Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. Perhaps I’m hoping that talking to this woman won’t be a dead end in this investigation. Despite what she’s told me, I get a feeling in the pit of my stomach that she’s pivotal to all of this, but I can’t work out why.

  It may be because I have a thing about thuggish private security staff, but I didn’t like her minder; his presence and attitude unsettled me. Why was that? He was overzealous, for one thing. He was obnoxious and aggressive when he should have been friendly and firm. It’s not as if he was guarding Beyoncé in the wake of several recent brutal kidnap attempts. He put a hand on my shoulder after Paige had invited me into her dressing room: bad manners and very unprofessional. I got the feeling that what he wanted to do was more important than anything she might have wanted. I also got the impression that he didn’t care for her that much.

  I realise I’m looking at her. We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds, then she shrugs and pours the remainder of the wine into our glasses.

  I was rather hoping that the drug thing might have been the key, but it looks like that’s not the case. Even the most hardened drug dealers wouldn’t give a toss about someone like Rikki slinging the occasional free bit of gear to someone like Paige. They probably wouldn’t ever know about it. If he was a business rival in the drug trade it would be something else, but you’re not in any sort of business if you’re giving stuff away to friends. And even if these mythological drug dealers did take umbrage, they’d soon realise that they’d bitten off more than they could chew, particularly if it was the skin from their faces.

  I can’t square Paige’s take on Rikki with what Caroline told me about his MO. It’s as if he’s two different people. Superficial and witty. Narcissistic and violent. He’s obviously a multi-faceted guy. I wonder if I’ll ever meet him. I wonder if I want to.

  There’s a voice at the back of my head nagging me about something that Paige said in the bar. Something that my brain is attempting to link to everything else. I close my eyes to let it fall into place.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Hold on. I’m in The Zone.’

  ‘I should have known.’

  I can hear the waitress taking our plates away. I can tell she’s looking at me. I open my eyes and catch Paige giving me an appreciative once-over. She looks away quickly, but she knows she’s been caught. I innocently raise my eyebrows at her. She laughs.

  ‘Oh, fuck off.’

  ‘When we were in the bar, you said you went through a bad patch in your personal life about three or four months ago.’

  ‘That’s right. Would you like to order coffee or shall we get another bottle?’

  ‘Another bottle will be fine by me.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t think. Would you like a dessert? It’s just that I never eat dessert. Rarely, anyway. I have had them here, though. They do a lovely vanilla millefeuille and a dizzying chocolate fondant.’

  ‘Wine will be fine.’

  She calls back the waitress and gives her the order. She turns to face me again. She’s impatient and purses her lips.

  ‘It was nothing. It was just boyfriend trouble. Can we talk about something else, please?’

  There’s a knot here and I’m going to attempt to untie it.

  ‘Have you ever told anyone about it?’

  ‘I don’t like talking about personal things like that. And I can’t see…’

  Our second bottle of wine arrives. I pour us both a glass. I quite like this stuff. I take a drink and just stare at her. I have to drag this out of her, whatever it is. I don’t know why, but I have a hunch about it. Perhaps a third bottle of wine might help.

  ‘OK. I’m sorry. Let’s talk about me instead. Far more interesting.’

  She smiles at me. I don’t say anything. I stare at her with an expression in my eyes which I hope is transmitting sympathy, trustworthiness and understanding, as opposed to cunning, manipulation and cynicism. It works as it always does. She fiddles with the stem of her wine glass.

  ‘It was one of those times when having my, er, habit came in useful, you know?’

  ‘This was before you came across Rikki, yes?’

  ‘Yes, it was. It’s just a funny thing. It was a funny thing for me, I mean. I was only with this guy for about a month, but I was absolutely besotted, which is un…’ She stops momentarily, purses her lips and takes a deep breath. ‘Which is unusual for me.’

  ‘It happens. When was this?’

