Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  This road leads into Old Brompton Road, a major thoroughfare. The traffic lights are five seconds away. They’re on red, so we all stop. I can hear him impatiently revving the engine. When the lights go amber, he puts his foot down and goes straight ahead into Gloucester Road. There’s no one ahead of him now so he’s driving a little faster. I get stuck behind the Mini, which can’t keep up with him, so I overtake and keep about a hundred yards between Dr Footitt and myself. I wonder where we’re going?

  At the north end of Gloucester Road things start to slow down a little due to traffic congestion, odd for this time of night. There are a lot of black cabs and I allow three of them to pull out in front of me. There are continual holdups due to parked vehicles and people attempting to cross the road. He hits the horn a couple of times and makes a couple of dangerous manoeuvres. It seems as if he’s in a hurry.

  By the time Gloucester Road morphs into Palace Gate, I start to get worried that he might be going further than my petrol tank will allow. Perhaps he’s going on holiday to the Lake District. Perhaps I’ve got the wrong car. At the end of Palace Gate, he takes a sharp left and I can hear his tyres screech, even though I’m four cars behind him now. Kensington Church Street is busy and built-up, but he takes it fast, almost running down a couple using a zebra crossing at one point.

  For a second, this speed increase makes me wonder if he’s spotted me, but it’s extremely unlikely. I’ve taken all the precautions; assuming at all times that he’s expecting to be followed, is switched on and sharp and can spot surveillance. I’ve kept two to five cars between me and him wherever possible and only got close when it was unavoidable, like at traffic lights or junctions. I think he’s just an impatient driver.

  Five minutes later we’re in Queensway, one of the busiest roads in the area. Even though it’s late, things are just warming up here. Everything’s open: iPad repair specialists, restaurants, souvenir shops, supermarkets, snack bars, bureaux de change, massage parlours, fast food chains, boutiques, camera shops, nightclubs, dentists – you name it.

  This is one of those areas where you can get anything you want, at any time of the day or night, and as I watch Footitt make a quick right turn and park, I’m wondering what it is that he’s after.

  I pull over, flip my visor up and get my A-Z out again, while keeping a discreet eye on him. I’ve no worries about him seeing me: I’m even more inconspicuous here than I was near the hospital.

  He gets out of the car and locks it. He’s parked in a restricted zone, but that doesn’t seem to concern him, so presumably he’s no plans to spend a great deal of time here. Looking out of place in his smart suit, he puts his hands in his trouser pockets and strolls slowly along the pavement, as if he’s a tourist, or a local doing a bit of window shopping to kill some time.

  I lock the bike and saunter along at about the same speed, but on the other side of the road and ten yards back. There are tons of good-looking girls all over the place and I wonder where they’re coming from or going to. Maybe it would be worthwhile checking out some of the pubs and clubs here sometime. Two expensively-dressed Indian girls with amazing big hair and voluptuous bodies giggle and smile at me as they walk by. Jesus.

  Footitt stops in front of a Halal restaurant and checks out the menu in the window. Then he backtracks a few yards and looks in the window of a small currency exchange shop. While he’s studying the latest exchange rates, he keeps glancing from side to side, as if he’s waiting for someone. Now he crosses over to my side of the road. I brazen it out and walk right past him as he feigns intense interest in a closed dental surgery.

  Then it hits me. He’s making himself conspicuous and I suddenly realise why. As if on cue, one of the local rough trade takes the bait. He’s a skinny white kid in his late teens or early twenties wearing a tight-fitting camouflage t-shirt, mauve jeans and Ellesse sandals worn over filthy white socks. Two crappy tattoos: a green snake on his left forearm and some writing on his neck that I can’t make out. He’s got a lit cigarette in his left hand, but he isn’t smoking it and it’s burning up.

  I cross over the road and watch them in the reflection of the Vodafone shop window. Footitt is talking and laughing and whatever it is he’s saying, the kid nods in agreement. A moment later, they shake hands and the kid walks away. Footitt stays where he is. I can’t work out what’s going on.

