The Rhythm Section--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller

by Mark Burnell

  Frank had been a father once. As a young man, he had fallen in love with a drama student named Karen Cornwell. They were different people entirely; she was impulsive and hot-tempered, he was serious and balanced. But they were in love so it didn’t seem to matter. Six months later, Karen was pregnant. She was thrilled, he was shocked. But once he was over the shock, he was happy. Not because he wanted to be a father especially—he didn’t—but because he had brought joy to Karen. He proposed to her and she stalled him. Not until after the baby was born, she said. She wanted to be sure he was marrying her for her, not just because she was pregnant. He agreed to be patient. Three months after the birth of Rosa, he proposed again. It was too early, Karen said. They needed to wait a while, to get over the sleepless nights, to settle down into a routine. Once again, he agreed. Six months later, she landed her first major acting part in a soap opera. A month after that, she moved in with one of the show’s writers.

  Frank finished this story by saying, ‘And ever since then, I haven’t been able to watch any kind of soap opera on TV.’

  Petra frowned. ‘Is that true?’

  Frank grinned; it was the first time she had seen him do that. ‘No, of course not. I don’t watch them because they’re crap.’

  Petra grinned too. She took an orange from the bowl and began to peel it. ‘Do you still see her?’

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. She lives in Paris now. She’s married to a French film producer. I’m glad to say it didn’t work out with the writer.’

  ‘What about Rosa?’ Petra asked, suddenly remembering that Rosa was the name of one of her mothers. Rosa Holl, later to become Rosa Reuter. Petra wondered whether the woman had ever actually existed or whether, as with so much else, she was simply another illusion, another Magenta House lie.

  Frank said, ‘Rosa died three years ago.’

  Not a flinch. His answer was as flat as the kick in Petra’s stomach was pronounced.

  ‘Oh no, I’m sorry…’

  He shrugged. ‘It was a motor accident in Paris. She was on a bus. A school trip. The driver lost control and there was a pile-up. None of the children were wearing seat-belts. You know how it is on buses.’ Frank refilled his glass. ‘That was five years ago this October.’

  ‘Five?’

  ‘She was in a coma for two years. At first, the French doctors thought there might be a chance that she would make some kind of recovery. But in the end, there was nothing. Persistent vegetative state is what they call it here, I think. Karen and I had to take the decision to let her die.’

  ‘God…’

  Again, Frank shrugged. ‘That sort of decision gets made over time, not in the moment.’

  Petra reached across the table and placed her hand upon his. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘You didn’t pry. You asked a question, that’s all. I don’t mind talking about it if people don’t mind hearing about it.’

  Frank had a larger build than Keith Proctor. His face told of the places he had seen as surely as the rocks he had brought back from them. Lashed by wind, burned by sun, stung by salt and cracked by ice, his travels were etched into him. In motion, he looked powerful but clumsy, but Petra saw that this impression was incorrect because he was as nimble with precision movements as Proctor had been. Despite the differences between them, there were startling similarities. When she watched him making coffee it was déjà vu; Frank took the same care that Proctor had during the ritual of preparation.

  When she glanced at her watch for the second time since entering his flat, it was ten-past-two in the morning. She looked up and saw Frank watching her.

  ‘I have to go,’ she told him. ‘I haven’t even packed yet.’

  He nodded. She rose to her feet, still clutching her glass. The wine had stoked a small fire within her. She was pleasurably numb, not drunk; the feeling was infinitely better than drunkenness and she could not remember alcohol being so kind to her.

  At Frank’s front door, she thanked him for a lovely night and handed the glass back to him.

  That was when he said, ‘Marina, can I kiss you?’

  Who?

  * * *

  ‘I need some information.’

  ‘Type and level?’

  ‘Person. A Grade Two profile.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘White. First initial, F for Frank. I don’t know about any other names.’

  The male voice on the other end of the phone wanted to know what else she knew about him. Apart from the fact that he was a geologist—or at least said he was—and that they lived in the same building, nothing. When the call was over, she replaced the receiver on the cradle and sat in the darkness. It was half-past-three.

