‘Why have you got the keys to this place?’
‘The keys I gave you are spare keys. He gave them to me about six months ago. He said he trusted me to have them in case he lost his. I put them in a safety deposit box in a bank in the City as I didn’t want to have them on me. I picked them up this afternoon after we met in the restaurant.’
‘And it hasn’t occurred to you to go and look at this flat since Rikki disappeared?’
‘No. I just got here. You’re the detective. I might mess things up for you. Damage evidence or whatever. Crime scene pollution or whatever it’s called.’
‘You don’t know where he parks his car, do you?’
‘No.’
I sit back and drink more champagne while the waiters clear away our plates.
‘Do you want to try some desserts?’ says Caroline. I get the feeling she’s willing me not to have any, but I’m so full I don’t think I could manage one anyway.
‘I’m fine. Maybe another time.’
‘So what’s the first thing you’re going to do?’ She’s serious now. It’s the first time she’s taken an interest in me as a professional, in what I’m intending to do regarding this case. I can’t make her out at all. Perhaps this is intentional. I decide that I quite like the edginess, ambiguity and confusion.
‘I’m going to look at the Great Titchfield Street flat tomorrow morning. Mr Sheng and his colleagues may have missed something. Then I’ll take a look at Ebury Street.’
‘And you’ll let me know how things are going with you?’
‘I’ll call you as soon as I find anything interesting. You can report to Mr Sheng whenever you see fit.’
‘So can we stop talking business and continue our date, now?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come on.’ She pats the sofa seat. ‘Come and sit next to me.’
I slide around the seat until I’m sitting right next to her. She smiles at me. ‘As we’re on a date, you can maybe put your hand on my leg again. If you want to.’
I comply. She shivers but her skin is warm. A grinning waiter pulls the table out to give us more space and then he clears the meal debris away. Mr Huang reappears and asks us if we would like anything else. Dessert? Coffee? Liqueurs? Caroline thanks him and says that we’d like two Hennessey Paradis Impériel brandies and another bottle of champagne. I do hope she’s not trying to get me drunk.
Once the drinks are delivered, she rattles off something in Cantonese to Mr Huang, who bows, scrapes and takes his leave. I’m still not sure precisely who or what she is, but she obviously has the power and influence to get an entire restaurant to herself, which is something I’ve never been able to do.
‘What did you say to him?’
‘I told him that we needed to be left alone, that we were on a date. You can rub my leg now that we’re alone.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been waiting to do that all evening.’
She places one of her hands behind my neck and for a second I think we’re going to kiss, but then she changes her mind and runs a fingernail gently down the side of my face. It’s a heady experience being this close to that perfume. She runs a hand down my right bicep and gives it a slight squeeze.
‘You are a strong guy, I think. I like it when a guy has muscles like that. Not too big. I hate bodybuilder guys. You’re more like some sort of athlete. What is your sport, I wonder?’
Very gently, she runs her fingers around the curve of my chin. ‘You have a very nice face, Daniel. Very good-looking. You can tell a lot about a person from their face. Do you know what Siang Mien is?’
‘No.’
‘It’s Chinese face reading. A very ancient art. My grandmother had the gift. I have inherited it. You have a Sun Face or King’s Face. That is what your face shape is called. It means that you are a natural leader. People follow you. They cannot help themselves. And women are attracted to you. Very attracted. Attracted despite themselves.’
She runs a finger over my lips. ‘You have a slight downturn to your mouth. That is the sign of a loner. You have had a complicated thread of fate in your life, but you are adaptable. And your ch’i is strong.’
Her hands move around my face. She looks straight into my eyes. ‘Your eyes are grey-blue. In Siang Mien they are called mixed eyes. Two colours combined. Men with this eye colour make sure that their lovemaking with a woman takes a long time and they care about the woman’s satisfaction.’ Her fingers lightly brush my eyebrows. ‘You have sword eyebrows. This means you are a good problem solver and a good judge of character.’
