Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  Susan wondered at this.

  She realised there was little point in trying to quiz Gerry about what had been going on with Barry Rogers and that, if she had declined Gerry’s offer to take time away from the office, the offer would likely morph into something more forceful.

  Thus she trudged back to her flat, took a long hot shower and slumped on the sofa to try and digest what the hell had happened in the last four hours. Her father had suggested that she might like to stay with he and Rosa for a while but, at least for the time being, she was content to be alone in her own place, not least so she could think in peace.

  In fact, the last four days had been bizarre to say the least. All that business with Michael Green, or Michael Broad, or whoever he was, and then this. Was it coincidence that the two incidents had happened within days of each other? She had a lot of questions for Martin when she next got a hold of him and that man would feature.

  She scanned the internet and TV news channels but there was nothing that evening about the earlier arrests. But there was the next day. By lunchtime on the Wednesday, reports started appearing that the prominent London developer, Barry Rogers, had been arrested – with others – in connection with sanctions busting vis-à-vis Syria and money laundering in relation to his Crack Harbour development. The reports simply said “with others” so there was no mention of Martin by name (or image) as yet. Nor did her father really feature – although one or two reports provided some background to the effect that Mr Rogers was close with the Labour Party and Mr Jimmy Sachs in particular; there was so far no hint of an actual involvement by said Member in the story as such – maybe Jimmy would get away with it and Barry take the fall . . ?

  Thus, when she woke on the Thursday and there were no further developments reported, Susan began to feel some stirrings of optimism. Martin’s name did now appear in some of the reports (along with a number of others, including a London accountant and a Syrian businessman) but only as an afterthought in a story which was essentially about the terrible property developer, whose reputation seemed to be getting more villainous with each successive report.

  Perhaps her father was right and Martin might be viewed simply as a dupe of the manipulative Mr Rogers and actually escape serious censure completely? OK, he might get struck off as a solicitor but, quite frankly, Susan was beginning to care less and less about the legal profession herself all of a sudden and radical plans were beginning to form hazily in her mind, involving she and Martin striking out in some new venture. She felt sure that she had been on the verge of a breakthrough with Martin in The Range before they had been so rudely interrupted by the police and now felt confident that whatever blocks were stuck in Martin’s psyche would ultimately have to give way to the irresistible force of her rational ardour.

  She phoned Gerry Bild, who advised that he expected Martin to be released that day but that he couldn’t provide much more information as he hadn't been in touch directly with Martin at all given that Martin was now being guided by the legal team that had taken him on shortly after the arrest; yes, he now knew who they were (Sparkes Mael, led by Bob Latchford) but didn’t know how they’d come to be hired by Martin. Susan got the distinct impression that there was by now, in effect, an unbridgeable distance that had been put between Martin and Messrs Stone Rose. Again, this was, by now, not something that particularly surprised or bothered her. But Sparkes Mael – how had they been brought in? By whom? She decided to wait for the call that would, of course, come from Martin as soon as he was freed.

  She bustled about the flat, tidying away clothes and books, washing cups, vacuuming the large patterned rugs on the pale wood floors and dusting the bookshelves, coffee table and chairs dotted about the large airy living room as if in preparation for the little prince’s homecoming. Outside, the sun was shining strong and her mind was cast back to the visit she and Martin had paid together to his new flat in Kensington only five days ago and it suddenly struck her how alike that flat was to this.

  Which of the two would they give up? she wondered – she was, by now, getting totally ahead of herself.

  Then it occurred to her to fill in the time with a bit of detective work. She had wondered whether she might be able to hunt down Mr Michael Green / Broad as she just knew, somehow, that he held the key to a greater understanding of Martin, who he was, and where he had come from.

  Accordingly, she plonked herself on a stool at the red and white breakfast bar and set to giving Google a real test. She decided to try ‘Michael Broad’ first – she’d got the distinct impression from the conversation with Martin that this was his real name, rather than the ‘Michael Green’ that Martin had first used. She wasn’t really sure how to start, how to proceed. All she could do really was to go with what Martin had told her, which could well have been lies but ‘Michael Broad, Lewes’ was it.