  She picked up a framed photograph from the table. Who were these people? Actors? She held it close to the window, allowing their faces to be illuminated by moonlight. A man with his arm around a woman’s waist. They smiled for the camera. The background was out of focus; a house surrounded by pine trees. These were her parents. Marina’s made-to-order Gaudenzi parents. They had been waiting for her when she moved into the flat. She’d already known their names—Alberto and Francine—but it had been a surprise to discover their faces.

  Petra spun round and hurled the frame across the room. It hit the wall and shattered. Then she prowled through the flat in darkness, collecting the other ‘family’ photographs that had been left for her. She tore them into pieces and threw them into the bin.

  Marina, can I kiss you?

  She’d wanted Frank to say, ‘Petra, can I kiss you?’ Or, even better, ‘Stephanie, can I kiss you?’ And, of course, she’d wanted to say that he could. But she’d been too scared to do that. In his eyes, she saw the kiss, the knife, the blood seeping from the cut across the palm. In Frank’s eyes, she’d seen Proctor walking away from the hospital into the night.

  So she’d reverted to type. She could actually feel her heart chilling, her stare turning to stone. It was easier to be this way, to shut everything down until it was impossible to feel anything. Now, alone in her cold flat, she saw how she’d treated Frank the same way she’d treated Proctor. And now, as then, she shuddered at the memory of it, hardly able to believe she’d let the words escape from her throat.

  ‘It was nice wine, Frank. But not that nice,’ she’d replied. And when he’d opened his mouth to speak—to protest, perhaps, or maybe just to say something nice—she’d cut him off. ‘What did you think? That you’d get me drunk and fuck me? Is that what you thought?’

  She couldn’t cry; the coldness in her would have frozen tears to ice.

  At quarter-to-four, she rang Magenta House and cancelled her request for the profile.

  19

  Petra answered the phone. It was a woman’s voice on the other end. ‘Miss Shepherd?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is reception. Mr Brewster is here to see you.’

  ‘Thank you. Please send him up to my room.’

  Petra moved from the bedroom to the sitting room and peered out of the window on to East 63rd Street. A garbage truck was blocking the road and the drivers of the cars that were forming a queue behind it were leaning on their horns. There was a knock on the door.

  Andrew Wilson was wearing a grey anorak over a shabby grey suit. He wore a brown polyester shirt, a scarlet paisley tie and a pale blue V-neck jersey. An Englishman in New York, he couldn’t have looked more out of place.

  He was immensely tall, six-foot-five and skinny, with a build incapable of grace. He had thick, wild, wavy hair that was maturing from light brown to silver. Petra wondered whether he’d run a comb through it since arriving in New York. Tortoiseshell glasses with thick lenses distorted bloodshot eyes. Wilson’s skin was as grey as his suit and his teeth were the essence of an American nightmare.

  ‘You should see the place I’m in,’ he muttered, his jealous gaze absorbing the furniture, the antiques, the Persian carpet, the two vases of roses, the sheer size of the room. ‘Who are y
ou?’

  ‘Elizabeth Shepherd. A management consultant.’

  ‘Management consultant, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Feeding off juicy expense accounts and corporate fat. What about you?’

  ‘Simon Brewster, a secondary school teacher from Brent on a short winter break.’

  ‘Well, that’s why I’m staying at the Lowell and you’re staying in a cesspit. Coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please.’

  Of course. One only had to look at him to see that. Petra rang Room Service.

  Wilson said, ‘Giler’s got an enormous mansion out on Long Island, near Centerport, overlooking Long Island Sound. That’s where his family spend most of their time and it’s very heavily protected. He’s also got two places here in New York. There’s a family apartment on Park Avenue—I say apartment but it’s actually the top two floors of the block—and he has another place on Fifth Avenue. That’s where you’ll do it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where he fools around. His wife doesn’t even know the place exists.’

  ‘He has a mistress?’

  ‘No. He uses call-girls. Which is how we’ll get you in.’