  ‘The middle of April. The seventeenth. Almost exactly four months ago, give or take a few days. I’m not much good with remembering dates, but I remember this one. I put a little asterisk on my kitchen calendar after our first date. I just had a feeling about it. About this guy, I mean. Something told me it would be special.’

  ‘And was it?’

  ‘Yes it was. At least I thought so, anyway. As I said, we were only together for a month, but when he…’

  Tears fill her eyes and she just about manages to curtail a sob. She hurriedly digs around in her brown leather tote bag and pulls out some paper tissues. She takes her glasses off and gently presses the tissues against her eyes until it’s all over. She’s shaking. She takes a big slug of wine. By the look of things, I can’t blame her. She nods her head and manages a bitter laugh.

  ‘Can you see why I don’t like talking about it? I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m OK now. I think it was traumatic because it was so sudden. There was nothing leading up to it, you know? No clues that something was wrong between us. Or maybe there were clues and I was too dumb to spot them. It can happen. I’m sure you’ve had girls dump you for no apparent reason.’

  ‘Never. I always insisted on a comprehensive letter explaining everything, or an hour-long voicemail at the very least.’

  She laughs. Good.

  ‘It used to happen to me when I was a teenager, but as I got older I flattered myself that I could spot the signs,’ she says. ‘Why am I telling you this?’

  ‘You’re trying to ruin my lunch.’

  ‘I knew there was some important reason.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘For a living, you mean? This is bound to sound corny, but he was a boxer. You may have heard of him. Jamie Baldwin?’

  I’m not a fight fan but I know the name and vaguely remember him. A light heavyweight. Blond hair. A Geordie. Did the Olympics a few years back.

  ‘Wasn’t he in the Beijing Olympics?’

  ‘That’s right. He got a silver medal. He retired from professional boxing a few years ago and opened his own club. It’s doing really well. He’s a talented trainer. A lot of his pupils are going to be pretty big, he reckons.’

  ‘Well how about that. Wasn’t he from Newcastle or somewhere like that?’

  ‘Close. He was from Washington.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘Well. It was a bit convoluted. It’s due to my agent, really. Like the other girls, I do charity appearances from time to time. Spreads the word, gets exposure and we get to pick which charity we’d like to do things for. Well, most of the time, anyway. One of the charities was affiliated to a thing called Charity Box Challenge, where they train inexperienced people to box and they put on a boxing match to raise money for various charities. They train them for about two months, I think. Jamie was one of the trainers.’

  ‘A silver Olympic medallist. He must have been quite a catch for them.’

  ‘He was. Anyway, my agent wanted to go and see the final event and she dragged me and April Paquerette along with her as there was a party afterwards for all the charity people and she didn’t want to go on her own. That’s where I met him.’

  ‘So you were inseparable after that night.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what happened? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  But I’ll be pissed if you don’t.

  She pours us out the rest of the wine. ‘He just rang me up. We were meant
to be going out to dinner the next night. It was my birthday. As soon as I heard his voice I assumed something had come up and he wouldn’t be able to make it and we’d have to cancel. We were going to Oka. Do you know it?’

  ‘The Japanese place off Regent Street. Yes. It’s good. Excellent uramaki.’

  Tears fill her eyes again. ‘We had a table booked for eight-thirty. He just said he had some bad news. He’d been thinking really long and hard about our relationship and felt it couldn’t continue. He said it was because of a previous girlfriend that he couldn’t get out of his head. He’d split up with her a few months before he met me but realised he was still in love with her. He said he knew it was fucked up, but every time he was with me he felt as if he was being unfaithful to her.’

  More tears. I take her hand over the table and squeeze it. She squeezes back. Now I need a little bit more.

  ‘Had he mentioned this girl before?’

  She sniffs. ‘That’s the funny thing. It was a complete surprise to me. We’d told each other about our respective exes, but this…’

  She stops to mop her eyes again. I indicate to the waitress that we’d like two coffees.

  ‘This was news to you,’ I say. ‘You didn’t know about this one.’

