Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  ‘A couple of months.’

  Try almost five months, Declan.

  ‘I’ll bet she feels safe from harm with a big guy like you working for her,’ I say. ‘Were you in the army?’

  ‘Police.’

  ‘Oh, really? Which branch?’

  ‘Serious Crime Division.’

  ‘Sounds exciting, mate. Were you in the Met?’

  ‘Greater Manchester Police.’

  ‘What made you leave?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  Busted out, then.

  ‘Just curious. Actually, it’s pretty lucky that I’ve made contact with Paige in this way. Between you and me, it’ll help me in my work. Don’t tell her, though!’

  I look him straight in the eye and flash him a weapons-grade smirk.

  ‘What’s your work?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s a bit complicated. I don’t know if you’ll be able to grasp it. I’m a kind of freelance enabler. Paige told me she’d done some shows for this charity. Fly in the Sky or something? No. Hang on. Fly a Kite. Anyway, I put people in charities in touch with agencies like Paige’s to help them organise and be involved in charity events. I hadn’t heard of Fly a Kite, so this is a good contact. In fact, I’m going to see them tomorrow morning about getting in touch with this other agency I work for. I haven’t made an appointment. I’m just going to turn up at about eleven. It’s the best way. Catch them unawares!’

  ‘Well, good luck with that,’ he says with total disinterest and contempt, but I can see the cogs spinning.

  ‘Thanks, mate.’

  He stands up, sick of my conversation. ‘I’ve got to go out there. They’ll be starting soon.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He stands up and goes out. I count to ten and then follow him. For a moment I can’t see him, then I spot him strolling around by the entrance. He’s on his mobile. I zoom in on his face. It’s a serious conversation. As he speaks, his left hand shields his mouth, as if he has a pathological fear of lip readers (like me). Obviously, I have no idea what the person he’s speaking to is saying, but whatever it is it seems to please him. He grimaces, nods his head a few times, then puts his mobile away, glancing from left to right to see if anyone has been watching him. He’s a cautious guy; I like that about him.

  I go to the bar and get a glass of Veuve Clicquot then take my place at the side of the catwalk. Emma is already there. She smiles at me, takes my champagne out of my hand and drinks half of it.

  ‘Do you know Volupté, Daniel?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s like a supper club, cocktail bar and burlesque venue all in one. It’s in EC4. I’m stripping there next Wednesday, if you’re interested.’

  I smile at her. She knows that I am. She reaches into her clutch bag and produces two sparkly tickets.

  ‘Here we are. Bring a friend if you must. You can pop in backstage afterwards. I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t tell Paige. Don’t think I’m a bitch.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘But I can be if that’s what you want.’

  She grabs one of my hands and squeezes it. That’s her fooled, then.

  In a few minutes, Paige comes onto the stage to wild applause. She looks amazingly sexy and funky in a sleeveless brown leather mini-dress tied at the waist with a wide cream leather belt. She’s wearing the black wig she wore at Bordello, or one very much like it. Heels are seven inches, I’m guessing, and the overall effect is sexy and imposing. The glittery black eyeshadow she’s wearing looks as if it’s been finger-painted on. There’s a bald guy with her wearing a leopard-skin toga over some black briefs. His look is completed by black cowboy boots covered in rhinestones. I assume this is Adonay Robel. I wonder if Mr X is here.

  ‘Thank you all so much for coming this evening and yes – it is me.’

  This gets a big laugh, which is lost on me for a second, until I realise she’s referring to the fact she’s wearing clothes. She talks for maybe three or four minutes and then Adonay praises her inventiveness and his own talent for another five. Then she leaves the stage and the lights dim.

  As the music starts and the laser lights flash, Paige appears and sits next to me. ‘I just told Declan you were taking me home tonight,’ she whispers.

  ‘Are you wearing that dress on the way back?’

  ‘Too racy for motorbike travel?’

  ‘Does nothing for me at all. On the other hand, I’ll be going back to Maida Vale via St Albans.’