  Nothing that looked particularly relevant came up. She tried entering search words that might reflect the police case that Martin referred to.

  Nothing.

  She tried widening the geographical area. Various ‘Michael Broad’ references appeared but nothing that suggested a link to Martin – an electrical goods retailer in Willesden; a lottery winner in Bournemouth last week; a guy who’d lost his sister in a fire in Cornwall ten years before; an academic paper for The Medical Society in Birmingham. There were either no photographs or photos that bore no resemblance to the Michael she had seen.

  OK, try Michael Green, London and – bingo ! – there he was on the first page. An article from The Evening Standard from 2005, headline: 'Move Over Paul Raymond – The New King of Smut has arrived !' and, under an immediately recognisable photo of the man himself, a strap line that read: 'Businessman Michael Green moves into Raymond’s territory with new Burlesque concept.'

  Burlesque.

  Burlesque?

  What was burlesque?

  Susan had a vague idea of the term from the back of her mind that suggested seedy clubs; Liza Minelli in Cabaret; and, above all, strippers. As was her custom, Susan immediately went to Wikipedia for enlightenment:

  'Burlesque is a literary, dramatic or musical work intended to cause laughter by caricaturing the manner or spirit of serious works, or by ludicrous treatment of their subjects. The word derives from the Italian ‘burlisco’ which, in turn, is derived from the Italian ‘burla’ – a joke, ridicule or mockery.'

  ‘Interesting,’ thought Susan and returned to the news story:

  'Does Paul Raymond finally have serious competition for the King of Soho title? Probably not – at least, yet – given that the aged entrepreneur’s empire took 50 years to build up to the megalithic billion pound enterprise that now comprises prime real estate, publishing and financial assets to make him one of the country’s richest men.

  However, there is a young pretender coming up in his wake who cites the great man as a major influence and wants to emulate his unique route to success. He is called Michael Green and, while that name probably won’t mean anything to most of us, it has been creating a stir in the world of finance – Green’s Mu Productions appeared to have come out of nowhere 5 years ago but made an immediate impact in the City with its buccaneering style of venture capital investment and Green’s own unconventional personal image.

  The company has made a string of lightning raids on singular but substantial businesses across a range of sectors (including manufacturing, renewable energy, media) that amazed investors with the shrewdness of their operation, whilst leaving some commentators concerned at the obscurity of the funding. Add to that Michael Green’s cryptic utterances and his eccentric appearance (he generally stands before board meetings and press briefings alike looking like a cross between a new age traveller and a Dickensian villain) and you have a story fizzing with intrigue and interest.

  Well, now young Mr Green (still only 31) has decided that he wants to contribute to the capital’s cultural experience with the opening of his new club right next to the famous Windmill Theatre in Soho (once owned
by the Raymond Organisation – a point, no doubt, not lost on him).

  The club is to be called 'The Black and Blue Dahlia' and Mr Green’s aim is for it to help revitalise an art that seemed to have lost its credibility and appeal many years ago – Burlesque. He addresses its slightly shabby, nay seedy, reputation (that perhaps aided its demise) thus: "Burlesque is a medium that has been sorely neglected over the years but deserves greater attention. Yes, it’s bawdy and rude but so is life and our wonderful performers will give the punters something that’s wild but life-affirming".'

  The article went on to fill out the salacious details of burlesque acts both from the past – such as Minsky’s and Tempest Storm – and the so-called neo-burlesque movement of recent years – like The World Famous *BOB* and Julie Atlas Muz – that made its claim as much to high-concept performance art as the time-honoured business of peeling one's clothes off in front of strangers. There wasn’t much more on Michael Green but she found additional material on other sites, including more than one article that openly questioned what – or who – was funding the vertiginous rise of this hitherto unknown enfant terrible and an array of frankly contradictory quotes that seemed to suggest someone hell-bent on making mischief or suffering from an acute personality disorder.

