Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  ‘I’ll return these keys to you once I’ve taken a look at the flat. Has he got a car?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, he has a car. It is a Mazda MX-5 Miata in metallic red. It is two years old now.’

  ‘Do you have the key for it? The registration?’

  ‘The registration is LY77 FVC.’ He smiles at me. ‘I have a good memory for such things. I do not have a duplicate key for this vehicle, unfortunately.’

  ‘Do you know where he parks it? Is there somewhere near his flat that I might find it?’

  ‘I am sorry. I cannot help you. His flat does not have associated car parking. By that I mean there is no car park attached to the block of flats. He would have made his own arrangements. There is a parking for residents area outside his flat, but I don’t know whether he uses it. I would think not. Your guess is as good as mine.’

  From somewhere above us, I can hear the very faint sound of people having sex. Whoever it is, the woman is faking it, but it’s a good fake, a high quality fake, an experienced fake.

  ‘OK. I’ll start work on this first thing tomorrow morning. I have to tell you, though, Mr Sheng; I can’t guarantee the outcome in a case like this. If I find him and he’s OK or if I find him and, well, let’s say he’s not OK, my fee will stand.’

  He nods his head. ‘Of course. I would not expect anything less, Mr Beckett. And I thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. I am most grateful. I can also tell that you are a man of honour and will be utterly discreet. Now there is someone I would like to introduce you to, if I may,’ he says, still smiling. We both stand. He waves a hand towards the front door and I turn around to face the entrance, not quite sure what to expect.

  It’s then I see her for the first time.

  She stubs her black cigarette out in a willow pattern saucer and stands up, blowing the remaining smoke out of her lungs in a long, thin stream.

  My first thought is, Who the hell dresses like that?

  My second thought is, Wow!

  She’s Chinese: tall, slim and savagely stunning. I would guess she’s somewhere around thirty years old with beautiful golden skin, a long, elegant neck and a lithe, sexy, small-breasted figure that makes you wonder if she might have been a fashion model in another life. Maybe she’s a fashion model in this life. You never can tell.

  Her long, straight, lustrous, jet black hair stops about six inches beneath her collarbone. There’s a side part on the left and on the right-hand side it almost covers her face. And it’s a beautiful face: symmetrical and striking. Gorgeous dark eyes that are at once mocking and humorous with high, chiselled cheekbones and a yummy, full, kissable mouth that’s drilling indecent thoughts into my brain. The word ‘foxy’ comes to mind.

  But her clothing is something else. She’s wearing an ultra-tight round-necked black bodysuit which is see-through at the midriff, revealing the vague outline of a six-pack. On top of this she wears a long line bra and shorts which are embroidered with – wait for it – real peacock feathers. If that wasn’t bad enough, there are black suspender straps running from the body suit, travelling across twelve inches of smooth, bare thigh before clipping onto a pair of black silk stockings. Did I mention the black suede ankle boots with five-inch heels?

  The overall effect is a licentious cross between high fashion and the crudest eroticism. My mouth is dry and I can feel my stomach muscles starting to twitch. What’s going on? Why am I here in this restaurant? What day is it? Who were my parents?

  ‘Mr Beckett, may I introduce you to Miss Fan Mei Chow. Miss Chow is an associate of mine. She may be able to help you with Rikki’s social habits where I cannot.’

  If I could find a job where you had associates like this, I’d leave private investigating like a shot. There are no jobs with associates like this.

  She takes a step towards me, flicking a pale green leather biker jacket over her left shoulder, and we shake hands. She has long, elegant fingers and expertly manicured fingernails. High maintenance and well worth it, I think.

  Now I can smell her perfume a little better: bergamot, patchouli and iris. It’s Ombre Mercure Extrême – very French and very expensive. She holds onto my hand a little longer than is necessary. Her grip is firm, but I get the feeling it could be firmer if she wanted it to be. She’s wearing an Apple watch with a blue butterfly on the face.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr Beckett. I’m Caroline Chow. Mr Sheng has told me a lot about you.’

