by Nick Louth
‘I don’t get it,’ Virgil said. ‘Are you saying this guy was a spy?’
‘Well, either that or a protected witness of a very high order. Of course you’d think: Italy, ah! The mafia. But if it was a witness protection case that would involve someone from the MOJ, and that wasn’t the information I was getting. However, while all that is as clear as mud, we did secure a copy of some of the evidence against Russo, which the Italians sent to the Home Secretary.’ Childswicke smiled, enjoying the suspense.
‘Which was…?’
Childswicke leaned in and whispered: ‘That these three girls weren’t just murdered. They were dissolved in a tank of nitric acid. Presumably after some horrific sexual torture over a number of days.’ He leaned back to enjoy the look of horror on Virgil’s face. ‘A single hair from one of the girls was found on the outside edge of a vat near Russo’s studio on the island of Murano, just north of the city, and hair of one of the others was found in a suitcase.’
Virgil then asked: ‘I take it you’ve not been able to publish any of this?’
Childswicke wheezed a great sigh of regret. ‘No. Because soon after Russo-cum-Pearson was brought to Britain a secret judicial hearing was held under Lord Justice Kirby. Representatives of the press were allowed to hear his decision, but not to publish any details of it. We still cannot publish the name of the defendant, his victims, or any significant details about the case. It’s completely unprecedented.’
‘Why all the secrecy? What were the grounds?’
‘That’s particularly interesting,’ Childswicke said. ‘Our lawyers told us that the usual reason would be because of the interests of a child. Section thirty-nine of the Children and Young Person’s Act 1933 allows a court the discretion to bar the press from identifying an individual if it would lead to the identification of a witness, victim or defendant under the age of 18.’ Childswicke lifted a warning finger. ‘But, in this case Lord Justice Kirby didn’t cite the act, which makes me think that by default it must be national security.’
‘You mentioned that Russo had a studio. So he was an artist?’ Virgil asked.
‘Presumably. Does this bolster your suspicion that he is Wōdan?’
‘Well, possibly. Two artistically-talented murderers, one disappears on his way into Home Office protection and soon after another emerges miraculously into the justice system with no history. The ages given for Pearson and Wōdan seem to match too. As I mentioned on the phone, I work as a close protection officer for someone that Wōdan has been stalking, sending her letters and cards. From Broadmoor.’
‘So Wōdan is in Broadmoor. That’s useful in itself.’ Childswicke smiled smugly, and dabbed his chin with a napkin. ‘So I take it you work for our sexy peer Lady Earl?’
‘Actually no, I don’t,’ Virgil said.
Childswicke’s fat lips formed a moue of disappointment. ‘Shame. Her being stalked by a psychopath would be so juicy. After that clever piece of exhibitionism, our editors love the little minx, despite her politics. So who is it?’
‘I’m not here in an official capacity so I can’t identify my client,’ Virgil said.
Childswicke sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Now come on Mr Bliss, neither of us is here in an official capacity. And I have been exceedingly frank and open with you. I think you owe me equal candour.’
Virgil held up his hand in acknowledgment. ‘Alright, my hands are tied to some extent because she doesn’t know I’m here. My job, as you can imagine, is to protect her from worry as well as danger. But here’s what I can do.’ He took out the photocopies of the letters and placed them before Childswicke. ‘They’re in Latin, but I have the translation…’
‘It’s alright Virgil, I’m an old Wykehamist. I can read it. Hmm. Phenomenal artwork. So your client is called Lydia, eh?’ Childswicke rubbed his jowls ruminatively.
‘Her name must be left out of it,’ Virgil said. ‘But if you can focus your resources to narrow down if Wōdan is this acid murderer, then at least I’ll know what we’re dealing with.’
‘Well, from my perspective, if Wōdan is the artist-formerly-known-as-Jonathan-Pearson, and they are even thinking of releasing him, then the leftie hand-wringing rehabilitation train really will have come off the rails,’ Childswicke snorted, and got up to leave. He then scribbled something from his phone onto a napkin. ‘Here. This may be useful. It’s the mobile number of Lady Earl. She’s met Wōdan face-to-face. If you are genuinely worried for your client, she might be able to put your mind at rest.’ He pulled open the restaurant door but then turned back. ‘Or not, as the case may be.’