  That thought made Susan pause. How on earth did Martin know this guy and what was the true nature of their relationship?

  She had, by now, dismissed Martin’s story of homosexual passion on the Jurassic Coast as just that – a story, to put her off the trail.

  The afternoon was passing by and she’d still heard nothing from Martin.

  She phoned the office to speak to Gerry: “Gerry, it’s Susan. Have you heard anything of Martin? He must be due to be bailed soon but I’ve had no news.”

  “They’re out, Susan – both of them. Bailed this morning,” Gerry replied, slightly hesitantly.

  Susan was stunned. He hadn’t phoned her.

  “He hasn’t phoned me.”

  Gerry, more hesitantly still: “Well, give him a call on his mobile. You’ll get him now, I’m sure. He’s probably been a bit disorientated.”

  “OK, I’ll do that. Thanks Gerry.”

  “No problem, Susan. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out. Look after yourself, kiddo.” Gerry suddenly seemed strangely warm and friendly. Susan was rather bewildered. All she could manage was “OK, bye” and they then both did that thing where callers repeat ‘bye’ to each other, ever more quickly, quietly and distantly as though neither of them wants to guillotine the call but both are being dragged away against their will.

  But Martin didn’t answer his mobile – straight to voicemail. And she left a message that was heartfelt in its concern for Martin’s wellbeing but also began, halfway through, to acquire an edge of irritation at his apparent failure to call her the very moment he was released from custody. She did wonder, with a gnawing regret, whether the final “Call me !” wasn’t perhaps a little too autocratic in the circumstances.

  But still, she was beginning to feel more than a little frustrated at her ostensible demotion in the pecking order of Those Who Need to Know in Martin’s life – apparently below Gerry Bild ! And she suddenly felt the need to do something proactive, beyond sitting at home, meekly, like the good wife; putting her life on hold and waiting for however long it took for her convict boyfriend to return to the homestead, tarnished but heroic.

  Fuck that. She was going out.

  To ‘The Black and Blue Dahlia’.

  21.

  Come 9:00 pm Susan was sat at a table near the stage of the burlesque club with Carol Gee, sucking lustily on Singapore Slings with a carefree abandon that might subsequently – with hindsight – have been viewed as somewhat negligent. Or entirely appropriate, depending on your viewpoint.

  Carol, frankly, hadn’t been Susan’s first choice as partner for her gumshoe’d night out but, basically, answered the call when others further up the rankings had let her down and so deserved her chance, decided Susan, haughtily.

  Clearly, she couldn’t embark on such a mission alone and needed a girlfriend who could carry off the proposition of two apparently respectable young ladies venturing into a strip – sorry, burlesque – club without manly escorts and provide a bit of backup should the occasion call for it. Susan wasn’t entirely sure that Carol matched these prerequisites exactly but, then again, she had always felt somehow that beneath the quiet, diligent surface of her colleague, there might be something a bit more earthy flowing and she reckoned that now was as good a time as any to find out.

  In any event, she hadn’t much choice; her first call would obviously have been to Charlotte – her best friend, sometime flatmate, and co-defendant in many a scrape, going years back – and Charlotte would have loved this but, sadly, was currently holidaying with her family in the south of France.

  Several more of her sure-fire go-to girls proved not so sure-fire, citing the short notice of the call, the fact that it was a school night, and the general lack of appeal in going to see ‘ageing failed dancers’ peel off their clothes in the company of ‘sweaty, beery perverts’ (as Lauren Masters had deemed it). Susan tried to assure them that it was a rather more cultural affair than that but they seemed unconvinced. She was most disappointed in her gang but, then again, wondered how receptive she would have been to such an invitation had she not been caught up in the thing in the way she was now.

  She had considered Maria but decided that she didn’t actually want any family eyes looking on at this; she had nearly called Maisie but something told her that might just be too combustible an ingredient; and, finally, she had even thought of the hapless Bertie Sanchez but realised that would really over-complicate things and, anyway, she wasn’t sure even Bertie would tolerate (or deserve . . . ) further ill-treatment after their last dalliance.

