more and she said, ‘No.’
I got uppity and replaced the suit on the hanger.
Even though I could have afforded it, even though it looked good on me, even though the colour suited me.
‘Your loss,’ she’d mumbled as I marched out of the shop, disgusted she wouldn’t bargain with me.
I went back the next day, but it had been sold.
‘Detective Bambuss, can you be more specific? What exactly did she look like?’
‘Still quite beautiful, high cheekbones, slender – you could tell she’d been a looker in her day. Very elegant: she wore her hair scraped back into a high bun.’
No, the lady in the shop was plump with badly dyed hair.
‘She’d come out of hospital recently, had fallen down some steps and broken her ankle.’
‘So what exactly happened?’
‘It appears she was burgled after she died.’
‘Burgled, and you don’t think she died from the shock?’
‘No, it doesn’t seem to be the case.’
‘I see. And why the hacking off of the finger?’
Aha . . . a picture was forming in my mind.
‘I suspect she wore a ring. Hence the finger being hacked off?’
Bingo!
‘But why my garden?’
Bambuss smirked, entertained by my mental deductions.
‘Perhaps flung from a window?’ I mused.
‘I’m afraid the distance is too great. We’ve already ruled that one out.’
‘Though of course the gardens are all interconnecting. Perhaps the assailant made a getaway out the back and merely flung the finger by pure chance into my garden. That’s possible, highly probable.’
Bambuss smirked, so obviously impressed as I Dr Watsoned to his Holmes.
‘And the burglary – tell me more,’ I demanded.
‘Not a professional job, but whoever did it knew her apartment and what she had.’
‘Therefore opportunist. Someone had called to see her, found her dead . . . She knew the culprit, the culprit knew the apartment and where to look.’
By Jove, I think I’m on to something here.
‘What about her family?’
‘An only son, living in the States.’
‘Did she have any friends?’
‘A few, the bridge brigade mainly. They met in her house every four weeks.’
‘So an acquaintance. You say she’d been in hospital . . . therefore someone would have had access to the apartment. Forgive me, I’m thinking aloud. Yes, it could well be a . . . a neighbour.’
‘A neighbour?’ echoed the detective.
‘Yes, someone who perhaps held a spare set of keys, helped her out occasionally.’
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’
‘Great minds and all that,’ I declared.
‘Tell me, my dear, do you have a liking for jewellery?’
‘What girl doesn’t.’
Felt an oncoming Ally McBeal moment and suddenly wondered if I was under suspicion. It was the way he was peering at me, whilst nibbling at his nails. Shaggy’s song came to mind: ‘It Wasn’t Me’. Max’s all-time favourite, beating ‘Bob the Builder’ by miles. Imagination hurtled into the surreal as Bambuss crooned accusations and I defended myself, circling about the interview table. (Picture this, I was caught red-handed murdering the oul’ one next door! . . . Did you hack her into pieces? It wasn’t me! Chop her up with a bread knife? It wasn’t me!)
REALITY CHECK
The detective stared at me strangely.
‘Miss Brodsky?’
‘Sorry.’
I snapped back to reality.
‘As I was saying, if you recall any suspicious activities, or anything that would be of use in our investigations, please get in touch.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you don’t mind if we have a look around your garden?’
‘Not at all. I’m working later, but I’ll let Maria know.’
‘And your work – what exactly do you do?’
‘Well, since you ask, I’m actually a special agent, of sorts.’
MISSION ONE
My maiden voyage into the world of the near adulterous and I, nerve-racked, practised chat-up lines on Max.
‘You come here often?’
‘I wanna watch a video.’
‘Hi.’
‘Thomas video.’
‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’
‘Now!’
Failed abysmally. What chance would I have with an adult male? Nadia’s top tips had been to establish eye contact, mirror their body language, and if stuck for something to say, repeat word for word what they had just said, adding an upward inflection.
My first mission. I remember it well.
With knees knocking, I espied my suspect alone at the bar and approached with caution. A free stool beckoned, and I wedged myself up on to it. Just got to be friendly, smile, order a drink and if all else fails, talk about the weather.
Five minutes later.
‘It’s bitter cold, hey?’
‘Huh?’
‘It’s cold outside.’
‘Mmm,’ très, très unresponsive.
Then out of nowhere came a gem of a chat-up line.
‘I just split with my boyfriend.’
‘Oh.’
The suspect’s interest is awakened. Everyone loves a sob story – always makes them feel so much better about themselves.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t usually come to bars on my own but . . . do you mind if I, well . . . talk with you for a minute?’