  Petra’s stomach turned. She wondered if Wilson knew anything of her past. ‘How?’

  ‘Easy. Giler always uses the same escort agency, Premier International. We’ll get the phone in his Fifth Avenue apartment fixed so that when he calls Premier International’s number it gets diverted.’

  ‘Supposing he calls from somewhere else?’

  ‘He won’t. His routine’s pretty stable. He goes to the apartment in the early afternoon. As soon as he arrives, he calls the agency. Then he has a shower and a drink so that he’s nice and relaxed. An hour after phoning Premier International, the call-girl arrives.’

  ‘How will you get the phone fixed?’

  ‘There’s someone who can get us inside at NYNEX.’

  ‘What about in the apartment? What kind of protection can I expect to find?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of this option. Giler trades security for privacy when he’s there. He doesn’t like to be watched or heard. His bodyguard stays downstairs and checks the call-girl in the lobby before she gets into the lift. Then he chats to the porter or goes and waits for Giler in the limo.’

  Petra thought about it for a second. ‘Does Giler have a type of girl that he prefers?’

  ‘Blonde and busty.’

  What a surprise, thought Petra. Having seen a few photographs of him, she would have guessed as much. Stereotyping didn’t become stereotyping without being rooted in fact.

  ‘I’m not going to dye my hair so I’ll need a wig. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As for being busty, well, these’ll have to do.’ Wilson blushed violently. Petra said, ‘Besides, he won’t get close enough to know they’re not big enough. What kind of security has the block got?’

  * * *

  Petra awoke with a jolt. She scrambled for the light and it took her several seconds to remember where she was, who she was and what she was doing. Then she thought about Frank and the way she had treated him. Her skin crept. She rolled over in the large double bed. It was half-past-four in the morning. Her body-clock had not yet adjusted to New York.

  At six, she went through a stretching routine and then relaxed in a hot bath for twenty minutes. Afterwards, she lost herself in a large dressing-gown and ordered breakfast. While she was waiting for it to be brought to her room, she sat cross-legged on the bed with the phone in front of her. It was nearly seven in New York and just shy of midday in London. The call ran completely contrary to procedure—at the very least, she should have used a public pay-phone—but Petra didn’t care. She dialled the number anyway. It began to ring but then she stopped it. She realized she wasn’t ready yet. She had to think about what she was going to say. Yes, it had to be an apology but it also had to be more than that. It needed to be an explanation too, otherwise how would she ever repair the damage? Could she ever repair the damage? And what explanation was there?

  Breakfast arrived. As she ate fruit, yoghurt and freshly-baked rolls, she tried to invent a plausible excuse but found she couldn’t. After breakfast, she called again and, this time, let the phone ring. No answer. She wondered what Frank was doing. Perhaps he was with another woman. The possibility made her queasy.

  * * *

  Until Giler’s phone could be fixed, there was no need for her to be on call. For a day, she was a tourist. She went to the top of the Empire State Building, she walked through the Village and SoHo, she visited the Museum of Modern Art and the Guggenheim. In the evening, she stayed in her room and allowed American TV to numb her senses. After a sleepless night, she rose early the following morning and called Wilson at his hotel. They agreed to meet at eleven. He gave her the address and she decided to walk there.

  She crossed over to Seventh Avenue and headed south towards Times Square. The saying seemed to be true for her: one is never more alone than in a crowd of strangers. She walked through the city—Manhattan in Christmas mood—but was untouched by it. Except, perhaps, when it came to the matter of coldness. She and the temperature were as one, they froze everything with which they came into contact.

  Wilson’s hotel was near the Port Authority Bus Terminal. His room was not much larger than her bathroom at the Lowell. It unsettled her because it reminded her of hotel rooms from her past: the single, tacky picture on the wall, the Seventies TV set, the wardrobe with an orange curtain instead of a set of doors. When Wilson suggested they go out, Petra agreed in a hurry.

  They found a diner a couple of blocks away. Petra ordered coffee, Wilson ordered a full breakfast. The waitress brought two huge glasses of iced water.