  I’d like to reply, but my tongue is currently stuck to the roof of my mouth. Caroline Chow doesn’t have much of a Chinese accent, certainly not a London one and she doesn’t have the Cantonese cadences of Li-Fen, either. But she definitely sounds foreign, even if she’s trying to disguise it.

  Mr Sheng was obviously pretty damn sure I’d turn up and take this job. First the pre-prepared gift from Li-Fen and now this. I’m intrigued: everyone seems to know what’s going on here apart from me. Mr Sheng starts laughing once again.

  ‘I am sorry, Miss Chow! I forgot to refer to you by your western name. Please forgive me.’

  She laughs and it lights her whole face up, revealing a fragile prettiness that I didn’t notice a few seconds ago.

  ‘Do you like it, Mr Beckett?’ she says. ‘The name Caroline, I mean?’

  ‘It suits you.’ Not the smoothest response I could have made, but my brain isn’t quite in gear yet. Maybe it never will be.

  ‘Caroline Chow.’ She savours the name as she says it and rolls her eyes. ‘You think it sounds like a movie star?’ she says, raising an eyebrow. Mr Sheng has a laugh at this.

  ‘All young people want to sound like movie stars nowadays!’ he says, chortling away. Then he becomes suddenly serious. ‘Miss Chow will be my liaison officer in this matter, Mr Beckett. Anything that you turn up, you can let her know and she will pass the information on to me in a confidential manner. Is that satisfactory?’

  ‘I’m fine with that if you are.’ I take another look at her. She flashes me a playful smirk. She doesn’t give the impression that she works for Mr Sheng or that he’s her boss in any way, despite what he just said. She also doesn’t give the impression that she’s taking any of this seriously. I’m having a little difficulty getting my head around the dynamic between these two.

  I go back to the table that we were sitting at and pick up the envelope and the box of Chinese candies. I can hear Mr Sheng and Miss Chow exchange a few quick sentences in Cantonese. It’s not a language I speak, so I’ve no idea what was said.

  By the time I’m on my way out, they’re back to English again. ‘Do you have a business card you could give to Miss Chow, Mr Beckett? She can call your mobile number and you can save her number on your telephone. That is how it works, is it not?’

  I hand her a business card. She takes it and examines it carefully, just like Mr Sheng did. She pulls a very flash, expensive-looking, jewelled iPhone out of her jacket pocket and types my number into it. She keeps looking up at me as she does this and I realise that I’m finding the eye contact exciting. She then calls me and I save her number, identifying her only as ‘Caroline’.

  ‘I think there are no more words to say, Mr Beckett,’ says Mr Sheng. ‘I can only wish you the best of good luck and hope you are successful in your endeavours. I hope to hear from you very soon.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, Mr Sheng. Thanks for the coffee.’

  After yet another handshaking session, I walk out of the entrance with Caroline Chow a few feet behind me. I’m aware of her eyes boring into my back. She walks alongside me as we turn out of Newport Place and take a right into Lisle Street. Outside, her perfume is even more noticeable and intoxicating than it was in the restaurant.

  I’m trying to make some sense of just what went on in The Blue Lantern, but all I can think about is grabbing a handful of her hair and leaving a bite mark or two on that long neck, just to see her face. I must be losing my mind.

  *

  Lisle Street is busy. It’s a narrow, Chinese restaurant-ridd
en, pedestrian zone with high buildings on each side. One half is in shadow, so we walk on the sunny side.

  ‘I have a full plate this afternoon, Mr Beckett. Business,’ she says. ‘D’you want to have dinner tonight? I can give you all you need while we eat.’

  ‘Is this a date?’

  This makes her laugh. Good. There’s a bit of a shell around her which I’m trying to break down. I don’t know why. Force of habit, I guess.

  ‘Sure. If you want. It’s a date. I’ve got nothing else to do tonight and you’re a pretty good-looking guy. Sure. Why not?’

  I have to laugh. ‘You think I’m good-looking? I’m flattered, Miss Chow.’

  ‘What about me? You think I’m a good-looking girl?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re a pretty good-looking girl. Great hair. Lovely neck. Cute figure. Nice thighs from what I can see of them.’ I lean back and take a critical look at her rear. ‘Hot ass.’