* * *
That afternoon Virgil rang the number, which was answered first ring. ‘This is Suzannah.’
‘Hello, I’m Virgil Bliss, Mira’s bodyguard. I’ve ferried Mira and Natasha to your place a couple of times.’
‘Of course. Natasha told me. She told me how well you looked after her during that awful crush at Wembley Arena. I’m in your debt.’
Virgil laughed it off, then explained that the artist she had sat for in Broadmoor seemed to be sending letters to Mira. It was his job to assess how much danger Mira might be in, but he hadn’t been able to get any information through official channels. The baroness listened carefully, then answered: ‘It makes some sense to me. I’ve seen a dozen or more of Wōdan’s drawings and sketches of Mira, but none of other celebrities.’
‘Would you say he is dangerous?’
There was a long pause. ‘Well, he’s certainly one of the cleverest people I have ever met. He could be dangerous if he wanted to.’ A phone rang in the background.
‘Look. I’m a bit busy at the moment, and I’m sorry I don’t have any time at all this week.’ Shall we say a week on Thursday, two o’clock? You know where I live.’
Virgil agreed, and asked: ‘One last thing, do you know his real name?’
There was a long pause, as the phone continued to ring in the background, and then clicked into an answer machine.
‘Yes. But I’m sworn to secrecy,’ she said. ‘The hospital is terrified of the press finding out.’
‘I give you my word that it will go no further.’
The phone rang again. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. ‘Look, I have to get this call. See you then.’
* * *
FOURTEEN DAYS
The irritating buzz of the phone pushed into his sleep. Virgil reluctantly eased himself away from the delightful warmth of Kelly’s nakedness, and reached behind for his mobile. It was eleven o’clock on Sunday evening. They had shared a wonderful restful weekend while Mira was in New York for a much-delayed Max Factor photoshoot, and all he hoped for now was the chance to savour a few more moments. It wasn’t to be. The moment he picked up Mira said: ‘Virgil, it’s me.’
‘You’re back?’ he asked unnecessarily. He’d been expecting her tomorrow.
‘Ten minutes ago. I got a taxi from Heathrow and there were bloody zombies here waiting for me.’ She sounded out of breath.
‘Here meaning where?’
‘Outside the flat,’ she breathed. ‘Full Qaeggan regalia, five of them, three cars.’
‘Okay calm down. Do you mean in the building?’
‘No Virgil, in the street. I avoided them by going in through the lift from the underground car park.’
‘They’re probably just fans.’
‘Can’t they leave me alone? I’ve been away for four days, and the first night I get back, the first night in my own home since they beat up Lawrence and already they’re stalking me. I think I’ll stay somewhere else tomorrow. I mean, they’ve got binoculars, looking up at my windows!’ The ragged slur in her voice betrayed not only anxiety but alcohol.
‘Have you called reception?’
‘Of course. The duty manager went out to talk to them. They said they weren’t breaking the law. I could call the police, but then I’ll get loads of hassle online.’
‘Yeah, I see the point.’
‘But how do the
y all seem to know where I live?’
‘Well, the press know, and your flat purchase made headlines. Everything’s so much easier for them in the days of Google. Look. If you’re worried, I can be there in forty minutes.’
‘Great, okay. Thank you!’ she sounded relieved.
‘Okay, now precautions, Mira, remember? Don’t go down to them. Let the front desk handle anything, let them know of your concerns. Don’t call the cops unless you really need to.’
‘Roger-roger,’ she said, with a giggle. Virgil heard a slurp of drink in the background.
When he hung up Kelly glared at him. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Zombies hanging around in the street outside.’
Kelly groaned. ‘So you’re going. She calls, you go round. Just like that.’
‘Come on, I have to,’ he said, as he pulled his T-shirt on.
‘I knew you fancied her,’ she muttered.
‘What?’
Kelly turned and watched him with narrowed eyes, her chin resting in her hand. ‘Go on, go serve your bloody mistress. What chance have I got trying to compete with the world’s most desirable woman?’
Virgil sighed and then kneeled on the bed to embrace her. ‘It’s my job. But Kelly, to me you are the most desirable woman in the entire galaxy.’