  I walk further down the road until I find another decent reflecting surface, this time in a betting shop window. Footitt is sauntering again, smiling to himself. He checks his watch a couple of times. Then the kid returns. He’s with a girl; dressed in what a naïve tourist would think punk rockers wore in the 1970s. She’s heavily made up, with too much kohl around her eyes, pale purple blusher on her cheeks and wearing lipstick which is a bizarre combination of dark red on the lower lip and powder blue on the upper.

  Even though my view of her is impeded by distance and window reflection, and despite the makeup, she’s actually quite pretty with a nice mouth. But she’s older than the kid: I would guess mid- to late twenties. Floppy brown biker jacket, naked Kim Kardashian t-shirt, green jeans with the knees out, black Doc Martens with white marbling and an indiscernible tattoo just below her collarbone.

  Footitt is very cheery to her, but she’s sullen. I wish I could hear what they were saying. Their conversation goes on for a while and at one point the girl storms off. Then the kid shouts something at her and she returns. She seems very argumentative and it’s all aimed at Footitt. The kid looks either angry or bored. He places an open hand on Footitt’s upper chest, but Footitt calmly brushes it away, while talking amiably to the girl, who can’t or won’t meet his gaze. It’s getting a little overcast now and I wonder if there’s going to be a summer storm.

  He places a hand inside his jacket and produces a wallet. I can’t see what he’s taking out, but it’s a pretty hefty bunch of notes, perhaps fifties. The girl makes a move to take them, but he’s too quick. He puts them in his suit pocket and folds his arms. He’s laughing. This is some sort of standoff. The kid looks at the girl and mumbles something at her. Did she hear him? She folds her arms, mirroring Footitt, and after thirty seconds of morose deliberation nods her head.

  As they cross over the road, I walk away in the opposite direction, keeping an eye on the three of them in various reflecting surfaces. They’re heading back to the Ferrari. I walk back to the bike, put my helmet on and wait. After a few seconds, I hear the roar of the V8 engine and see it being slowly and carefully reversed out into the main road. Then Footitt puts his foot down and it roars right by me.

  He turns left at the end of Queensway, then we’re speeding down Bayswater Road. I can only assume that the girl must be sitting on the kid’s lap in the passenger seat, or vice versa. I keep a bus and three cars between us. After a minute or so I can see him signalling right. He turns into West Carriage Drive, which takes you through the centre of Hyde Park. This is a real pain: no buses and very few cars. I keep well back.

  There’s a horse riding track on my left and fields to my right. I wish I hadn’t worn the leather jacket now as it’s getting hot. I can feel my mobile buzz in my pocket with a text. I’m overtaken by a black cab and a green Mercedes sports. In the distance, I can see him park in a deserted car park next to a wooded area. In case he spots me and gets nervous, I keep going until I can find somewhere discreet to stop and assess.

  I choose a small area on my side of the road next to a water fountain with one motorbike parked and a couple of cars nearby. I stop there and get the camera out of my messenger bag. A couple of girls jog past. I can see a small group of teenagers smoking dope and listening to music about forty feet away. Footitt and his new pals are about two hundred yards from me and not visible. They’re in a pretty deserted area and I’ve no doubt this is intentional. All the facilities, running/riding paths, members of the public and the way to The Serpentine are on this side. I can see the back of the Ferrari until the lights go off, but I can’t see Footitt & Co. This is good. This m
eans they hopefully can’t see me. It’s a terrible theory but sometimes feasible.

  I press a button on the side of the Nikon and turn on the night vision zoom lens. This lens was specially customised for me a few years ago and will have no problem spotting my quarry at this distance. It also has a colour night vision facility, so I don’t have to put up with everything being various shades of dismal green.

  I look through the viewfinder and quickly locate the car. I pan from left to right until I can see Footitt. The kid walks next to him and the girl trails three or four feet behind. They’re heading for a small enclosed square with some sort of statue in the centre and hedges all around. The hedges are about four foot high.

