Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  Normally, I wouldn’t bother with such an insane, high-risk plan, but I promised myself I’d have both of Rikki’s places scoped out by lunchtime. There are security cameras nearby, but they’ve aimed them at the gate, the car park and the rear entrance. The old lady and the bearded guy haven’t even glanced in my direction, so I keep walking to get some time to think before turning back.

  I’ll give myself two minutes. I have no idea what’s in that box – there are so many new types now – but I should be able to sabotage it within a couple of seconds of opening it up. Hopefully, this will cut the electricity to the whole block, particularly the reception area, if I’m lucky. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to think of something else.

  It’s possible that the security cameras might go down, too, but if they don’t, it doesn’t really matter. After all, I’m not really going to commit a crime here. I just want to avoid the scrutiny of the reception staff. I want their eyes and attention elsewhere when I walk in and head for Rikki’s flat. As far as the staff and residents will be concerned, it’ll just be an inconvenient and inexplicable power failure.

  They probably have a backup supply, an emergency generator. How long it will take them to get this in place, and who’s going to do it is irrelevant. It may be instantaneous, it may be not; it really doesn’t matter. I just want a shutdown that’ll throw everybody for a short while, turn off their computers and make them fuss, so I can get inside without anyone noticing.

  I turn back and walk towards the barrier. I put my hand in my jacket pocket and pull out my keyring. There’re two small burglar’s tools attached to it which I’ll need in a few seconds. I’ve also got a small tubular pick that I can use if necessary. I put on a pair of thin latex gloves that I always carry with me, set the countdown feature on my watch to two minutes and press the button. Here we go.

  I take a left into the main entrance. There’s a paved, shrub-strewn pathway that bypasses the anti-car barrier. I head for the service connector as if I have serious, can’t-wait business with it. I crouch down in front of it. I realise that I can’t be seen by any passers-by thanks to a badly parked silver Volkswagen Golf. When you’re doing something like this, there’s always a tendency to keep looking behind you which you have to quash. Waste of time. If there’s someone there, there’s someone there; no point in letting it slow you down, even by a couple of seconds. Plus, it looks suspicious and unnatural; like you’re guilty or something.

  Two locks: a big, fuckoff padlock and a camlock. Using the burglar’s tools, I deal with the padlock in about ten seconds. Its size makes it easy for me. I put it on the floor by my foot. The camlock is slightly more time consuming. I push the tubular pick into the lock and move it from side to side until I hear the clicks that tell me that the pick has got the measure of it. Then I pull it out, tighten the plastic collar, push it back in again and turn. This is just as good as actually having the key. I put the pick back in my pocket and open the door.

  What greets me is a totally unfamiliar collection of coloured plastic, wires and screws. No convenient instructions like ‘Pull this out, cut this, turn this off’. Never mind. There’s a row of green lights at the top. Logic tells me I have to do something that will make them change colour.

  I pull two thick yellow wires out of a piece of circular transparent plastic. Nothing. There’s a long piece of black plastic with clips on both sides. I undo the clips and jerk the piece of plastic off. The lights start flashing orange, then they start flashing red, then they stop flashing. I think that’s it. I can hear a creaking noise behind me. The barrier has opened on its own, even though there’s no car there. That’s always a good sign.

  I throw the piece of black plastic into the shrubbery, close the door and get the locks back their original state. I take off the latex gloves and put them in my jacket pocket so I don’t look freaky. I walk around the side of the building and in through the main entrance. My watch starts beeping. Two minutes. Not bad.

  There are two reception staff; a girl of about twenty and a moustachioed blond guy of about forty. She’s called him over to look at her computer screen, which I’m guessing has just failed. A hot-looking middle-aged black woman comes out of a room behind the reception area to complain that all the lights in her office have just stopped working. The blond guy looks up at the ceiling lights, says ‘fuck’ and gets on the phone, which isn’t working either. I can hear two contrasting bleeping noises coming from somewhere. Two well-dressed women stand at the reception desk, looking from left to right and tapping their fingers impatiently on the surface.

  While they’re baffling themselves into a coma, I walk past them, past the lift (not working) and hit the stairs, taking the steps two at a time until I’m on the fifth floor. I take the keys that Caroline gave me out of my pocket and two seconds later I’m in Rikki’s flat.