She looked at him, her blue eyes scanning his, searching for truth in his words. ‘Show me.’ She gradually pushed his face down, arching herself so his warm mouth slid over her large freckled breasts, her smooth milky belly and then finally into her wisps of fiery down. ‘Make me come, with your lying tongue.’
* * *
A sense of melancholy held Virgil as he drove across south London half an hour later. The south circular traffic as usual was slow, which gave him chance to notice a few changes. Someone had sprayed more Kill the Bitch graffiti on the rusting ironwork of two railway bridges in Clapham North, making seven he would pass on this journey. A minute later along a pedestrian underpass he saw a line of identical poster-sized stencils. Green eyes crossed out in red. He’d seen hundreds in the last week.
He arrived at the Battersea Harbour flats a few minutes later than planned. He drove slowly through the access and parking areas for all six blocks. One of the cars that Mira had described, a yellow Ford with a long aerial, was on its way out with two youngsters inside. It was only on his return pass on the service road that he spotted the others: three men dressed as Qaeggan leaning against a tatty black Vauxhall Nova, smoking. Virgil went past, parked around the corner and phoned in to Mira to check she was alright. He told her what he’d seen and was going to investigate before coming up.
Virgil emerged from the car in a tatty hoodie and paint-stained trainers, his standard incognito gear. He slipped around the base of Mira’s block to approach the trio. When he got within thirty yards they visibly stiffened, faces betraying ‘big black guy approaching’ anxiety. Two were quite young, maybe twenty, one tall, one short, and there was an older man of perhaps fifty with binoculars around his neck, wearing a car coat. The two younger ones had wigs and smudged face paint.
‘Always nice to meet a gang of zombies on a dark night,’ Virgil said cheerfully as he walked up to them. ‘Not seen you round here before.’ They appeared to relax.
‘Nah. We’re up from Bromley,’ the older one said. He had a notebook, and nodded towards the doorway. ‘Mira lives in this building. Did you see her at all today?’
‘Mira?’ said Virgil quizzically.
‘You know, Mira Roskova,’ oldie said. Virgil shrugged ignorance.
‘Bloody hell, man,’ the tall youth blurted out. ‘Didn’t you see Village of the Dead?’
‘Or any TV commercials, like, ever?’ shorty said, smirking.
‘Ah, is she that fit bird with the green eyes?’ Virgil said.
‘Beautiful eyes. I mean, she’s the perfect woman,’ purred shorty, his eyes half closed in contemplation.
‘Are you hanging round here just to get a glimpse then?’
‘These two are pure Mira worshippers,’ oldie said, indicating the youths. ‘Me, I doorstep all the top female celebrities. I got pictures of Rihanna and Beyoncé, and a selfie with Isabelle Adjani. I once got nearly knocked down by Madonna’s chauffeured car. I’m still hoping to track down Taylor Swift when she comes over.’
‘What happened to the other two guys who were here?’ Virgil asked.
‘Ian and Greg had to go home,’ said shorty. ‘But we’re staying. We just want to make sure she’s alright. With all the hassle and that.’
‘So what kind of danger is she in, that she needs your protection?’ Virgil asked.
‘Well, every soccer fan seems to hate her after what happened to Lawrence Wall, which we think is really unfair,’ said the tall one. ‘And there is all this disgusting graffiti. It must be very hurtful to her.’
‘I’d love to take her home and look after her,’ said shorty. ‘She’d be safe with me.’ A smirk took ownership of his entire countenance.
Virgil could see that these guys were more annoying than dangerous. Yeah, they might bug Mira, but if she made it difficult for them they would just find other ways to follow her. In the great scheme of things, he decided, the Qaeggan weren’t much to worry about. ‘Okay lads. If I see her, I’ll let you know,’ he said. He started to walk away, and then turned around. ‘In fact, can I take your phone numbers? I work around here a lot, and so I might see something.’