She adjusts her position slightly, then places both of her hands on my face, a thumb resting on each of my cheekbones and her fingers spread across my temples. I’m quite enjoying this. It’s like the lightest of facial massages. She moves her thumbs slightly beneath my eyes. Then suddenly, she jerks backwards, as if she’s just received an electric shock. Her eyes look fearful and her breathing has become rapid.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘You – your face. I have felt that type of face before. Felt those things. You are not what you seem, Daniel. You are a dangerous man. You seem gentle, but you have done a lot of bad things. You are haunted. You are always looking over your shoulder. I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I’m sorry. I was just surprised. I…’ She exhales slowly and grabs the back of my neck once more. This time her mouth is on mine: small, intense kisses, her tongue flicking softly in and out. My hand is still stroking her thigh. I take a risk and slide it higher up. I don’t think it’s that much of a risk. She pushes herself towards me, opens her legs wide, closes her eyes and groans. I grab her shoulder and push her back against the seat.
‘Where are the staff, Caroline?’
‘They are still here, but they will not come in,’ she pants. ‘Do you not find that exciting? Do you think I am a bad girl now?’
She picks up my brandy and places it against my lips so I can drink. ‘I don’t think you’re a bad girl at all, Caroline.’ I can feel my heart thumping in my chest.
‘Oh, but I am. Come with me. I will tell you how bad I am. I will show you.’
She takes my hand and we stand up. She guides me over to the far side of the room where the ceramic pots holding the ornamental bamboo canes are. She turns to face me, her arms around my neck, her body pressed against mine. ‘I’m like you, Daniel. I’ve done very bad things. Do you mind?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘You’re a nice guy.’
‘I think you know that’s not the case.’
‘As we’re on a date, you might want to take my dress off. But I must warn you about something.’
‘What’s that?’
She looks down and blushes. ‘I may not be wearing anything underneath it.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘I like to be naked in front of a guy who’s fully dressed. It makes me feel powerful and submissive at the same time. Does that make sense?’
‘I understand.’
‘I’m so bad, Daniel. Sometimes I am ashamed of the things I’ve done. I wake in the night…’ She looks up at me, but can’t meet my gaze. ‘I may have to be punished. I want to be punished. I need to be punished. Do you understand? I know you will do it. I know the sort of man you are now.’
Her eyes are shining. My fingers find the slider at the back of her dress and I unzip it as slowly as I can. She closes her eyes and licks her lips. She shivers as the dress falls to the floor. She turns to face me. I place my hands on her hips and watch as her body responds. She’s just as I imagined: smooth and sinuous. She grinds herself rhythmically against me, almost as if I’m not there, panting softly, lost in the sensations she’s giving herself.
I start to run a hand over that flat, muscled stomach. She turns away from me and walks over to the ceramic pots by the wall. I listen to the click of her heels. I can see the faint traces of straight-line scars across her back and buttocks. Sh
e takes out one of the black bamboo canes, runs her hand down its length, whips it through the air and returns to me.
Her eyes meet mine as she hands me the cane. ‘I’m not made from porcelain. And, believe me; I’ll make it worth your while afterwards.’
She turns her back on me, flicks her hair over her shoulder and presses her hands flat against the nearest wall. Her body is tense and she’s trembling a little.
‘Now.’
9
HASSLE
Rikki’s flat in Great Titchfield Street is roughly a five-minute walk from Oxford Circus and a great place to live if you desperately crave proximity to the West End shops. It’s full of snack bars, pubs, restaurants and cafés, plus various speciality shops and TV companies. The garment industry is still pretty well represented, too. I decided to get here as early as possible so I could scope out both of his flats before lunchtime.
I can see why he didn’t want to invite his swish pals here: there are parking restrictions everywhere and big parts of the road have a neglected, dingy feel. Fitzrovia used to be bohemian and cool, but not anymore. Many of the buildings look like they’re in need of repair and/or tarting up and there are uncollected bin bags all over the place, some of them spitefully blocking your way on the pavement.