  Whoever booked the models for this show isn’t relying on the usual catwalk girls. There’s a wide variety of figure and age going past. A girl wearing a fabulous high-legged crimson body reminds me of Anouk; she has the body of a burlesque performer as opposed to a fashion model. She winks at Paige as she struts past us. I start thinking about Anouk having her tattoo done yesterday. I liked the look on her face as the pain got to her.

  A couple of girls who look like genuine twins go marching by in matching black basques. None of the emotionless middle-distance staring for them, either. They chat to each other as they get to the end of the catwalk, turn, and head back the way they came. I can see Declan to my left, about twenty feet away, his gaze vacant and bored. I wonder who he was speaking to.

  ‘What do you think?’ asks Paige, as a white-haired mature model swaggers by in a see-through floral patterned bra and matching thong. She waves at Emma who shrieks and waves back. It’s getting warm in here now, so I take my jacket off.

  ‘They all look great. Classy, crude and sexy all at the same time.’

  ‘That’s it! That’s exactly what I was going for.’

  Thinking about Anouk’s tattoo makes me think about the girl in Rikki’s flat. The tattoo she had on her arm was a single red rose surrounded by black musical notes. I wonder what it meant. This case is progressing slowly, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to encounter whoever slashed that girl’s throat at some point, and things aren’t going to go well for them when I do.

  My train of thought is interrupted by the sight of a model wearing only suspenders, stockings and heels. She stops right by us and bends down to give Paige a kiss on the mouth. Everyone cheers.

  The something I hadn’t thought about before clicks into place. The girl that Footitt picked up in Queensway. The one he was using as a punch bag. I couldn’t see her very clearly because of the distance and the fact that I was watching her reflection in a shop window, but she had a tattoo as well. I couldn’t make out what it was. It was near her collarbone. And the kid that Footitt solicited. He had a couple of cheap-looking tattoos on his neck and forearm.

  I’m not suggesting that everyone involved in prostitution has a tattoo, but was Footitt the source of that girl in Rikki’s flat? Was she someone that he procured during one of his night-time cruising episodes? He seemed to have no qualms about punching a girl like the one in the park. Would he be that worried about leading one of them to her death?

  Of course, it sounds insane. He’s a senior hospital consultant. He’d have too much to lose by committing murder. Unless it wasn’t him that did it. Maybe someone like Friendly Face knew Footitt’s predilections/contacts and just asked for a girl to be delivered to Rikki’s place and took it from there.

  Whatever, as Footitt is still my only wholly identifiable lead, I’m going to push in that direction. That place in Yeoman’s Row, whatever it was; I’m going to have to pay it a visit and I’m going to do it tonight.

  After the last scantily clad model leaves the runway, there’s a standing ovation. Paige and Adonay take to the stage again, thank everyone, hug each other and start crying. The music and lighting change once more as the dance music starts up. I find Paige talking to a bunch of people over by the bar. When she sees me she kisses me, grabs my arm and introduces me to everyone. Declan is standing by the side of the stage watching. If, as I suspect, he’s reporting this activity to someone, he’s going to have a lot to tell them. Quite apart from my conversation with him, he’s got the evidence of his ow
n eyes thanks to Paige’s collusion. She’s doing well. I hope this works.

  An hour later we’re on the Ducati, heading back to Maida Vale. I can’t say I’m not getting a buzz from having her arms tight around my waist. Once we’re back at St John’s Wood Road, I park the bike outside the main entrance to her block.

  I take my helmet off and in the same moment have a quick look across the road. It’s a no parking zone, but there’s a dark green Audi Quattro over there with the engine turned off. Tinted windows, but I can see two people inside, both staring ahead. The guy in the driver’s seat, thinking he can’t be seen, turns and looks directly at me.

  When we get inside, Paige goes into her kitchen to fix us something to drink. She comes out with two double vodkas and ice.

  ‘So. Did it all go as planned, do you think?’ she asks.