They swapped names and numbers with Virgil, and gave him a thumbs up as he walked away. Colin was the older guy, and Aaron and Jack the younger ones. They could be useful. A few pairs of eyes available for free. Virgil went back to his car, wriggled into more formal clothes and after checking himself in the wing mirror, drove down into the secure garage and took the lift to Mira’s door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
TWELVE DAYS
It was just before eight in the morning. Suzannah Earl had been up for an hour checking through the latest version of the Punishment of Offenders Bill, which was due back in the Commons. The shadow Home Secretary had asked for her input by the end of the week, and she wrote rapidly in pencil in the margin. There was a slight noise behind her, and she turned to see a sleepy-looking Mira emerge from a guest bedroom and tiptoe to the loo. In the shadow of slumber, this young woman she’d known since she was sixteen still looked like an overgrown schoolgirl. Scruffy pyjamas and dressing gown, her hair like some windblown bush and her face pale and flat without make-up, yet still somehow full of natural grace. There was no sign of life yet from Natasha’s room. Suzannah enjoyed having the company, even at such short notice, and dusting off her culinary skills for an appreciative audience. She was impressed when renewing her acquaintance with Mira a year or so ago that the girl had a healthy appetite and hadn’t picked up those terrible self-destructive dieting habits that turned so many catwalk models into anorexic waifs.
At ten past, Suzannah put on the kettle for tea and made herself a breakfast of sugar-free muesli and fruit. She had wanted to do her exercises this morning, but the utility room was crammed with Mira’s luggage and there wasn’t the space. Three massive suitcases. It was as if the girl was intending to stay for six months, but Natasha had assured her that it was just a week, until the worst of the Lawrence Wall stuff had blown over. Having one of the world’s most desired sex symbols stay in her apartment had the allure of status and sophistication, but the reality was that it was even more chaotic than the sleepovers that Natasha used to have as a teenager when they lived in Birmingham.
When the tea was brewed she filled three big mugs, and delivered two to the guest bedrooms. It took a further hour, enough to almost derail her schedule, before the two were up, dressed and ready to go. She was planning to drive Natasha to the tube station, and then drop Mira off at Stardust Brands on her way to the Lords, where she might find some peace to finish her notes.
But as the threesome emerged bleary-eyed into the street towards the residents’ parking spaces Suzannah heard a scream.
She looked up from her handbag where she had been digging for the car keys, to see Mira leaning distraught against Natasha, who was steadying her. ‘Oh God, not again!’ she wailed.
‘What’s the matter?’ Suzannah asked.
‘Mum,’ wailed Natasha. ‘Look.’ She pointed towards the street. Suzannah followed her gaze and saw her own lovely red BMW X4. The vehicle had been completely trashed. There were scratches all over it, the tyres had been let down, and someone had spray-painted Stuck-up bitch in foot-high white letters across the bonnet and roof.
‘Oh my God,’ the baroness breathed.
‘Look, look,’ Mira squealed, pointing further along the road.
‘What?’ said Natasha.
‘Did you see that car, the silver one?’
‘No, I’m a bit busy looking at mine,’ Suzannah retorted.
‘The driver was dressed up as a Qaeggan!’
‘What, really?’ said Natasha.
‘Yes, really!’ shouted Mira. ‘A fucking zombie, here! Tash, for God’s sake, how can they know I was here?’ Mira screeched. ‘Am I not safe anywhere?
* * *
ELEVEN DAYS
Two days later, Thad Cobalt convened a Mira strategy meeting. The good news, he said, was that Suressence were still keen to press ahead with a five-year deal, but had cut the upfront fee and back-end loaded the payments over the last two years.
‘Well at least they didn’t cancel,’ Jonesy said.
‘But they have sent us a revised contract with a couple more break and indemnity clauses,’ Thad replied. ‘We’re getting them lawyered now.’
‘But we’re still in multi-million euro territory I assume?’ Jonesy asked.
‘Yes, depending if the breaks get triggered. Maximum over five years is still seven million.’
‘We can’t do anything about it, can we?’ said Portia.
‘Nah, we can’t really,’ said Jonesy. ‘Meanwhile we’re running a big problem with overheads. I’ve got a PR agency pumping out positive material about Mira, trying to drown out the shitstorm on Twitter and Facebook, and we’ve employed a graffiti removal agency that knows who to speak to at London Underground, Network Rail and other places to get us a rapid result. They’ve promised they can get it scrubbed off within forty-eight hours of appearance. But Portia, Kelly and I are still run ragged dealing with the social media side.’
