Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  I had considered giving Jamie Baldwin a call before I got here, but a preliminary call often gives a person that chance to say ‘no’, so I didn’t bother. Experience has told me that people are more likely to talk to you if you just turn up in person. If you give them a warning you invariably get a rejection just because they can.

  I’ve tried to keep my mind free of how I’m going to approach this. It’s going to be awkward, that’s for sure, as my only viable line of questioning concerns the reason he dumped Paige, and the reason I want the information is because it might help me help someone else. Maybe he genuinely dumped her. Maybe that story about the ex was true, but it doesn’t feel right. I can’t imagine how this is going to go, or even if it’ll be of any use. I seem to be getting further and further away from Rikki Tuan.

  This part of Goldhawk Road is trashy, colourful, cool and noisy, smells of takeaway food and is filled with off-licences, betting shops, eating places and a conspicuously large number of textile and fabric merchants. There’s a predominant smell of cooking fat mixed in with burning tar from where they’re fixing the road. Just like in the West End, there’s scaffolding crawling up a lot of the buildings. Perhaps scaffolding is the smart business to be in.

  By the time I get to the Olympic Boxing Club I’ve counted off five pawnbrokers. I stand outside for a moment and take a look at it. Looks new with no signs of being run down. Big, too, and it seems like the main building might once have been a church.

  There’s an internet café across the road, next door to a smart-looking African cuisine restaurant, so I pop in, order a coffee and sit in front of one of the screens. At the moment, and until some better intelligence appears, I’m considering that Jamie Baldwin is in some way responsible for Rikki Tuan’s disappearance. It’s all I have. He has to be a tough guy and if what Paige said about his dumping her is true, he may be a little emotionally perturbed.

  Maybe this old girlfriend really existed (which I doubt), but he still didn’t like the idea of Paige starting a new relationship, a new life. Perhaps he attacked Rikki in a fit of misguided, jealous rage and killed him with that scientific approach of his. That sounds unlikely and paradoxical, but if anyone was capable of taking on Triad Lad, it would be a professional heavyweight pugilist. More messed up things have happened.

  I type his name into Google and see what comes up. There’s a recent sports magazine article about his charity work, detailing the organisations and establishments that he’s helped raise money for. I take a look at an interview with him from seven years ago when he was asked if he felt disappointed about not getting an Olympic gold medal. He joked that ‘Geordie Gold’ would have made a better-looking headline, but he was quite happy with his silver and thought he’d represented England to the best of his abilities and had plenty of praise for the other fighters he’d been up against.

  A guy wearing a Danny Brown hoodie brings my coffee and asks me if I need any help. I tell him I’m fine. He looks over my shoulder and points at a black and white photograph of Jamie. ‘He’s the fuckin’ man,’ he says. ‘The fuckin’ man.’

  Jamie Baldwin is featured in a lot of ‘British Boxer’ articles, but they all concentrate on technical details, basic bio and statistics. He fights with an orthodox stance and has had nine wins by KO. He was trained by his uncle, Terence Baldwin, and then trained by Floyd Brooks, a previous welterweight champion from Halifax. Brooks died two years ago. Baldwin hasn’t lost any fights. He has plans to open his own boxing club and wants to retire before it starts to affect his health.

  Born in Washington in Tyne and Wear, as were Bryan Ferry, Alex Kapranos and Heather Mills. He got a British Boxing Board of Control award five years ago. Likes salads and classic British motorbikes and his favourite band is The Kaiser Chiefs. Loves cricket: playing and watching. Preferred batting to fielding when he was in school. On two separate sites, I find the front page of an issue of The Northern Echo with the headline ‘Local Boy Makes Good’ and a photograph of Jamie wearing his silver medal.

  Then I find an interview with him from Woman’s Weekly, of all places. In it, he talks about his teenage years. He was a bright student – one of the top in his class – but just couldn’t be bothered. He was a bully, he says, and was in trouble with the police several times for fighting and also for nicking cars. Frequently arrested. Had to do community service a couple of times. Lucky to avoid time in a young offenders institution.