On top of that, there are road works almost every twenty yards and many of the buildings are covered in scaffolding for whatever the hell they are or aren’t doing. Even if you had double glazing and lived on the top floor, I imagine that this would be a hellishly noisy pace to live, quite apart from the traffic. There’s also a constant smell of washing up. I would have thought that the Triads could have done better for their top boys.
The further north you go, the more residential it gets. Most of the flats are early twentieth century, redbrick and purpose built. I spot Slade Court on my right and cross the road to get a quick look at it before I go inside. Four floors and a big pile of soggy free newspapers on the floor near the entrance. Shabby offices to let across the road. Who reads free newspapers anymore?
There are big chunks of resident-only parking outside, so I keep walking for about two hundred yards to see if I can spot Rikki’s metallic red Mazda. Most of the cars here are middle range saloons and a car like that would stick out like a sore thumb and be a target for car thieves (if they had a death wish), so it’s unlikely he’d park it here, though it would be nice if I found it.
I cross to the opposite side of the road and check all the cars on the way back, but it isn’t here. There is, however, a blue Chevrolet Lacetti parked on Rikki’s side. No one in the driver’s seat, but an old Chinese man sitting on the passenger side, smoking and pretending not to look at me. I make a note of the registration.
There’s a common front entrance to all the flats. I push the door. It’s locked. I get out the keys and try the Yale lock. It works. The interior is cold and quiet with no reception and a faint odour of cabbage. There’s a lift with a little sign next to it, telling you which flats are on which floor. Rikki’s is on the third floor. I don’t quite understand how his flat is called number thirty-two. There’s no way on earth that there are that many flats in this building. Perhaps there’s some entertaining historical reason for this.
I don’t need to use the mortice key, as Mr Sheng’s people didn’t bother to lock up properly. I go inside and close the door behind me. I stand in the pine-floored hallway for a moment, until that momentary dizziness I always get when entering strange premises passes.
There’s a narrow glass table to my left which is covered in junk mail. There’s more junk mail on the floor. I leave it where it is. There are two strange baroque-looking chairs in transparent plastic either side of the table. The air is stale. It’s been a while since anyone opened a window. Rikki might not have actually lived here for some time. I have a quick wander around. Three bedrooms, two reception rooms, big kitchen and bathroom. This is actually not a bad place. Its location would probably put it out of the financial reach of most working Londoners. Rikki is a pretty lucky guy.
I check the biggest reception room first. Pine floor again, a big rug with hummingbirds flying all over it, two big sofas, two coffee tables, each with a large ashtray. There’s a big television, Blu-ray player, Xbox One 500 and a load of games stacked in a pile. I take a look at the games. Star Wars, Assassins Creed, Fifa 12, NHL 2K7, Quantum of Solace and Green Lantern – Rise of the Manhunters. There are no Blu-rays or DVDs anywhere to be seen. If he has any, they’re probably over in Ebury Street.
Beneath one of the coffee tables, there’s a packet of Camels. I pick it up and take a sniff: the tobacco’s stale. I run my hand down the back of both sofas and come up with a few coins, a single cashew nut and a betting shop pen. There’s a print of Luxe, Calme et Volupté by Matisse on the wall.
The other reception room, bathroom, toilet and the bedrooms yield nothing interesting, either. This flat just isn’t used. The last place I check is the kitchen. Caroline said that Rikki liked to cook, but there’s nothing here to suggest that’s the case. It’s not a bad kitchen, with its red granite surfaces and pine cupboards, but maybe not a bad kitchen wasn’t good enough for Rikki’s requirements.
I check all of the drawers and cupboards. There are three drawers in a row near the oven hob. The right and left contain cutlery and other kitchen stuff, the one in the centre is what seems to be a ‘man drawer’, filled with abandoned mobile phones, various batteries and other crap that he was hoarding for no good reason. I have a rummage around, but don’t find anything out of the ordinary. It’s only when I close this drawer that I notice that it’s very slightly proud to the other two.