So I told him my story, actually told him the truth. Maybe I went on a bit – it was near on an hour later when I finally finished.
‘I know how you feel,’ he sympathised.
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you stuck in a stale marriage?’
�
��What?’
‘I saw your ring.’
‘No, I have a healthy marriage, thanks.’
‘Guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion. On the rebound . . .’
I blushed, giving him the come-on.
‘That’s OK, nice talking to you.’
He jumped up and left.
‘You too.’
OK, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. I’d expected sleazy, not a kind and generous listener. As far as I was concerned, my suspect was impeccable marriage material. A decent male, so rare a species. But hey, I’m cynical and I downed a quick one for the road and bid the landlord adieu, setting off in spirits high and my faith redeemed in mankind.
Tipsy and reporting slurred messages down the mobile to the office, I tripped on the pavement and fell to my knees. My new tights were laddered, and as I rose up from that humbled position, I shifted quickly. Basically to make out I was tying my shoe strap, so as not to be further embarrassed, but also because who should I spot emerging from the opposite doorway? My suspect. I didn’t bother to holler after him. For we were in Soho and the sign on the door said ‘Live Model’.
CATEGORIES OF DICK
As in any business, we at the Honey Trap have our own classification code.
Clever Dick – See above, the type who uses the services of professionals. They are astute liars and very hard to pin down or expose. We usually caution the wife.
Dick (the honey pot) Dipper – into anything that moves.
Big Dick – a City boy.
Decent Dick – true to his wife.
Premature Dick – a bona fide letch, he loves to lookie, but no touchie and never nookie. The type mainly found in lap-dancing emporiums.
Dick Dock – wife had forgiven previous adulterous liaison but suspicions have been rearoused.
Slick Dick – gorgeous man, no wonder his wife is insecure.
Private Dick – strictly an Internet adulterer. Chatroom addict, or, as we like to call them, a techno wanker.
WHICH OF COURSE BRINGS US BACK TO BOB
A dickhead. His emails continuing to blast the airwaves. In my heart of hearts, I strongly suspected the finger had fallen out in the car during our entwinement; most likely it slipped down a crack. (No pun intended, so don’t even go there.)
I should have come clean and called Bob at work, strictly off the record, and said, ‘Look, mate, whatever happened, let’s just forget it, and by the way did you happen to find a finger in your car?’ Somehow it didn’t flow right.
I hate confrontations, always have done. It was three months before I told my boyfriend Finn about Jan. He’d come back from his expedition and the first thing he said was, ‘You’ve put on weight, Issy. Suits you.’
I’d beamed with joy, instead of getting all uppity and angsty, and I guess this made him suspicious. A female happy to expand in girth? Unheard of in Western civilisation.
To be honest, I have never felt more womanly or truly beautiful than when I was pregnant. The fuller the better. My colossal reflection had a luminous glow. I pitied bony women, obsessed with their bodies in their ever more frantic desire to remain young. Everything, bar this new being forming within me, paled into insignificance. How ingenious is the human body was the thought I carried throughout my pregnancy. Says a lot for the hormones, hey? Like totally obliterating one’s rationality. Rendering you in effect something not unlike a beached whale going slightly doolally.
Finn was fairly devastated, his trust in me shattered, though I believe he did love me. He couldn’t hack it, so he cut off all communication and I haven’t seen him since.
After meeting with the detective, I’d moseyed on down to the office to check out my week’s schedule. Nadia was in high spirits – she was on a roll, having achieved positive results with her last ten clients. We have a monthly scoreboard, and there’s a bonus for the winner. I was lagging way behind, the loser in the race, which I blamed on the tools I’d had the misfortune of having to chat up. Bob, Mr Finklestein . . . I ask you? I mean how could I possibly compete?
I recall saying something similar to my mother, the one year she managed to make it to my school sports day. And I’ll never forget the look on her face when I came in last every race. She did her best to smooth over my disappointment, never mind the fact she’d given me a soup ladle for the egg and spoon.
‘Nadia, I think someone’s put a hex on me.’
She was merrily humming, strumming her fingers on the desk.
‘Cool. Hey, Issy, you won’t believe it . . .’
I booted the computer to check whether Bob had sent yet another email. There it was, loitering in my inbox with intent: ‘Sexy Bob on the horn 4 U. Tell me when, where, I’ll be there. xxxxx.
How I wished I was in a position to say, ‘In your –’
PIPE DREAMS AND GONADS
‘Issy, are you listening? I said it’s finally beginning to happen.’
‘What?’
‘On the singing front.’