  His parents had divorced when he was thirteen and his uncle seemed to take over as a sort of surrogate father and took him twice a week to the New Herrington Boxing Club. Boxing, he says, saved him, and he put everything he had into it, but he never thought he’d climb as high as he did and be in the Olympic team. He sees himself as an example to other lads from the same sort of background. He says that boxing can teach you about responsibility, integrity and morals. He feels proud of himself.

  And, of course, he got Paige McBride. And then he lost her.

  *

  I don’t really know what I was expecting, but when I walk into the reception area I’m quite surprised. This is like an upmarket gym, complete with pretty uniformed receptionist, air conditioning, classical music and a Stoneglow Japanese Maple and Vetivert diffuser on the desk. There are a couple of framed posters for boxing films on the wall: Million Dollar Baby and Raging Bull.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?’

  She’s Scottish. Sounds like she’s from Greenock. Great, delicately pretty features, green eyes and cute cheekbones.

  ‘I’d like to see Jamie Baldwin, please.’

  ‘Is it about membership?’

  ‘No, it’s a personal matter.’

  ‘Could I have your name please, sir?’

  ‘Daniel Beckett.’

  ‘One moment please, sir.’

  I wait as she leans over an intercom and pages him. I glance at her cleavage and imagine kissing it. I can hear her voice echo with a little delay from inside the gym. Expensively cut black hair, burnt orange eye shadow, freckles, sexy mouth. She’s wearing a light, flowery perfume. She looks up and smiles at me. I wonder if I’ll get an opportunity to ask her out. Fuck it: I’ll do it now.

  ‘I don’t think he’s with anyone,’ she says. ‘He should be out in a moment. Would you like to take a seat?’

  ‘I’m OK, thank you. Would you like to go out to dinner next week some time?’

  She looks taken aback, then laughs. ‘I don’t know you!’

  ‘I know. But I still thought it was worth a try. Look.’ I fish a business card out of my wallet and hand it to her. ‘Think it over and if you decide you’d like to, give me a call. I won’t be offended if you decide to say no, though obviously it’ll be the biggest mistake of your life.’

  I laugh and so does she. She’s still looking at the card in amazement when Jamie Baldwin appears. I recognise him straight away; he looks much the same as he did during his heyday. He’s wearing a grey Pro-Box sweat top, black jeans and pair of lime green Converse trainers. You can tell immediately he’s some sort of athlete: all muscle, no fat, healthy skin. He gives me a blank look and looks to the receptionist for help.

  ‘Oh, er, hi, Jamie. This is Mr Daniel Beckett. He said he’d like to see you about a personal matter.’

  I put a hand out for shaking purposes, but he doesn’t do the same. For half a second I think ‘asshole’ then realise there’s something wrong with his right hand. No. It’s not his hand, it’s the whole arm. Probably some boxing injury.

  ‘What can I help you with, Mr Beckett?’

  He’s affable, but cautious. Still got the Geordie accent. I have to get away from here and into his office. I can’t make up some lie because I can tell he’ll spot it.

  ‘Hello, Mr Baldwin. I’m a private investigator. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time.’

  He looks dubious. ‘A private investigator.’

  ‘That’s right.’ I hold his gaze. I want to try and transmit to him that this is serious stuff and that he sh
ould talk to me. It works.

  ‘OK. Well. Let’s go into my office. Would you like a coffee or something?’

  ‘That would be great. Thank you.’

  ‘Two coffees, please, Kina.’

  ‘How do you…’ says Kina to me, now almost in recovery mode.

  ‘Black with a dash of milk. No sugar. Thank you, Kina, and thank you for your help.’

  I get a sweet smile in return. Got her.

  We proceed through the gym, Jamie walking beside me. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye a couple of times and I pretend not to notice. He’s tense, and I pretend not to notice that, either. The gym is airy, spacious and the air conditioning makes it just a little too chilly. OK if you’re boxercising, I suppose. I wonder what sort of food Kina likes.