  And what a flat. This is like something you see in the back of whatever Condé Nast magazine you favour. ‘Fabulous’ is the first adjective that comes to mind, ‘hot’ is the second. And I don’t mean that the furnishing is a weird sexual turn-on. It’s as if someone has turned the heating up to see how far it would go and then forgotten about it. I can only hope that my forced power cut will cool things down while I’m taking a look around. I take my jacket off and sling it on a white leather chair a few feet away from the door. I stand still for a few moments and expand my consciousness, to see if I can pick up any signs of life. Nothing.

  I decide to take a casual approach as it’s so bloody hot. I take a look at the hallway first. It’s white, classy and spacious. Put a couple of sofas and a television in here and it would make a decent sitting room. There are around half a dozen pieces of mail on the floor. Some are junk mail and a couple look like proper letters. They’re recent; the postmarks tell me they got here yesterday. I pick them up and place them on the dark wood table that’s attached to the wall on my right.

  There’s a crystal vase full of fresh, strong-smelling, white lilies on this table, plus a couple of big blue ceramic bowls with nothing in them. The lilies are giving off a stronger scent than usual due to the heat. Behind the table is a huge mirror, which reflects the print of Andromeda by Poynter that’s on the other side. I turn and take a look at it for a moment. For some reason, I always think of Andromeda as being covered in chains, but this interpretation of her legend only has her wrists tied behind her back. For some reason I suddenly think of Caroline.

  On the left-hand side of the hallway is what seems to be an office, but that’s an understatement. This is the sort of office you’d expect a top New York lawyer to have. There’s a big desk with a computer (and another vase of odorous lilies) plus shelves filled with books which look like they’re never read. I pick one out. It’s a hardback of La Rabouilleuse by Balzac and it’s in the original French. It smells new and there’s no sign that it’s ever been read.

  Behind the desk is another large print. This time, a lascivious-looking satyr is performing cunnilingus on a naked and ecstatic nymph in a forest. I’ve never seen this before. Looks late nineteenth century. No idea who the artist is. I take a photograph of it with my mobile. I’ll check it out later. You can never know enough stuff.

  I sit behind the desk and attempt to start up the computer, but of course nothing happens. Despite this, I notice that the hall lights are on. Whatever damage I did outside, the lights must be on a different circuit from the computer. I can hear doors slamming. Probably people going downstairs to complain.

  There’s an Oscar Wilde quote mug on the desk. “We are all in the gutter…” I’m not saying that Rikki doesn’t have a true appreciation of art and literature, but I have a strong feeling that the stuff in here and in the hall was chosen for him, probably by one or other of his new pals. Maybe he asked one of them to make this place look sophisticated. Maybe it was an interior designer who decided what books would look good on the shelves and which art would make him look like a class act. It’s impossible to tell. I’m beginning to wonder whether Rikki actually
owns this flat, rather than renting it.

  The main reception room is vast, which by now is no surprise. All white with a medium-dark wooden floor. Two big Bouguereau prints on the wall with more naked mythological women. Two huge white sofas with a large glass coffee table in between them. The lower level of the coffee table has a small stack of hefty art/photography books: Sumo by Helmut Newton, a book on burlesque by Dita Von Teese, Gilbert and George (Obsessions and Compulsions), Paul Klee: Life and Work by Boris Friedewald and a book of saucy Bettina Rheims photographs. As you might expect, there’s a big golden sculpture of a dragonfly next to the unused fireplace and a side table in the shape of a black pig next to one of the sofas.

  There’s an enormous curved HD 3D Smart TV on the opposite side of the room with a designated sofa, and more bookshelves showing off Rikki’s (or someone’s) good taste to the left of it. There’s also a glass shelf filled with dozens of Blu-rays and DVDs. I take a quick look. Lots of world cinema and Chopsocky: Mademoiselle Chambon, Le Goût des Autres, Successive Slidings of Pleasure, Flying Swords of Dragon Gate, Hand of Death and Death Duel of Kung Fu. On the shelf below, a Bruce Lee Blu-ray box set. There’s also a DVD called Immodesty Blaize Presents: Burlesque Undressed, with a photograph of Immodesty herself on the cover, wearing an amazing outfit topped off with a sizeable feathered headdress. You could have one hell of a Saturday night here with the right sort of takeaway.