‘About time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Personally I thought you were past it, you know, like it was a dream you were hopelessly clinging on to.’
In previous moments of creativity, otherwise known as unemployment, I’d started up my own business. Convinced I was on to something big with Pipe Dreams. A revolutionary product, dreams one could hold on to. In effect, salvaged pieces of pipe I’d found in a skip. Neat concept, hey? I tarted them up and put pieces in pretty boxes to sell to twee gift shops. Novelty gifts and I was going to call the company It’s the Thought That Counts Ltd. You know how everyone has their own little private fantasies? Well, I reckoned on it being a cutesy, profitable idea. Drew up a proposal for the bank but it met with zero interest, although I did manage to shift a dozen boxes to a shop in Ladbroke Grove.
Nadia took unkindly to my bluntness.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Issy.’
‘Pleasure.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Sorry . . . sorry, I didn’t mean it like that . . . So what’s the big news?’
‘Forget it.’
Nadia was pissed off and I, at least a fortnight away from PMT, had no excuse.
‘Nads . . . Nads . . .’ I whinnied and whined. ‘Aw, Nadia, pleeeeeease?’
‘You are such a bitch.’
‘Let me guess. You got a record deal?’
‘No.’
‘A producer heard your tapes and wants to use you.’
‘No.’
‘OK you won a place on one of the those “Make Me a Star” programmes.’
‘No.’
My second fabulous business idea. Sprung forth whilst singing in the kitchen, with Max dancing round my heels. A Robbie number, of course. Had been singing it for the past hour, over and over again, being in one of those femy ‘emotional’ moods. Oh the longing! Thought it would make a brilliant reality TV programme: It Could Have Been You! The premise, not wholly original because it’s a Pop Idol scenario, but different in being restricted to mothers, i.e. those who have suffered a long line of opportunity knocks. I mean why favour the young? They have a lifetime of false hopes ahead of them. Give the has-beens a chance. One more go at failing fabulously. The tired, strained look of motherhood would lend itself quite well to the occasion. Most of us already have that raccoon-eyed kohl thing going on, albeit natural.
‘You won the Lottery?’
‘NO.’
‘Just tell me your good news.’
She paused for suspense, then spoke very slowly.
‘I got a gig.’
‘Really?’ I came over all green. ‘Where?’
‘In the pub across the way.’
‘Not the –’
‘Yeah.’
‘When?’ I feigning nonchalance.
‘In ten days. Isn’t it great?’
‘Whoopie for you.’
Not fair. So not fair. I wanted something exciting to happen to me. I mean nice exciting, not finding-a-hacked-finger excitin
g, or fucking-a-Bob exciting. Arms crossed and sulking in my corner.
‘Issy, you look exactly like Max when you do that.’
‘Do I?’ Christ, how far have I regressed?
‘So you are going to come and support me?’
‘Yeah . . . I mean as long as I can get a babysitter.’
Babysitters being the bane of my life. And expensive – even Freddie charges me. My own sibling and over the going rate, plus I have to make dinner for him. Prior to Maria, I’d used a girl called Kate. An A-level student, nice enough and I thought it would be fine, she could study when Max was asleep, earn a few quid, but she was seventeen.
Seventeen, rubbing my face in the fact that I was older though not wiser. I’m certain since having Max my intelligence has eroded, as one, by default, downgrades to the level of a Tellytubby. I doubt there is a mother out there who, hand on heart, hasn’t at one time or another forgotten what day of the week it is.
When I met Kate, I was under the illusion that on a good day I could pass myself off as a yummy mummy. However, beside her, I appeared about as appetising as leftover dog food. To make matters worse she regarded me not as a mate or an equal, but as someone who was past it. I made the mistake of being friendly, and leaving out my Robbie CDs to show her I was still with it. Even went so far as to tell her she could smoke pot if she wanted to. Listen, even I cringe thinking about it now. The worst of it was, she used to bring her boyfriend with her. Max didn’t mind, an extra playmate and all that, but there she was: pretty, pert-titted, flat-stomached and brim full of youthful enthusiasm.
Yes, there she was getting laid on my couch while I’d been out scouring the city for a hint of a basic encounter. My heart goes out to women who have au pairs, especially beautiful ones. Always employ an ugly au pair or you’re just asking for trouble.
Barging in on them, mortified, I yelped, ‘When you’ve finished, can you come and see me in the kitchen?’
Half an hour later she came. I could hear her. Jesus, no shame nor embarrassment, then ten minutes on, she and the boyfriend scabbed two cigarettes off me, asked if I’d had a nice time, took the babysitting money and left. I never called Kate after that.