  The predominant smells are plastic, rubber and leather, as opposed to sweat. It has two full size boxing rings, row after row of assorted punch bags, lots of wall mirrors and a ton of conventional gym equipment, particularly free weights. From the look of it, the floors are hard maple and brand new. This must have cost a lot of money to set up. He’s probably accumulated a lot of sponsorships over the years.

  As it’s lunchtime on a weekday it isn’t too busy. There are two women sparring in one of the rings (one with a bare midriff), one overweight guy skipping and maybe seven or eight people attacking the bags. It’s a nice place.

  His office is partitioned off from the gym by triple glazed windows. He opens the door and indicates that I should go inside. It’s warmer in here. There’s a desk, two small yellow sofas and a black coffee table in between the sofas. There are two pairs of brown Evo boxing gloves hanging from a metal hat stand and a framed poster of the Errol Flynn boxing biopic Gentleman Jim on the wall. I also notice two framed photographs behind the desk. One is of the Olympic boxing team and the other is of Jamie receiving his silver medal. I point to it.

  ‘I remember this. Beijing, yes? No one thought you’d beat that other guy. Was he French?’

  This gets a smile out of him. ‘Italian. Celio Udinesi.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  He makes himself comfortable behind his desk.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Beckett. We’ll wait until Kina brings the coffees in and then we can have a chat. So you’re a boxing fan.’

  I sit down opposite him and lie. ‘Oh yeah. I’ve followed it since I was a kid.’

  ‘Did you ever try it yourself?’

  ‘No. There wasn’t the opportunity, really. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I noticed the way you walked. Low centre of gravity. Something that boxers have in common with martial artists.’ He gives me a snidey look. ‘And dancers, for that matter.’

  I suddenly remember Paige. She walked like that. Kina comes in with two coffees, a plate of biscuits and an exciting two seconds of eye contact which I pretend not to notice.

  ‘Thank you, Kina,’ says Jamie as she wiggles out of the room, a little excessively, in my opinion. Jamie gives her a strange look. There’s a minute of awkward silence as we sip our respective coffees. I have a Bourbon biscuit. Kina’s perfume is Dior J’Adore.

  ‘So, Mr Beckett. What the fuck do they want now?’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me. My right may not be up to much anymore, but I can still knock you through that fucking wall with my left. Now. I’m going to be nice about this. I’m going to give you a chance. Give me the message then get the fuck out of here.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The people you’re working for.’

  ‘How could you possibly know the people I’m working for? No one knows the people I’m working for apart from me. I think we’re talking at cross purposes. I’m on a missing persons case. I was hoping you could help me.’

  His eyes look angry and doubtful at the same time. I suddenly get a surge of elation. This is it. This is the break I’ve been waiting for, whatever the hell it is.

  ‘Who are you looking for?’ he says.

  I decide to play it straight with him, just for the sake of breaking through his protective wall. That’s not really true, though. I’m not playing it straight with him; I’m manipulating him. Ah well.

  ‘I’ve been asked to find a Chinese guy who’s been missing for three days.’

  ‘And what the hell’s that got to do with me? I don’t know any Chinese guys.’

  ‘I went to his flat and looked through his things. I opened his letters. I found a ticket to a burlesque show at a club in St James’s. It had been sent to him by one of the artistes performing there. Véronique D’Erotique. I believe you know her.’

  I hate using clichés, but there’s only one that comes to mind at this point, so here goes.

  The colour drains from his face. And while we’re at it: his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘You. What?’

  I almost feel sorry for the poor sap. I watch his face as he blinks rapidly to clear the tears and gulps down his saliva.

  ‘She was an acquaintance of the missing person. I had to speak to her. I had lunch with her today and she mentioned you. I found it – unsettling that two people she knew had abruptly disappeared from her life in a matter of months. It was suspicious. I wanted to talk to you about what had happened between the two of you.’

  ‘You – you saw Paige for lunch today?’

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘In The Dorchester?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How is she?’