  The dining room is much the same as the rest of the place: classy prints and shelves full of classy books. There are two big glass swans on their own table by the window. A gold leopard sculpture on the floor. Two movie studio style spotlights in each corner of the room. A Jackson Pollock on one wall and a poster for Riso Amaro on another. The dining table has black metal wrought iron legs with what looks like a white marble top. It seats twelve.

  There are four small crystal vases filled with lily of the valley lined up in the centre. They’re looking a bit ratty and there isn’t much water left. Must be the heat. Convallaria majalis. If you don’t have any convenient poisons to hand, lily of the valley will always do the trick. They contain three glycosides which will give you heart failure in ten minutes, and that’ll be the least of your body’s worries. My hand twitches as I hear a couple of unexpected clicks from somewhere in the flat, but it’s only the electricity coming on. About time: I was going to make a formal complaint.

  Before I do anything else, I decide I’ve got to have a look at the kitchen. It’s pretty enormous and dwarfs the one in Great Titchfield Street. Once again, you could live in here. It’s bright, spacious, expensively decorated in maroon, white and beige, with polished marble floor tiles, a circular dining table and six matching chairs, four bookshelves filled with recipe books and plenty of cupboard and drawer space. I should be an estate agent. There’s a print of The Chocolate Pot by Liotard on the wall.

  There’s a red Delonghi coffee maker on one of the surfaces, so I find some coffee and start making myself a cup. It’s interesting; if someone asked you what the person who lives here did for a living, the first thing that would come to mind would not be that he went apeshit crazy with a meat cleaver or made people eat their own faces.

  I go back into the office and wait for the computer to fire up. I’ll check the rest of the rooms later. I want to have a look at Rikki’s files, if he has any. Perhaps the computer is just for show, too. I sit down at the desk with my coffee and look at the screen. It’s black. I switch it on and off again. This time it makes a soft starting-up noise. I wipe some perspiration away from my hairline. If I could be bothered, I’d open a window.

  While I’m waiting for the computer, I take a sip of coffee and pull open one of the drawers. It’s full of pamphlets for various arty things around London. There’s a letter from The Royal Opera House asking for Rikki’s support, a flyer for a Mozart evening at The Wigmore Hall and a reminder about a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at the Tate.

  Underneath this pile are two copies of PictureRama’s Burlesque Map of London. One is out of date and one is current. These attract my attention, so I open the recent one up. It’s full of sexy adverts for fetish outfits, stage wear, women’s vintage clothing, and details of assorted cabaret venues.

  There’s a big map of central London on one side, with a number key showing where all the various clubs are located. On the other side there are details of various gigs under the heading ‘Entertainment and Shows’. Four of these events, all in the recent past, have been circled in red pen, presumably by Rikki. All of them are straight burlesque performances, according to the meagre details, but it doesn’t say who had been performing.

  I remember the print of Betty Page in the Great Titchfield Street flat, the Dita Von Teese book under the coffee table, the Immodesty Blaize DVD and now the Burlesque Map of London – is Rikki a big burlesque fan? Lee Ch’iu told me that one of Rikki’s new crowd was a guy who made fancy hats with feathers for showgirls. I think of the feathered headdress on the cover of the Immodesty Blaize DVD. Did Lee mean burlesque performers?

  Just as I’m trying to work out whether all of this has any significance, or might even be a lead of some sort, the computer screen lights up and what’s being used as the wallpaper makes me stop in my tracks. I can actually feel the saliva beginning to flood the inside of my mouth. I just hope I don’t drool over Rikki’s highly-polished walnut desk.

  It’s a high-resolution black and white photograph of a ravishingly beautiful woman. She has a delicate heart-shaped face, dazzlingly pretty dark eyes and a full, sensual mouth. I sit back in the seat as if I’ve been punched in the chest. She’s staring straight at the camera, unsmiling. It looks as if she’s wearing lipstick, but no other makeup, apart from maybe a light application of kohl around her eyes. She’s also naked. Well, almost naked, but we’ll come to that later. Her hair is straight, black, shoulder-length with a dead-straight fringe that stops a millimetre above her eyebrows. It occurs to me that it could be a wig. I take a photograph of this startling image with my mobile.

