Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  I straighten out the wall calendar on Paige’s kitchen table. It still has an overwhelming desire to roll itself back up, but we finally manage to pin it down with the help of two mugs, a small burnt orange tagine and a bottle of Bourgogne Rouge 2013.

  I watch her as she takes a look at what I’ve already done. She’s not wearing any perfume, but there’s a warm, feminine smell coming from her which I’m finding a little too enticing. I really, really have to focus. Then my brain kindly lets me know that she’s certainly naked beneath her fashionable silk pyjama set. I take a deep breath. I’m taking a lot of deep breaths.

  ‘OK. I have you starting with Jamie on the seventeenth of April. Who was your boyfriend before that and how did it end?’

  ‘Is it all going to be this personal?’

  ‘I haven’t even started. Think of me as a priest.’

  ‘Difficult.’

  ‘That’s what all my parishioners say.’

  ‘Well, before…hold on.’ She gets up and goes over to the kitchen surface, opens a drawer and comes back with a small appointments diary. She flicks through it for a few seconds.

  ‘I remember this date because I was performing at Kettner’s in Romilly Street. I’d rung him and dumped him that afternoon. I didn’t want to have it on my mind while I was performing. I have to be focussed. Yes, I can see you looking. I still use a proper diary.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Gilles Fugère. Here we are. It was March the first.’

  I mark it on the calendar. ‘Why did you dump him?’

  ‘Lousy in bed. Life’s too short, you know? Rather like his performance time.’

  This makes me laugh. ‘OK. And before we continue, Jamie’s abrupt dumping of you was something that you’d never experienced before.’

  ‘You saw the show, Mr PI. What’s your guess?’

  ‘Beautiful and modest with it. That’s a killer combination.’

  ‘Have you always been this witty?’

  ‘Snappy comebacks, too. Let’s get engaged.’

  So logically (and hopefully), the antagonism towards Paige’s boyfriends or alleged boyfriends must have started sometime after Gilles, otherwise he’d have been approached by Friendly Face and it would have been him who would have dumped Paige and not the other way around. At the moment, I have to assume that’s the case. I have to have something vaguely factual and logical to hang on to.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about your minder or whatever he is. Declan?’

  ‘That’s right. Declan Sharpe.’

  ‘What’s his job?’

  ‘I guess you could call it general security. When I’m performing in the UK, he picks me up and drives me to the venue. When we get to the venue, his job changes from chauffeur to that of bodyguard, basically. When the gig is finished he becomes the chauffeur again and drives me home. Sometimes he might drive one of the other girls home.’

  ‘Why have you got someone like that?’

  ‘It’s the level I’m at. I’m well known enough to be hassled by fans and have the money to be able to afford someone like him. If I don’t feel like talking to people, it’s better for my image that someone else tells them to go away rather than me. Also, once in a blue moon someone in the audience will get carried away and try and make a grab for you, so it’s handy to have security. I’m not the only one. Many burlesque performers do it like this, but there’s no pattern. Everyone’s different. It also depends on what country you’re in.’

  ‘Where did he come from?’

  ‘Who hired him, do you mean? My agent hired him. I’m with Kelly Senac. She would have got him from an agency somewhere. I can give her a call and find out which company, if you like.’

  ‘That would be really useful, but not now. Do it when I’ve gone and text it to me. Anouk mentioned that he replaced another guy who she described as dishy. Who was that?’

  ‘Oh, that was Tom Nyström. He was a darling. Everyone liked Tom.’

  ‘Was he from the same agency?’

  ‘Do you know, I’m not sure? I’ll have to check with Kelly again. Really, all this sort of thing is her department. I’ll ask her when I talk to her about Declan.’

  ‘Why did Tom leave?’

  ‘He had family trouble, poor dear. He was recently separated from his wife and his father was seriously ill.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  She looks taken aback by my scepticism. ‘He did. He was very sorry to leave. I think he rather liked all the razzmatazz of working for me.’

  ‘So you only had his word for it.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘When did Declan start and how soon after Tom left did he start?’