  Well, apart from mainlining heroin and hanging around with guys who feed their enemies their faces, she seems fine. We had a lovely lunch during which she whacked through three vodka cocktails and two bottles of wine.

  ‘She’s good.’

  ‘What did she say? About me, I mean.’

  ‘She mentioned your telephone call to her. The one when you dumped her. How you were still carrying a torch for some ex-girlfriend and couldn’t go on with the relationship. I have to say, Jamie, that your little story sounded like Grade A bullshit to me.’

  He looks startled. ‘What are you talking about?’

  I’ve got him on the defensive and now I stick the knife in. I have to get him to cooperate. ‘Whether it was bullshit or not, you broke her heart and now she’s back on the junk in a big way.’

  Did he even know about the junk? Who knows, but it seems to have done the trick. I can see him clenching his teeth inside his mouth. He looks around the surface of his desk as if he thinks he’s going to find something interesting on it. His breathing is getting rapid. He sits up straight in his seat. He puts the fingers of both hands against his mouth. His eyes dart from side to side. Now his fingers press against the sides of his nose. Then finally, they cover his eyes. He’s sobbing.

  ‘Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.’

  I finish off my Bourbon biscuit and have a slurp of coffee. The coffee’s really good. I think it’s Sumatran. I’ll have to ask Kira on the way out. Or was it Kina? It was Kina. Her bra was dark green and matched her eye colour. I’m reminded of Annalise’s underwear matching her eye shadow. Is this a thing? I let Jamie have a few moments to recover. No point in pushing him when he’s breaking down like some muscular Geordie beauty queen.

  I feel my mobile vibrate and slowly slide it out of my pocket so he doesn’t notice. It’s another text from Daniella with another naked selfie, this time a rear view, though you can still see the sides of her breasts. I return it to my pocket. If I had to choose between Daniella and Kina, it would be a difficult one. I think Daniella would be the better bet in bed, but you never know. It’s interesting to think of them both, with their contrasting figures and looks. I wonder if…no. That would never happen. They don’t know each other. Perhaps I could introduce them.

  I think of saying something like ‘Still going to knock me through the wall with that left of yours, punk?’, but decide to save that for another day.

  ‘What’s going on, Jamie? What’s been happening?’

/>   He has a big sigh, takes a few gulps of his coffee and meets my gaze for the first time in what seems like a while. His shoulders have dropped. He looks smaller. His face looks like it’s starting to melt.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on, man,’ he says. ‘I wish I did. I only know about the bit that concerns me. I’d never encountered anything like this in my life before. I didn’t know how to respond to it.’ He starts chewing a thumbnail. ‘There’s not a moment since it happened that I haven’t felt like an absolute creep, an absolute coward. I can hardly live with myself. I’ve even been seeing a psychiatrist over the last few weeks. Doing it privately. Costs a packet. Well, not a psychiatrist, a cognitive psychotherapist, but I can’t even tell him the whole truth. I don’t want to hear it coming out of my mouth. They had me over a barrel.’

  Well, this is very interesting, but one thing at a time, I think.

  ‘So what you told Paige was nonsense. Let’s clear that up first.’

  ‘Yes it was. I was told, no, ordered to keep away from Paige permanently. Listen. Listen to me. I had no choice. If I thought there was anything I could have done to make it different, I’d have done it.’

  ‘Who told you to keep away from her?’

  ‘I’d have done it. Believe me.’

  A tough-looking bastard with a Silver Surfer tattoo down his left arm pops his head around the door. ‘Shall I put those mats out today while it’s quiet?’

  Jamie recovers his composure and grins. ‘Yeah. Start with the black ones. It’ll start filling up in a couple of hours, but just keep going otherwise we’ll never get them down. Get Marie to help you if she’s around.’

  ‘OK. Dan called in sick eventually, by the way.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Out on the piss last night?’

  ‘Probably. He told me it was his sister’s birthday.’

  Jamie waits until the guy has left then looks at me. ‘D’you fancy going out to the pub? If I’m going to get through this, I’m going to need a drink. Do you drink?’