  ‘The NYNEX thing is done,’ he told her.

  She nodded. ‘So now we just have to wait.’

  ‘Not for long. Giler’s busy today, but he’s blocked off two hours tomorrow afternoon. Chances are, that’ll be what it’s for.’

  ‘It’ll be good to get it over and done with.’

  ‘Yes. Then we can get out of here.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  Wilson held open his hands. ‘I’m not really a city person.’

  ‘And New York’s more of a city than most cities…’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Don’t you like living in London?’

  ‘I don’t live in London. We moved out ten years ago.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My wife and I, and our three children. We bought a place down in Surrey.’ Wilson looked out of the window at the human tide. His mind seemed to drift with his gaze. ‘Of course, our eldest has moved out now. He’s got a place of his own in Ealing.’

  Petra tried to guess Wilson’s age. Mid-fifties, perhaps. And then she tried to marry this image of middle-class suburbia to working for Alexander at Magenta House.

  ‘How do you do it?’ she asked him.

  Wilson returned to reality. ‘Do what?’

  ‘Work for Alexander. I mean, with a wife, a family, I just don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s a job. That’s all.’

  Petra shook her head. ‘No it isn’t. It’s a … it’s a…’ She couldn’t think of an appropriate description. ‘I mean, what do you say to her? When you get home in the evening and she asks how your day went, what do you say? Oh, it was so-so, dear. We rubbed out a group of Russian Mafiosi.’

  ‘My wife doesn’t know. She thinks I’m an accountant. Which in many ways, I am.’

  ‘Doesn’t that hurt? To have to lie continuously to someone you love?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s what I have to do. There is no other way.’

  ‘You could quit. Get a normal job.’

  Wilson looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Quit? What do you mean?’

  His breakfast arrived, loaded on to a plate the size of a tray. Eggs and bacon for four in an order for one. To Petra, it looked like a heart attack waiting to be eaten. With a side order of waffles, just to make sure.
As Lisa, she’d eaten less than that in a week.

  * * *

  A black canopy led off Fifth Avenue to the entrance. A doorman in an ankle-length green overcoat and black leather gloves smiled and held open the door for her. The entrance hall was vast. A Persian carpet lay on a veined marble floor. There were three chandeliers between the door and the lifts. Behind the desk, both men wore dark grey uniforms with brass buttons and scarlet epaulettes.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Giler.’

  The fatter one nodded and pressed a button. A door opened on the other side of the hall and a man beckoned her. Petra recognized him from the photograph that Wilson had shown her. Ken Randall, former offensive lineman for the Cleveland Browns, now Leon Giler’s bodyguard. Wilson had told her that a serious injury to his right knee had forced Randall to retire from the sport; it was always useful to know people’s points of vulnerability. He ushered her into a small room with a table, two chairs and a camera mounted high in one corner.

  ‘I ain’t seen you before.’

  ‘Madeleine’s sick. I’m her replacement.’

  ‘I gotta check you out.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He frisked her thoroughly, not gratuitously, as Luiso had. Then he examined the contents of her bag; wallet, keys, lipstick, eye-liner, tampons, a pair of lacy black knickers. As he picked them up, their eyes met and Petra smiled. ‘You never know when you’ll need a spare pair.’

  Randall came across a small canister and struggled with the name on the label. ‘What is this? Sal … Salbamol … Salbumol … no, wait … Salbu–’

  ‘Salbutamol.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m asthmatic.’ Petra reached inside the bag and pulled out the plastic device. ‘You stick the canister in the inhaler and then breathe through this mouthpiece.’

  Randall began to return her things to the bag. ‘Asthmatic, huh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He broke into a large, sloppy grin. ‘Must be all that heavy breathing you do, right?’

  Petra took the lift to the fourth floor, where the doors parted to reveal a small crescent-shaped atrium. Ahead, the double doors were slightly ajar. The atrium led into a large oval hall ringed by fluted columns. The floor was a chess-board of black and white stone. At the centre of it, there was a small pool with a bronze dolphin rising vertically from its heart, water spouting from the mouth.