  Now the kid is in front. He opens a gate and the three of them troop into the square. Footitt talks to them and waves his hands around a lot. It looks as if he’s giving them a lecture on something. Maybe he is. I wonder what he thinks he’s playing at. He’s in a relatively isolated spot, it’s mid- to late evening, but there’s still a fair amount of people around and the park doesn’t close until midnight. Perhaps he gets a buzz from the risk factor.

  I can see him undoing his trousers. The kid gets on his knees in front of him. My view of precisely what’s going on is impeded by the hedges, but I could give an educated guess if someone insisted upon it or was offering me money. The girl stands in front of Footitt, looking straight at him. She’s pretty tall. He’s probably only got a couple of inches on her. I take a couple of pictures.

  As the kid proceeds with the tool of his chosen trade, Footitt raises his head as if he’s decided to have a look at the stars and I can see him rocking gently backwards and forwards. I take a photograph of this pose as it’s so weird. The girl is still looking straight ahead. I don’t understand this. Does he just want a female witness standing close to him or something?

  Then I get my answer. Footitt slowly lowers his head and slaps the girl hard across the face. I can hear the impact from here. She rocks to the side a little, but continues to stay in place. Then he gives her a backhander on the other cheek. This is a harder blow as she staggers a little, but soon gets back into position. I wonder how much he’s paying her. He slaps her again and again for maybe a minute. As far as she can, the girl stays where she is throughout. The kid is still on his knees. Then Footitt gives her an almighty punch on the jaw and she disappears. This was so sudden and shocking that I almost drop the camera. I lower it to waist level and look straight ahead, as if this will enable me to see things more clearly, which is plainly ridiculous. Did that really just happen?

  I get them in view again. The girl still isn’t visible. Once again, Footitt is staring at the heavens. Did he knock her out? My instinct is to run over there, get Footitt’s head in both hands and knee him in the face, but I have to supress it. This is a job. Then the girl reappears. From my limited perceptive, she looks a little dazed. I can see blood dribbling from the side of her mouth. He hits her again. This time it’s a swift and powerful uppercut that would deck a well-built male. She falls backwards and out of sight. I can see that he’s smiling now and I can hear him cry out.

  Fuck this.

  I put the camera back in the bag and sling it over my shoulder. I can’t use the bike: he’ll hear me coming. I keep his position in my mind and run across the road, heading towards the little square. I know he’s paying her, but I’ve got a red mist in front of my eyes, and whatever that freak has to do with this case, he’s going down.

  I’m about fifty yards away from him when I see the Ferrari’s lights come on and hear the engine rumble into life. Damn it. He does a quick, gravel-spraying reverse turn and then he’s coming out of the car park and straight towards me. I guess that was just a quickie for him.

  I’m so angry that for a second I can’t think what to do. I can’t let him see me. I get off the path and press my back against some sort of concrete memorial pillar. A second later he roars by and is back on West Carriage Drive. I can see him turn right and head towards Kensington Road.

  That fucker doesn’t know how lucky he is.

  *

  I get back on the bike and speed off after him, almost doing a spectacular wheelie when I misjudge the acceleration for a second. For a moment, I’m afraid I might have lost him, but there seems to be a delay ahead and I can see the blue flashing light of a police car. Have they stopped him?

  I’m twenty yards away before I can work out what’s going on. It wasn’t him they were after, but it’s stopped him turning left. The police have pulled over a woman in an orange Peugeot 208. She’s arguing with one of the officers and when she rests her hand unsteadily against the roof of her car I realise that she must be drunk.

  Footitt is immediately behind the Peugeot and the police lights are illuminating the inside of his car. He’s alone. Not too surprising, but you never know. His reversing lights come on and it looks like he’s trying to get past this inconvenience by backing away from it, but he’s blocked in by a black cab that’s going nowhere.

  I’m out of his visual range to the left of the rear of the cab. He’s isn’t signalling, so presumably we’ll be going straight on into Exhibition Road. I do hope he’s not going to arrange another pickup. It occurs to me that with the photographs I took, I’m got some pretty good blackmail leverage on this guy if I’m ever short of cash. I may even do it just for fun. I’m still trying to get my head around the stuff he was up to. He’s a major pervert, certainly.