  ‘That’s easy. The first gig that Declan was with me was at Club Noir. Hold on…’

  She flicks through her diary again. I don’t know where this line of questioning is going, but it feels right.

  ‘That would have been on the twenty-fifth of March. Declan officially started on the twenty-fourth, that was five days after Tom left.’

  ‘So Tom left on the nineteenth of March, would that be about right?’

  ‘I guess so. Yes. We didn’t ask him for notice, poor love. You could see he was distressed and I wasn’t really that busy, so...’

  I scribble these details onto the wall calendar. I can see her watching me. I intentionally don’t look up as I speak.

  ‘So Tom didn’t give any notice. He told you about his problems and the next day he was gone.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  I tap the pen against the table surface. ‘And five days later, Declan turns up.’

  ‘Just in time for my next gig. Lucky, really.’ She leans across the table and looks straight into my eyes. ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Do you think Declan’s involved in all of this? In Rikki’s disappearance and all the rest of it? God Almighty. I mean, I don’t particularly like the guy, but…’

  I smile reassuringly at her. I’ve been practising this smile and it usually works. ‘He’s not necessarily involved. I just want to eliminate him from my enquiries, as the police say.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I see.’

  Was that convincing? I trust Declan about as far as I could throw him and intuitively dislike him, but don’t want to alarm Paige unnecessarily. I could be wrong about him, of course. He may just hate the job and be a bitter, hateful individual for some reason that I can’t imagine. Nevertheless, his rotten attitude has linked him in my mind to Friendly Face, so I’ll continue to treat him with suspicion.

  ‘What did Declan do before he came to you? Any idea?’

  ‘Previous jobs? I don’t know. But he did mention he’d been a policeman. I don’t know how long ago that was, though. We don’t talk very much. I’m not involved with him at the venues and in the car I’m a bit of a silent passenger. On the way to a gig I’m stressed and on the way back I’m knackered.’

  ‘Was he a policeman in London?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Can you give me Tom Nyström’s mobile number, please?’

  ‘Are you going to ring him?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d just like to have it in case I have to cross check any facts with him.’

  She flicks to the back of her diary, finds his number, writes it down on a piece of paper. She pushes it over to me and I slip it into my pocket. I don’t know if I’ll call this guy, but I know exactly what to say to him if I do.

  ‘Now this is going to be a real pain for you. Do you have a list of all of your gigs since the first of March?’

  ‘On my computer, yes. Shall I print it out?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘Are you sure you want this? It’s close on six months’ worth.’

  ‘It could be important.’

  She gets up and wiggles her way into one of the other rooms. I can hear the sound of a computer and a printer starting up. I don’t know what I’m looking for and looking at her gigs may be a waste of time, but I’m hoping something will lea
p out: a pattern, a genie, anything. At least I feel I’m closer to Rikki, being here and talking to her. I can hear the printer spewing out sheets and I’m hoping there won’t be too many.

  ‘Here we are.’

  Each month’s gigs are across two A4 sheets. Well that’s not too bad. I spread them across the kitchen table in chronological order and look at them. The first thing you notice is how busy she is. It looks as though she has an average of seven to nine days off a month.

  ‘Do you ever go on holiday?’

  ‘Is that an offer?’

  ‘Of course, but I’ll insist on separate rooms.’

  ‘Aw.’

  I scan a bewildering selection of venue names. It looks as if she hardly ever plays the same place twice. In the UK, many are in London and the Home Counties, with a few further afield in places like Lincoln or Bristol. There are entire weeks spent in European cities like Paris, Helsinki, Prague, Dublin, Belgrade and Amsterdam. I wonder how much money she makes.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower. Can I leave you to it?’

  ‘Of course. Don’t forget to rinse your hair properly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I take in one month at a time, my eyes darting to and fro from the gigs to the notable dates on my calendar. I can see the residency at Bordello that she’s just finished. I can see the gig at the Electric Carousel, which was when she saw Rikki for the last time. She’s got three nights coming up at the Café de Paris in a week. Maybe I’ll go and see her. I start thinking about the performance I saw her give two nights ago. That was really something. I can barely remember the other two acts. Picking up Anouk was a good move, though. Or was it her that picked me up?