  ‘No. I thought perhaps he hadn’t mentioned her because it was too painful for him. Something like that. We talked for a little while longer. I tried to get under his skin, to see if we could work it out in some way, but he was adamant. He said it wouldn’t be fair to either of us if this continued. He said it was definitely over and I wasn’t to get in touch with him again.’

  ‘How did he sound? What was his voice like?’

  ‘He sounded as close to tears as I was.’

  I can’t think of a good way to put my next question. Oh well.

  ‘Do you think he was making it up?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That the story about the girl was fiction? That there was some other reason he had for finishing it? It just seems strange that this was someone you didn’t know about. Not impossible, but strange. I know you only knew him for a matter of weeks, but did he strike you as someone who would keep something like this locked away?’

  ‘You can never really know people, can you? But having said that: no. This was totally out of character. Is that what you’re looking for?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘He never seemed distracted when we were together, you know? I’m not dumb. I can always tell when a guy is two-timing me or thinking about someone else.’

  I close my eyes as the coffees arrive. There are a couple of things that immediately come to mind. If Jamie still had mixed feelings about Paige, could he have been behind Rikki’s disappearance? Was this some messed-up jealous rage thing?

  Rikki was a tough guy, I have no doubt about that, but most people would come off second best in a surprise tussle with a light heavyweight silver medallist boxer, especially if that boxer was emotionally motivated and perhaps a little out of control. Jamie Baldwin did a lot of media when his star was in the ascendant. I have a vague memory of him being a bit of a jack-the-lad when he was younger. Some sort of police trouble. I’ll have to look it up when I get a chance.

  ‘How soon after this happened did you meet Rikki?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe two or three weeks later.’

  ‘Is there any way on earth that Jamie could have known about Rikki?’

  ‘No. I mean; I don’t think so. Were you in The Zone again there for a minute?’

  ‘Occupational hazard. You must pop in some time. It’s crazy. Did Jamie have a temper?’

  ‘A temper? No. He was a very peaceable type. Apart from when he was in the ring, of course. Even then he was very controlled. I’ve seen films of him when he was fully professional. He had, I suppose, what you might call a scientific approach. Never any anger. Just sizing up the opponent and doing what had to be done to win.’

  I think about Anouk and her green-eyed asshole husband. ‘Jealous? Did he get angry when other guys spoke to you? Did he dislike guys ogling you when you performed? I’m assuming he saw some of your gigs.’

  ‘Yes he did and he loved them. He said he felt really lucky when he saw the reaction of the audience to my performances. He was proud of me, he said. He liked it that I was his.’

  I watch as she drops two brown sugar lumps into her coffee and stirs. She absentmindedly runs a hand through her bun, allowing the hair to fall to her shoulders. She shakes her head from side to side. I treat myself to a little increase in heart rate.

  ‘Are you coming on to me?’ I say.

  ‘Oh yeah. Obvs. I’m really in the bloody mood for that.’

  ‘I can always tell.’

  I feel sorry for her. She’s obviously had her heart broken by this. What it sounds like, feels like, is that Jamie Baldwin had some other reason for dumping her and it had nothing to do with him carrying a torch for some ex. It’s probably immaterial, but I’m going to have to speak to him. I attract the attention of the waitress and ask for the bill.

  ‘I’ll get this,’ I say to her. ‘I can get it on expenses.’

  I don’t tell her who’ll ultimately be picking up the tab. She has enough on her plate already. She takes her glasses off and pops them in the top pocket of her jacket.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve told anyone about this,’ she says. ‘Needless to say, it caused me to treat myself to a little more oblivion than I usually enjoyed. That’s why I felt so lucky to find Rikki. Philip Hopwood, the guy who introduced me to Rikki, he knew all about it. He’s a darling. He was worried about me. I think he was afraid I’d get hold of any old junk and something would happen, you know? Rikki had access to really good stuff; really pure. I’d never had anything near as good.’

  ‘How can I get in touch with Jamie Baldwin?’