  The police finally realise the holdup they’re causing and wave everyone on through a red light. Exhibition Road is a restricted zone with a twenty mile an hour speed limit which everyone is keeping to due to the cop activity. I keep three cars between myself and the Ferrari. After a while, Footitt gets the courage to speed up a little and in five minutes we’re heading west on Brompton Road.

  For a moment, I wonder if he’s heading back to the hospital, then he takes a right into Yeoman’s Row. This is a narrow, residential cul-de-sac and useless for a good tailing job. I park outside The Bunch of Grapes pub, turn the engine off and watch what he does and where he’s going. I can’t imagine that he’s going to find any casual pickup down here, unless he’s going for a better class of sex fun.

  He drives halfway down the road and pulls over into a resident’s parking space which has been suspended due to road works. He turns his engine off and kills the lights. He gets out of the car and locks up. In his right hand there’s a black leather case. It’s three foot long by a foot wide with a depth of roughly six inches. I can only conclude that it’s a musical instrument case of some sort. I try to think what you could get in there. A mandolin? A trombone? A violin?

  Is it simply that Footitt belongs to some amateur musical ensemble and likes to be fellated in public by a rent boy while slapping a woman around to get himself in the mood for an hour of Vivaldi?

  He crosses the road and walks up the steps of a detached four-storey redbrick house. I’ll wait until he’s gone in before I take a closer look. He takes some keys out of his jacket pocket, unlocks the door and goes inside. It could be that he lives here, but a sixth sense tells me that he doesn’t.

  I wait for ten minutes. Nothing happens. But then a very smart-suited guy in his seventies walks past me. He’s accompanied by a younger man who looks like he’s dressed for the golf course. They’re talking about tennis. They cross over the road and stop outside the house that Footitt went into. The younger man produces a set of keys and they go up the steps and let themselves in. They too carry cases, but these are more like ordinary attaché cases, if a little bulky. Perhaps it’s the conductor and flute player. Whatever they are, it’s an odd time for any sort of meeting. I look at my watch; it’s just past ten.

  I wait for a few more minutes and take a walk along the road on the opposite side from the house. This is a bad road for a nonchalant surveillance stroll. As it’s a dead end, you really have to look as if you’re going somewhere. Apart from the houses, there’s an estate agent, a beauty salon, a clothes shop and a
couple of small restaurants. I take a look in the windows as I walk by. Finally, I get to the house itself.

  A quick glance at the front door of this place tells me nothing. It’s number sixty-one. There’s an ordinary Yale lock with a mortice lock beneath it. No brass plaques or nameplates, so it seems to be a private residence rather than a business. Two small security cameras: one aimed at the front door, the other at the steps and pavement. On one side there’s a similar house undergoing renovation and on the other a mismatched two-storey house that looks like it was built fairly recently.

  I walk to the very end of the road, take an impatient look at my watch in case anyone’s clocking me and then return to the bike on the other side, taking another glance at the house. There’s a light on in one of the second floor rooms, but that’s it. There’s nothing more I can do here at present; he could be here for hours, whatever it is he’s doing. I check my mobile to see what the text was. It’s another selfie from Daniella, this time taken in her bedroom. Jesus Christ. I get on the bike and head back to Exeter Street.

  I park and lock up in Maiden Lane, outside Rules restaurant and across the road from a nightclub which is only just starting to warm up. As I’m walking back towards Southampton Street, I almost collide with a young, ostensibly drunk Chinese guy who puts his hand against the wall of Corpus Christi Catholic Church to avoid falling over. ‘Hey, man!’ he says. ‘You OK?’ I smile at him and nod. Keep at it, my friend; you were almost convincing.

  24

  PAIGE’S PLACE

  I unwrap myself from Anouk so I can check what the time is. My watch says nine-fifteen. I pull the sheet away so I can look at her body. I run a finger down the outside of her thigh. She smiles and stretches. I want to get up and make a coffee, but I’m going to allow myself a few more minutes inhaling her scent and appreciating her curves with my fingers. I watch her body respond as I gently run a finger across her lips.