  ‘Did you see the car across the road?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could be nothing, but it’s an odd place to park and sit at this time of night. I’ll keep an eye on it before I go out.’

  ‘You’re going out? Where are you going?’

  ‘I have to break in to this place. The later I get there the better, I think.’

  ‘I think I’d prefer it if you stayed here all night. I’m confused by all of this and I don’t feel safe.’

  ‘I’ll come back here when I’ve finished. If the people across the road don’t stay there all night, they may be back in the morning. If that’s the case, I’ll want them to see me leaving here. I’ll want them to know that I stayed the night.’

  She places her drink on the table, walks over to me and puts her arms around my neck. For a spine-tingling moment I think this is going to turn into a kiss, but it turns into a hug, with her pressing her face against my chest. She looks up at me, her expression fragile and apprehensive.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s a lot to ask, particularly as I don’t know you very well. It may be something you’re not comfortable with or are unable to do. I’ll understand, I really will.’

  ‘D’you want me to guess? It could take a while.’

  She smiles. ‘It’s something I told you that Rikki used to do for me. It’s just that I…’

  ‘Go and get changed and get the stuff.’

  A few minutes later she appears in a diaphanous black see-through gown with a sash belt tied around her waist. She’s naked underneath. The atmosphere is astonishingly and weirdly erotic. Maybe this is her way of thanking me for doing this, who knows? She sits on the sofa and smiles shyly at me as she gets the gear out of a transparent plastic box.

  Once she’s drawn some of the diamorphine into the syringe, she hands it to me, along with a bottle of alcohol and some cotton wool.

  ‘Where do you take it, Paige?’

  ‘Well, in my armpit would be OK. Please don’t worry. It’s only a low dose. I won’t die on you.’

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  ‘I just – after tonight and combined with everything else.’

  She pulls down the robe on her right hand side, exposing her shoulder and breast. She rests her left arm across the front of her body and raises her right arm, looking away as I daub a suitable area with alcohol. I can see her armpit hair is starting to grow back. I hear her gasp as I push the needle into a vein and slowly push the plunger down.

  When I’ve finished, she rubs her armpit and is able to look in my direction again. ‘Thank you. I know I’m fucked up. You’re kind.’ She finishes her vodka, gets up and heads for the kitchen. ‘Do you want anything to eat or drink?’

  ‘I better have a strong coffee. I’m going to be up for a while.’

  ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘OK.’

  She returns a few moments later with a couple of coffees and a plate with some Belgian chocolate and hazelnut cookies. She finds a DVD of Populaire and sticks it in her player. As the film starts, the drug kicks in and she groans with pleasure and stretches, looking up at me and smiling.

  We’re just like an old married couple.

  29

  BREAK-IN

  I park the bike down the far end of Egerton Garden Mews and dump the helmet out of sight behind a white van. It was quiet when I was here last night and now it’s like the grave. The only sounds are coming from Brompton Road: a few cars, the occasional thundering HGV and late-night partygoers shouting and singing. I look at my watch. It’s twenty-two minutes before three.

  Before I set out, I picked Paige up and put her to bed, helping myself to a Maglite mini torch I found in her kitchen and one of her front door keys. When I left her flat, there was no sign of that dark green Audi Quattro. If they were involved in all of this, I reckon they were just there to check whether I dropped Paige off or went inside.

  I try to visualise the house that Footitt went into. Two security cameras by the front door and no way in through the windows without being conspicuous and/or noisy. Any loud burglary sounds you made here would be heard a few streets away and in a posh area like this they’d be more than likely to call the police.

  The house to the left of my target was undergoing renovation and there was scaffolding and dark green plastic sheeting all down one side. I’ll have to go in that way.

  I take a deep breath, turn out of the mews and into Yeoman’s Row, keeping a close eye on all the doors and windows and listening out for any anomalous sounds.

  There’s a slight breeze and I can hear the sheeting flapping against the side of the building from about ten yards away. This is good. It means I can get away with making small noises without attracting undue attention.