  She looks like she’s been slapped. ‘No. No please don’t talk to him. I…’

  ‘I won’t mention a single thing that you have told me. Listen. There may be no connection here at all, but I have to follow it through as it’s all I’ve got.’ I take a sip of coffee as I hand the waitress my credit card. ‘You have a boyfriend who unexpectedly ends your relationship in a way that you find disquieting. Well, it’s had the same effect on me. Then you hook up with Rikki Tuan. Not a boyfriend, but a friend all the same. A friend of sorts, anyway. He disappears into thin air. My client tells me that this is wholly out of character. Now either you’re very unlucky with the males in your life or those two events are in some way connected. As I said, it might be nothing, but I’ve…’

  She rummages in her tote bag and produces a small black business card wallet. She takes out half a dozen red and white cards which all look identical. She laughs and sniffs.

  ‘How many would you like?’

  ‘One will be fine.’

  I take a look: Olympic Boxing Club, 439 – 443 Goldhawk Road, London W12 4AA. Telephone: 020 8522 2121. I put it in my wallet. That would make the nearest tube station Shepherd’s Bush.

  We make our way out to the foyer.

  ‘Where are you going now, Paige?’

  ‘After three cocktails and two bottles of wine? I’m going home for a sleep, darling. I’m working tonight.’

  She’s close enough so I can smell the alcohol on her breath. Mixed with her perfume it’s a deadly combination. I want to grab her and kiss her. Thank God I’m a professional.

  ‘I may have to speak to you again, if that’s OK.’

  ‘Of course. Oh. I should have given you this in there.’ She hands me her business card. I was expecting something in leopard-skin, but it’s monochrome, smart and professional. I hand her mine. She pings it with her fingers to see if it makes a noise. It doesn’t.

  ‘I’m sorry I lost it in there,’ she says, apologetically. ‘Well, a couple of times, really. I’ve been supressing it all or just getting…well – you know.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I’ve been working hard to try and get it all out of
my mind, but sometimes…’

  She bursts into tears. Proper crying this time. Well, maybe she needs to let it all out. She’s a bit pissed as well. I don’t try to comfort her or invade her space; I just wait for it to finish. The reception staff are discreet, used to minding their own business. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of the two heavily tanned besuited fuckwits who’ve just spotted a damsel in distress and a hot one at that.

  They give me a quick, disdainful up and down, assuming I’m the cause of her anguish. They are going to sort things out.

  ‘Come on now, pretty lady,’ says the porkier of the two. ‘What’s all this about. Has this idiot been making you cry?’

  The less porky one pokes me in the chest. He has one more poke to go. No: two. I’m in a good mood. ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’ he says to me. I don’t respond. I hate things like this. The porky one tries to put his arm around Paige’s shoulders to comfort her. Paige recoils and moves closer to me. They’ve both been drinking: not excessively, just enough to make them think this is OK behaviour.

  ‘Are you fucking dumb as well as stupid?’ says the less porky one, poking me in the chest a second time. The guy at reception is looking up now. He nods at his assistant. The assistant, who’s a little burlier than his boss, comes out from behind the desk and walks over to us.

  ‘Is there a problem, gentlemen?’ he says to the less porky one.

  ‘No problem, friend,’ says less porky. ‘Just trying to find out what this…’

  He starts to poke me in the chest a third time. A centimetre before he makes contact, I catch his index finger in between my middle and ring fingers and press down hard, just below the second joint. He’s on his knees with the pain. I don’t think anyone saw what happened.

  ‘Too much to drink,’ I say to the receptionist, who nods sagely. I touch Paige’s arm and lead her out into the street.

  ‘You’re a bastard,’ she says, once we’re outside.

  ‘Yeah.’

  18

  THE BOXER

  I get out of Shepherd’s Bush underground station, cross over Uxbridge Road and walk across the common. It’s still lunchtime, it’s sunny, and there are a large number of office workers sitting on benches, eating sandwiches and smoking, sometimes simultaneously. A small dog barks at me as I walk by and its owner scolds it.