  Despite the blank expression, there’s a slight upturn to her mouth that gives her a mocking, knowing demeanour. I feel as I she’s reading my mind and knows exactly where my eyes are going next. She has high, plump breasts, tied and pushed upwards and outwards in a complex shibari harness with black nylon rope, as if she’s a model in some upmarket Japanese bondage instruction manual. Maybe she is. There are wide, diamond-encrusted pasties covering her nipples: another link to the world of burlesque.

  I take a quick look around the screen to see if there’s any information about her, but there’s nothing. Just the photograph. But that’s enough to make me momentarily forget where this office is and why I’m sitting here. Am I an executive of some sort?

  I take a deep breath and bring up Google Chrome. All of the burlesque events that Rikki had circled took place over the previous two months. Four venues: The Kitten Club, SinTease, Le Tableau Noir and Les Seins de L’Amour. I just hope that they all have sites which keep details of previous events.

  I check The Kitten Club first. There were six acts performing on the night in question. If all the burlesque evenings were like this, I’m never going to remember everything. I look around for something to write on. I open another drawer. It’s full of menus from swish restaurants. Well, I’m sure Rikki won’t mind me scrawling over the back of one of them.

  After five minutes, I have the names of all the performers from each night at each red-circled club. There are four names which crop up on each of these evenings: Coco Delacroix, Sugar Ramone, Véronique D’Erotique and Crystal Chanel. What does that tell me? Probably nothing. It could be that they all have the same agent or something.

  I Google each of them in turn. It’s obvious that these are big names in their world. Each woman has page after page of images. I take photographs as I go along. I’m not sure that it’s my brain which has instructed me to do this. I realise that most of what I’ve done since I got here has involved taking photographs of scantily-clad or naked women, r
eal or mythological. Maybe it’s time to quit.

  It’s when I get to Véronique D’Erotique that I stop. This is the woman on the computer wallpaper. I enlarge a spectacularly sexy photograph of her wearing a red and silver boned plunge corset. Her hands are clasped behind her neck. This raises her breasts so they’re almost spilling over the top of the corset. She’s wearing bright red lipstick and this time she has red hair. She looks amazing.

  There’s a flippant and provocative smile on her face and an overt, crude eroticism which is only hinted at in the monochrome photograph on the computer, sexy as that is. It’s insane, but I can feel my heart racing. God alone knows what it must be like to see her in the flesh. I do a rapid and comprehensive search for more images of Miss D’Erotique, to see if I can find the one that’s on the wallpaper here, but there’s no sign of it or anything like it. Is this a special photograph? Something that she only gives to the chosen few? Is Rikki somehow a friend of hers?

  It would be useful to be able to look at his emails, but there’s no sign of an account on the desktop. If he’s on Gmail or something, he could access it through Google. I take a look at the search, but there’s nothing. Either Rikki cleans up after himself or he doesn’t use the computer very much. Most of the stuff on here is games software of one sort or another. I’m beginning to think that this computer is another one of those things that someone advised him he should get to look cool and sophisticated. I clear the search history I’ve created and switch it off.

  I decide to keep the burlesque maps and go and fetch my jacket from the hall so I’ve got somewhere to put them. While I’m there, I take Rikki’s mail. If he doesn’t have much use for email, then perhaps I’ll find something useful in his postal mail.

  I sit down at the desk again and flick through his letters. There’s a flyer inviting Rikki to a burlesque festival in Dallas, two pieces of charity junk, a new menu from Domino’s Pizza, a free trial for some Amazon thing and finally a hand-written envelope with something like a birthday card inside it. I rip it open. It isn’t a birthday card; it’s a single ticket to a burlesque evening at a nightclub called Bordello in Ryder Street, which is a little bit south of Piccadilly. And it’s tonight. There are two lipstick kisses on the ticket and it smells of perfume. Was Caroline wrong about Rikki being gay? Are he and Véronique lovers, or is he just her greatest fan?