  I walk down the side of the house with all the confidence of someone who lives there and after I’m twenty feet away from the road I stop and look upwards. I know it’s only four storeys high, but it looks a lot higher from down here. I really must try and avoid falling off.

  It looks as if they’re sandblasting the outside of the house and the sheeting is to stop the resultant mess drifting out into the street. There’s a gap in between two of the sheets. I pull them apart and slip through. Now I’m out of sight.

  It’s dark in here, but I don’t want to use the torch, so I wait until my eyes adjust. There’s an aluminium ladder to my left and they’ve carelessly left it leaning against the scaffolding. I make sure it’s sturdy enough then slowly and quietly start my ascent.

  Unfortunately, the ladder is only big enough to reach the third floor and dragging it up to help me get to the fourth and/or the roof would be time-consuming, cumbersome and make too much noise, but it’s better than nothing.

  I get off the ladder and walk along the working platform that’s been constructed outside the third floor windows. The planks have been tightly lashed together so there’s absolutely no creaking and the whole thing feels safe and stable. There are no curtains or blinds on the windows here and the rooms inside look empty. It may be that the whole house is being renovated from top to bottom, inside and out.

  Now I have to get up to the fourth floor. This is going to be a little dangerous because of the lack of light and the lack of ladder. I’m going to have to shin up one of the vertical scaffolding tubes. I wipe my hands on my jeans to get the sweat off and make the ascent as quickly as I can, gripping the tube until my knuckles are white. I almost have to stop because of the pain in my deltoids and lower back, but keep going until I can pull myself up onto the fourth floor platform.

  I straighten up and give my back and shoulder muscles a quick stretch. Now for the difficult part. No ladder, no scaffolding. I look upwards and can see a couple of old-fashioned chimney pots on the edge of the roof. A car backfires about half a mile away and the sound makes me quickly and instinctively reach under my left armpit for a gun that isn’t there. I take a slow deep breath to help dissolve the adrenalin fallout.

  Then I spot a shape to my left. I give it a rapid onceover with the Maglite. It’s a damaged scaffolding trestle with a fair amount of thick orange nylon rope wrapped around it
. I look up at the chimney pots and then down at the rope again. It takes me about five minutes to unravel it, but it’s my only chance of getting up onto the roof, short of developing superpowers.

  The rope is only fifteen or sixteen foot long, but that should be enough. I tie two fat knots in one end and take another look at the chimney pots. If they’re damaged or fragile, this could be a terrible mistake, but I’ve decided that it’s worth a go.

  I take three steps to the left, twirl the nylon rope around like a lasso, and throw it up at the pots, with a view to looping it behind them so I can get the knotted end back down here. It takes me five frustrating attempts before it finally succeeds. I work the rest of the rope upwards and the weight of the knots very slowly brings the business end down far enough so I can jump up and grab it. I notice I’m sweating.

  I tug at both ends of the rope to see if the chimney pots can take my weight, even if it’s only for about thirty seconds. It seems as if they can. If it turns out they can’t, I’ll know soon enough and so will everyone within a half mile radius.

  As slowly and quietly as I can, I make my way up the wall, grabbing both sections of rope hand over hand, my feet pressed against the bricks for balance. I’m almost half way up when I hear a grating noise that sounds like broken pieces of terracotta grinding against each other. Not good. I stop moving and count to ten. Nothing happens, so I continue my ascent.

  After what seems like an age, I’m on the roof. I pull the rope up and leave it in a discreet pile a few feet from the edge. I sit down to recover and rub my aching muscles. After a minute, I get up and make my way across the roof tiles, crouching low and occasionally patting one hand on the surface for support and balance. There’s a slight slope up here which I didn’t expect. I’m glad it hasn’t been raining.

  I walk to the other end of the roof. I take a look at the gap between this house and the one next door, which is, of course, where I’m headed. The gap is maybe eight or nine feet and I’m going to have to jump it. I just wish the light was better. I get out of my crouch and stand up straight. It’s a great view from up here; I just hope it’s not the last thing I ever see.