  So Carol it was. Susan glanced across at her companion, who shot a look back and smiled. Susan smiled back.

  Carol basically looked as if she had stepped straight out of one of Doris Day’s films from the 1950s, playing the star’s nerdy younger sister; the wallflower sitting on the sidelines at the High School Prom. With the cream-coloured Alice band on her light brown hair, thin yellow cardigan, pleated A-line skirt and low-heeled pumps she looked every inch the Head Girl. The big round glasses just topped it off.

  She even still lived with her parents and Susan felt sorry for Carol as they always seemed to be warding off suitable suitors whereas Susan often thought she detected in her an ardent – if repressed – interest in the opposite sex. Susan had noticed that Carol nearly always had a bonkbuster on the go – ‘Dangerous Kiss’ by Jackie Collins or ‘Riders’ by Jill Cooper – and she would eagerly join any discussion on the merits of Colin Firth’s Mr D’Arcy with a wide-eyed intensity that could be a little unnerving.

  Perhaps this was what had inspired Susan to phone Carol when she was desperately running out of options but, anyway, Susan did like Carol – she would often come out with hysterical lines that Susan wasn’t entirely convinced Carol had understood herself, which made her even funnier. And she was eternally kind in her dealings with everyone, which was a refreshing change from most of the pitiless denizens of Stone Rose.

  The two girls picked up again where they had left off – scanning the room, not wanting to miss anything.

  For there was plenty to see – both on the stage and amongst the audience, picked out from the shadows randomly by the swooping lights from the lamps turning and spinning in the gantry up in the ceiling.

  It was not a big club, holding about 300 people, and it was full tonight – Susan had been lucky to get two of the last tickets available when she phoned the box office earlier in the day.

  It was decked out in a modern style with little in the way of decoration. The walls were painted black, the same as the stage, which thrust out at a low height into the audience, which was, therefore, ranged on three sides of it. The whole idea was, basically, black and chrome, so that the bar – which ran along the back
wall opposite and facing the stage – was all chrome tubes around a shiny black counter and silvery mirrors running along behind the bartenders.

  Otherwise there was simply a shimmering silver curtain at the back of the stage, through which the performers made their entrance, and the obligatory disco ball – a big one – suspended above the front of the stage, turning and firing out its lasers of light.

  They had only just arrived at the club, having spent a couple of hours in the bars around Soho first by way of a warm-up. Evidently they had just missed an act as the stage hands were clearing away the detritus: various lurid-coloured items of women’s underwear, feather boas, and what looked to Susan suspiciously like dildos – several large ones – again of lurid colours. There was also a reddish liquid splashed about the stage, which was now being cleared and dried up. Susan thought that must have been a hell of warm up act – the crowd was still buzzing and there was a crackling atmosphere in the room.

  The audience was an unholy mix of young professionals, out for some deviant kicks to leaven their otherwise dully shiny careers – sorry, lives; bohemian types with long ringlet hair and multi-coloured waistcoats; leather and denim-clad bikers trying to out-mean each other; genuine freaks of all shapes and sizes (the noisiest group); and a general morass of hard-core, seasoned Soho dwellers identifiable from their black clothes, white pallor and studied nonchalance.

  The one thing common to all was that they were, to a man / woman / in-between, heavily drunk.

  Everyone was nominally at one of the small circular tables that arced in rows around the stage and terraced back towards the bar and side walls, the last two rows being at slightly higher elevations. But the tables weren’t holding them as many were up on their feet, moving from table to table, or simply meandering about the place, entirely without purpose.

  There was a heavy disco track bumping away in the background and some were swaying along; others were simply hollering and screaming randomly; and amorous couples were pawing at each other, obviously over-stimulated by what they had already seen. The whole scene pulsed with a throw-caution-to-the-wind, end-of-the-century, wild abandonment that was itself intoxicating. The numerous drinks already downed by Susan and Carol were, in any event, doing their remorseless damage but the two adventurers were also being carried along by this heady atmosphere.