  She laughs and punches me good-naturedly in the bicep. It hurts. She looks straight ahead. ‘What about my face?’

  ‘Beautiful eyes. Sexy mouth. In fact, I thought you might have been a model when I first saw you.’

  ‘Really? A model? Shit.’ She turns to look at me and smiles. ‘You have a good tongue on you, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s what all the girls say.’

  She gives me a look of mock outrage, followed by a fake, girly ‘Oh!’

  ‘So d’you like to eat Chinese, Mr Beckett?’

  I laugh. ‘I like all sorts of food.’

  ‘You like spicy? Adventurous?’ She’s watching me carefully now for my reaction.

  ‘The spicier the better.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Most people can’t handle it.’

  ‘Most people aren’t me.’

  ‘Most people don’t like to try something new.’

  ‘Are we still talking about food, Miss Chow?’

  She smiles. ‘You’re a whimsical guy. There’s a great restaurant called The Jade Gate.’

  ‘Nice name.’

  ‘Genuine Chinese food. Nonpareil. Not western stuff. I’ll book a table there for eight. There’s a bar inside. We can meet at the bar if you like. Have some drinks. Shall we say seven-thirty?’

  ‘Fine by me. Where is it?’

  ‘Macclesfield Street. First floor above the Moon Tiger Restaurant, next to the newsagent and across the road from the De Hems pub.’

  ‘I know where you mean. I’ll look forward to it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I suddenly notice something that’s been going on for about two or three minutes, but that hadn’t fully engaged my attention, as I’ve been so preoccupied with whatever it is that Miss Chow and I have been talking about.

  It’s a busy time in this street. There are a lot of local Chinese people walking about: some restaurant workers, some not, some old, some young, some male and some female.

  But they all have one thing in common. As soon as they see Caroline walking towards them they cross over to the other side. I’m not imagining this. I take a quick look over my shoulder. A middle-aged Chinese man who almost didn’t notice her in time, and who quickly crossed the road when he did, has now returned to the side he was on originally.

  I keep an eye on it for a few seconds. Two Chinese women in their thirties who are about ten yards away from us cross over when one of them notices Caroline and taps her friend lightly on the arm. A young, punky Chinese guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth takes in her appearance for a half second and immediately swerves out of her way without giving her a further glance.

  I have to admit I’m stumped. Is it her clothing? Is she too sexy? We arrive at the junction with Wardour Street and she stops and shakes my hand.

  ‘I have to go this way now,’ she says, pointing to the right. ‘I’ll see you tonight, Mr Beckett. I may have some useful information for you.’

  ‘OK, Caroline. Nice to meet you.’

  I think.

  Out of politeness, I turn left. I somehow don’t think she’d thank me for accompanying to her business appointment or whatever the hell it is. After walking for five seconds, I turn around to see if I can get a view of her from behind, but she’s gone.

  5

  LUNCH WITH DOUG

  I walk into a Pret, order a macchiato and go outside while they get it ready. I sit at a table and stare blankly at the ten-storey office building being constructed across the road. There’s an appetising aroma of deep fried something coming from somewhere, but I can’t work out what or where. There’s also a thick powdery smell of pulverised concrete floating across from the construction site. Mixed with the diesel fumes from the black cabs, it’s starting to give me a headache. And I already have a headache. That’s two simultaneous headaches. Not bad going; now my headaches have headaches.

  A pretty barista in maroon overalls and a crisp white shirt places my macchiato in front of me. I take a sip and can see her looking at me as she clears away coffee trash from one of the adjacent tables.

  ‘Hangover cure?’ she says, smiling at me. She has an unusual accent which I can’t immediately place.

  ‘Do I look like I’ve got a hangover?’

  She laughs. ‘Yes. Yes, you do.’

  She’s dark, petite and pretty. Mid-twenties. Long hair tied back in a ponytail, very white teeth and a lovely smile. Then I realise where I’ve heard that accent before.

  ‘You’re from Belarus.’