  There are two framed prints on the wall next to the refrigerator. Both feature monochrome photographs of burlesque artistes and both have an accompanying quote by the subject. The first one is of Lilli St Cyr, posing in an opened silk robe in front of a Chinese lantern, her breasts almost three quarters exposed. The quote says “Sex is currency. What’s the use of being beautiful if you can’t profit from it?” The second photograph is of Sally Rand, naked and partly concealed behind a pair of white fluffy feather fans. The quote: “Whatever happens, never happens by itself.”

  That’s quite a quote. I try and crowbar it into this case, but it’s not playing ball. I look at the date that Tom Nyström left. The nineteenth of March. Paige had gigs outside London on the twentieth and the twenty-first; presumably without a driver or protector of any sort. Then three days later Declan Sharpe starts. She had nothing on that day, but the next day she was performing at the Pompadour Ballroom in the Café Royal, Regent Street, so that would have been Declan’s first gig, so to speak.

  There was a gig at the Café Royal earlier that month, too, on the eleventh. In fact, there are four in all, the only time on the list that she’s been at the same venue more than once, but not as a residency. So we have gigs there on the eleventh and twenty-fifth of March, the ninth of April and finally on the third of May.

  The Café Royal is quite an upper-crust place and a substantial change from the other venues she performs at. I remember reading that The Pompadour is a Grade II listed room, which is quite an achievement for a room. All the other rooms must be burning up with envy.

  I don’t hear Paige as she comes back and twitch when she gently places a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Found anything?’

  She’s wearing perfume now: I can smell black cherry and cardamom. There’s also a light odour of coffee and cloves, which must be from the shampoo or shower gel she’s been using. I turn around to look at her. She’s wearing a short cream dress with a red flower print on the front. Damp hair. Still no makeup. You’d never guess it was the same person who lip-synched to Chaque Bouton Lâche in such an arresting way the other night.

  ‘Nothing’s jumping out and offering to solve the case quite yet, unfortunately. I was surprised to see you played at the Café Royal a few times. Were those special gigs?’

  ‘In a sense, yes. They were charity events.’ She pulls a chair across so it’s next to mine and sits down next to me. The scents of her recent shower are even closer now and I have to try and block them out.

  ‘Which charity?’

  She doesn’t answer, but leans across me and points at my calendar.

  ‘You’ve missed something out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some private eye you’re turning out to be. Don’t you remember? When you and Anouk came backstage? The magnum of Perrier Jouët? The anonymous admirer sending the champagne? Ring any bells?’ She moves close and whispers in my ear. ‘Could be a lead.’

  ‘I’d forgotten about that. When did that start?’

  ‘Here.’ She points to the thirteenth of March. ‘I was performing at the Century Club. I remember it clearly because we were all a little drunk after that gig and the champagne helped.’

  I write ‘The Century Club/PJ champagne starts’ against the date in question.

  ‘So the magnums of Perrier Jouët started two days after you first played at the Café Royal and it’s been a regular fixture since then.’

  ‘That’s right. As I think I mentioned, it only happens when I’m in the UK. It isn’t every single gig, but enough of them for you to notice. It may be that that particular secret admirer doesn’t know about some of the gigs or has run out of money.’

  ‘And there’s never a card or any clue where this particular champagne came from.’

  ‘No card. I think FedEx deliver it. I’ve never bothered to look into it, to be honest. I get lots of stuff sent to gigs: flowers, drink, fluffy toys, lingerie – you name it. I don’t bother to investigate them all; it would take forever. But most of them have a card with a name and a message, particularly if it’s a posh make of champagne and especially if it’s a magnum or Jeroboam. Followers who go to that sort of expense usually want you to know who they are. If something nasty got sent to me, I’d probably report it to the police, but other than that...’

  ‘OK. The next time the Perrier Jouët arrives, let me know. Keep the packaging and all the paperwork. You didn’t have a gig on the twelfth.’