I pull it out again and tip it up so I can remove it. There’re a few things taped to the back, wrapped up in plastic bags. I place the drawer on the kitchen table and start to unravel everything.
There are two cheap plastic key rings. One of them has a Mazda key attached, which must be a spare for his car. I put that in my pocket. The other two keys match the ones that Caroline gave me, so are presumably more spares for Ebury Street that she was unaware of. There’s a big lump of strong-smelling black dope, which has been wrapped up in silver paper inside several layers of Clingfilm. I would think it’s about a thousand pounds’ worth. There are two slightly squashed packets of Diamorphine Hydrochloride, each containing five 5mg ampoules. No idea of the street value of this, but I’m guessing it’s high.
There’s another, long item wrapped in bubble wrap. From its shape, it has to be a hunting knife. I give it a bash on the side of the table to make sure. No need to unwrap that. I wouldn’t want to tarnish his spare psycho weapon of choice. I put everything back where I found it except for the car key and close the drawer again.
I take another quick look around the place and decide to leave. It’s while I’m standing in the hallway, absentmindedly staring at a monochrome print of Bettie Page holding a horsehair whip, that I get a small shiver down my spine and it isn’t caused by the sight of Bettie’s stockings and suspenders. A second later I hear the tiniest of floorboard creaks. There’s someone standing right outside the door.
It’s doubtful that it’s Rikki. If you lived here, you’d just get your key out and come in. Whoever it is, they’re standing still and listening, much like me. It’s nice that we’ve got something in common. I don’t want to waste time on devious plans. I’m two steps away from my side of the door. I’ll take those two steps, pull the door open and drag whoever it is inside. Then we can have a cosy chat. I visualise what I’m going to do, how quickly I’m going to do it, take a deep breath and act.
A half second after I’ve turned the latch, the door explodes open, knocking me to the floor. Before I can even think of getting up, an immense Chinese guy charges at me and brings his full weight to bear on my chest, pinning me down with his knees. He grabs my right wrist with one hand and flicks open a nasty-looking Spyderco knife with the other. He brings it down fast towards my left eye.
I catch his wrist just as the blade is two inc
hes away from its intended target. He’s strong. He’s pushing down with everything he’s got. I push against him with everything I’ve got. The pressure on my chest means I can’t breathe properly. This has to stop. In a few seconds, his arm will start shaking as the oxygen runs out in his muscles. The moment that starts happening I’ll know he’s reached the limit of his strength. I really hope this works.
The shaking starts. I relax my grip on his wrist and quickly move my head to the right. The blade comes down hard, buries itself in the pine floor about an inch above my shoulder and stays there. While he’s pondering that, I break his grip on my right wrist, slam the ball of my hand into the side of his face and dislocate his jaw.
He produces a terrifying noise that’s in the no man’s land between scream and gargle. I push him off me and snap the Spyderco blade so the business end is stuck in the floor. A shame: those are good knives.
A few moments ago he looked scary. Now he just looks scared. I grab the front of his shirt, pull him up to his feet and slam him against the wall.
‘Who are you, you fuck?’
He says something, but I don’t understand him. Dislocated jaws and coherent response to aggressive interrogation don’t mix. His mouth hangs open, his eyes are popping out of his head and tears are streaming down his face. I give him a hard slap on the side of his face to get his attention. I can’t imagine how that must have felt, but I still enjoyed doing it: I don’t like knives, particularly when they’re an inch way from one of my eyes.
‘Are you listening to me? Good boy. Your jaw is dislocated. I’m going to fix it so you can speak. This is going to hurt like you won’t believe, but if you struggle, or try any funny business, it’ll be a million times worse. Piss me off and you’ll be in surgery for the next five years and drinking your meals through a straw for the rest of your life. Open your mouth wider. Do it.’
His eyes dart from left to right and he does what I say. I can tell his pulse is racing. I grab a handful of his hair and push his head against the wall for the support I’ll need in a few seconds.
Femme Fatale Page 8