  She looks amazed, which is what I was going for. ‘Cool! That’s incredible. No one ever can work out where it is I am from. Have you been to there?’

  ‘Yes. Once.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Minsk.’

  ‘Wow! That’s amazing. I’m from Zhodzina.’

  ‘I know it. Just up the road from Minsk, really.’

  ‘Yes. Hey.’ She gives me a curious look. ‘Can I ask you out for a drink or something? I haven’t met anyone who’s been to my country since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She produces a pen and scribbles a telephone number on a paper serviette. ‘My name’s Anastasija. Anastasija Novik.’

  I shake her hand. ‘Please to meet you, Anastasija. I’m Daniel. Daniel Beckett.’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘Wow! So English sounding! Cool. You will call, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Not tonight. But soon.’

  ‘OK. Cool.’ She walks back towards the entrance to the Pret. Just before she goes inside she turns around to face me. ‘Don’t forget.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  I decide to have one of the Chinese candies with my coffee. The top of the cardboard container is harder to open than I’d imagined. It’s like one of those origami puzzle boxes that get so frustrating after a while that you want to rip it apart. I don’t want to damage this, so I persevere. It takes me about three minutes. There are two layers of delicious looking candies inside. I choose what I assume to be a miniature lime coconut bar and pop in it my mouth. It’s both delicious and incredibly sweet. If it was any bigger it would have your teeth begging for mercy.

  I take a sip of coffee and watch a big group of French tourists walking towards me from across the road. They stop as two of the kids break away and start pointing at M&M’s World. One of them starts crying.

  Two Chinese girls, probably in their late teens, walk past and look at me, giggling. As they walk away, one of them looks over her shoulder at me and smiles. Hi, girls. It was quite a nice gesture from Li-Fen to make these candies, I guess, even though it may not have been her idea.

  I keep looking at the box. Very elaborate. A little too big for the contents, perhaps. I lift it up in one hand. Too big and slightly too heavy. I catch Anastasija’s attention as she sashays by and ask her for a takeaway bag. She’s back with it in a couple of seconds and hangs around to watch what I’m doing. I point at the candies.

  ‘Would you like one?’

  She glances over her shoulder to see if anyone
’s watching. ‘Oh! Thank you!’

  I hold up the box. She takes a circular red and white thing, pops it in her mouth, flutters her eyelids, hums with delight and returns to work. Once I’m sure she’s gone, I transfer all of the candies into the Pret bag and start fiddling with the base. It comes away easily. There’s a packet underneath: white wax paper with a single strip of pale yellow tape holding it in place. I look quickly from left to right as I unwrap it. Instinct tells me that no one should see this, if it’s at all possible.

  It’s money. Fifty pound notes. I flick through it as quickly as I can. It’s a thousand pounds. I really don’t know what to think about this. I’ll have to keep it: I know they’ll find it insulting if I give it back and say you really shouldn’t have or something.

  It’s too bulky to put in my wallet, so I shove it in the inside pocket of my jacket. I start thinking about the meeting with Mr Sheng. The whole thing was a little strange and disorientating. On one level I can understand it: one of their guys goes missing, they’re concerned, and they don’t like going to the police. But on top of that, this guy is different. He has a life, or at least a social life, which is outside the local Chinese community and this apparently stops members of that community from investigating. Having Chinese private investigators buzzing around might be too conspicuous and frighten the pigeons. So they have to hire someone like me. Well, fair enough. For the first time since the meeting I’m starting to get curious about Rikki Tuan’s fate.

  Then there’s the other level. Mr Sheng was cagey and evasive throughout. He himself admitted as much. He wanted to tell but he could not tell. He was vague about Rikki and he was vague about what Rikki did. What was it he called him? A facilitator? Someone who brings about outcomes? Let’s not beat around the bush. Let’s just call Rikki a criminal. This means that Mr Sheng, despite all his avuncular bonhomie, smiling and laughing, is probably involved in criminal activities, too. And whatever his sources are, he was pretty damn sure that this wasn’t a Chinese community matter. He’s had three days to find that out.