  ‘No. Well, there was going to be one at Cirque du Cabaret, but it was cancelled. They had a big power failure and we need electricity, you know? I was…’

  She stops in mid-sentence, as if she’s suddenly remembered something important.

  ‘Jesus Christ. How could I possibly have forgotten this? Hold on a minute. I just have to get something from the bedroom.’

  She stands and leaves. I turn to watch her walk away. Once again, I note that she has a cute wiggle. I want to slap her ass. She returns a few seconds later holding a beautiful fur jacket.

  ‘It’s Russian silver fox,’ she says, stroking one of the sleeves.

  I stand up and take it from her. It’s heavy. I run the back of my hand down the soft fur. Definitely the real thing.

  ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘It turned up when I was playing the Wam Bam Club at the Bloomsbury Ballroom on the thirtieth of April. It was my birthday. It was in a very smart presentation box.’ She looks amused as she remembers. ‘I didn’t think it was real at first, but one of the other girls confirmed that it was. The terrible thing was that that gig was a benefit for PETA. You know? The ethical treatment of animals people? I could have died. I’ve never worn it anywhere and I never would. I hate the idea of animals being killed for – for this, beautiful as it is.’

  ‘Any idea who sent it?’

  ‘No. One of the door guys was handed it by a courier. He didn’t have to sign for it and couldn’t remember the name of the company when I asked.’

  I take a look at the label. Sometimes, fur coats have a serial number which you can use to trace it back to its origin, but not this one. I place it carefully over the back of one of the chairs.

  ‘How much would a jacket like this cost, Paige?’

  ‘One of my friends, Zareen Atta, is a bit of a fur coat fan, I’m afraid. She sai
d it would have been anything between eight and ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve received such an expensive gift?’

  ‘Pretty much. Yes.’

  We sit down again, both of us looking at the coat, both of us wondering about it.

  ‘Oh!’ she says suddenly. ‘And there was this. This was a little unusual. Hold on.’

  She disappears again and comes back holding a painting. It’s oil on canvas in a smart golden frame. The subject is a red-haired girl, naked, draped in a blue sheet with her back to the viewer. She’s reclining against some cushions. I can see Weguelin’s signature at the bottom right. I take it from her and lightly touch the surface. When I worked as an insurance investigator in Italy I developed quite a nose for fakes and this doesn’t seem to be one. It’s certainly not a print.

  ‘This turned up at a gig?’

  ‘May the tenth. Privée of Knightsbridge. They hold avant-garde cabaret and burlesque evenings. It’s a supper club, really. I was performing there with Kiki LaRoque and, um, Trixie Blue. It arrived while I was on stage. No clue who sent it. No card, no nothing. Why? Do you recognise it?’

  ‘It’s called Rodantha. It’s by an artist called Weguelin. Rodantha was a nymph who was turned into a rose by the goddess Diana. She did it so Rodantha could avoid unwanted male attention.’

  ‘It’s a copy, yes?’

  ‘Yes. A very good one.’

  ‘I keep it behind the sofa. I’ve got no space to hang it, really. Quite nice, though. I’ll probably find a home for it eventually.’

  ‘Sure. It’s nice. Look after it.’

  It’s not a copy.

  ‘You were telling me about the charity gigs at the Café Royal.’

  ‘The charity is called Fly a Kite. It focusses on children with disabilities caused by genetic disorders. They approached my agent. They’d heard that burlesque was an up and coming thing and wanted to try a burlesque evening to raise money. But it had to be classy. They were a little apprehensive, I suspect. They’d done things at the Café Royal before and people liked the venue, so...’

  ‘Did they ask for you specifically?’

  ‘No. Three of us were chosen by Kelly Senac, my agent. This was last year. The gig was four months away when it was fixed. The three of us she chose were free on that date, on the eleventh. She decided upon me, Kara la Fraise and Misty von Tassel.’ She laughs. ‘I suppose we were the classiest acts she had on her books, though I don’t really like that term. If we’re classy, what does that say for the rest of the girls? I find it a little snobby. It’s also a bit insulting. You could take classy as meaning tame, and neither myself, Kara or Misty could be described as tame.’