Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  ‘What’s happening, Doug?’

  ‘The Yue was a big fuckoff axe used for cutting through heavy armour, especially against cavalry. Cut straight through their fuckin’ horses, too, if they didn’t watch out. This program is cutting its way through the Janus programme. Shouldn’t take too long.’

  After about a minute, the screen is completely white, then we’re back to the Marton Confidential homepage again.

  ‘It’s finished, I think.’

  ‘OK, man. Let’s have a look at those files again.’

  I bring the files up and the small Janus logo has disappeared. I click on ‘Brethren 2068’ and it opens up straight away, revealing a long list of names. Much as I’d like to stay and read all this stuff, I really have to get out of here.

  ‘It worked. How can I make a copy of all of these files?’

  ‘You got a memory stick on you?’

  ‘Let me check. No.’

  ‘No worries. I take it you have an email address somewhere.’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘Go into Safari again. Get your email account up and sign into it.’

  I call up a Gmail account which I use for nothing in particular at present. I know what he’s going to suggest. ‘You want me to send these files to myself, yes?’

  ‘You’ll be after my job next, man!’

  It takes ten long seconds for all the files to upload. Once they’re finished, I click on ‘send’.

  ‘OK. So we don’t want any record of what’s just been done. What do I do?’

  ‘Still got my website up? OK. Go into ‘About Us’ then ‘Services’ then the sentence ‘All emergency incidents catered for’ like before. Quadruple click on the word ‘emergency’.

  This time, the screen goes white. Four circles appear in a horizontal line across the screen: red, purple, orange and black.

  ‘Got the circles up? Triple click on the orange one, count to five, then triple click again.’

  Black screen once more, but then it gradually becomes apparent that this is a big black circle, which is slowly getting smaller.

  ‘What’s going on now?’

  ‘It’s putting the Janus security coding back on all the files and locking them. Tell me when the black circle’s gone.’

  This takes about thirty seconds. For a moment, I think I can hear a noise from downstairs, but I think it’s just the house creaking.

  ‘Black circle’s gone. Coloured circles are back.’

  ‘Okeydoke. According to my stopwatch that took us a little over nine minutes, so we’re going to reset the whole computer to eleven minutes before you started the whole process. This’ll delete the Safari history, but only the stuff you used and there’ll be no evidence of any actions by you or me in the background tasks. It’ll be as if you were never there. Quadruple click the purple circle, count to five, then single click it.’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘You can leave now. This will take about five minutes and it’ll turn the computer off when it’s finished.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Hey.’

  I go out the way I came in, closing, and where necessary, locking all the doors behind me. When I get to the storage room on the top floor, I stand on the dining table chair I’d left under the skylight, grab the skylight frame with both hands and pull myself up onto the roof. The position of the chair will look suspicious if anyone pops in here, but what the hell.

  Once I’m up there, I have a quick look and listen, then replace the skylight glass and all the clips. Everywhere is still pretty silent. About half a mile away I can see the ever-changing red, amber and green glow of a set of traffic lights. Always assuming I’m being watched and listened to, I silently traverse both roofs (the jump was better this time), make my way down the side of the building and in a couple of minutes I’m back on the Ducati, keeping to the speed limit and heading back to St John’s Wood Road via Park Lane with The Dorchester on my right. When was it I had lunch with Paige there? Yesterday? The day before?

  It’s nearly a quarter to four by the time I let myself in to Paige’s place. I take a quick look in her bedroom to make sure she hasn’t died and then get comfortable on her couch. If I start thinking about all the stuff that was rearing its ugly head during my time in Yeoman’s Row, I’ll never get to sleep, so I put it all to one side, set the alarm on my watch for nine a.m., think about the sort of lingerie Daniella the cryptographic consultant would favour and pass out.

  31

  ELEEMOSYNARY

  Paige is sitting next to me, holding a cup of coffee.

  ‘What time were you back last night? Is this going to be a regular thing? I don’t know why I got engaged to you. My mother was right.’

  I look at my watch. ‘Go away. I’ve got another ten minutes before my alarm goes off.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject!’ She smiles. ‘You didn’t have to sleep here, you know. On the couch, I mean. You could have got in with me. I wouldn’t have minded. I trust you.’

  I sit up and stretch. ‘Famous last words. I was back here about four o’ clock or thereabouts.’ I take the coffee from her and take a sip. It’s good, with the sort of caffeine kick I need at the moment. Paige isn’t wearing the pink silk pyjama top she wore yesterday or whenever it was. This morning she’s wearing a cleavage-revealing black satin outfit. You’d probably call them lounging pyjamas if pushed for a description; they have that vintage look that makes me think that they’re probably part of the Mademoiselle Véronique lingerie collection. Long, wide trousers and she’s wearing black fluffy mules. Much too sexy for this time of day and I think she knows it. At least she’s not wearing the black cherry and cardamom perfume she had on the other day. That would be a little too much.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  I have to think. Yeoman’s Row suddenly seems a long time ago. I must remember to pay Doug. ‘Nothing specific, but maybe a few more pieces of the jigsaw.’ I place a hand against my mouth to stifle a yawn. ‘What does eleemosynary mean?’

  ‘Eleemo-what?’

  ‘Just a word I came across last night. I’d never seen it before.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  I sip my coffee and watch that wiggle once again as she leaves the room; it’s starting to grow on me. I wonder how she’d respond to the wrong sort of stimuli. Pretty well, I think. She returns a few moments later with a battered old Oxford English Dictionary. I spell the word out for her and watch her face as she flicks through the pages. She frowns as she concentrates and a crease appears between her eyebrows.

  ‘It’s an adjective. It means relating to or dependent on charity. It’s existed from the late sixteenth century and derives from the medieval Latin word eleemosynarious. Any use?’

  I take a deep breath. I remember thinking last night about the freemasonry’s longstanding associations with charity. Well perhaps there’s nothing in it. Perhaps Footitt’s lodge does charity work like many of the others and that’s just their admin file.

  Paige said she met Jamie Baldwin at some charity event. Charity Box Challenge, I think it was called. Is there a link there? Is that how Friendly Face discovered Jamie’s address? Not to mention all Paige’s woes starting from the first time she did a gig for Fly a Kite. Charities are involved in all of this a little too much for my liking. There was some charity stuff amongst Rikki’s junk mail, but the significance of that was probably zero. I’m going to have to have a good, concentrated look at the files filched from that computer later on today.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I reply. ‘I was just curious. Listen – what are you doing for the rest of the day?’

  ‘I’m having lunch with a friend, then we’re going shopping in the West End, then we’re going to The Tate. After that, I’m not sure. I might just have a quiet night in. Why?’

  ‘I’m going to go back to my flat, then I’m going to pay a visit to Fly a Kite. I’ll have my mobile on me at all times. If you see or hear anything suspicious, anything at all, call
me immediately. You remember that dark green Audi Quattro with the tinted windows that was parked across the road last night? If you see that again, let me know straight away. Registration was 500 MPG. And don’t worry. I don’t think anyone’s going to hurt you, but being extra vigilant can’t do any harm. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow? I promised to go and watch Creamy la Douce at The Pheasantry in Chelsea. A load of us are going. It’s an afternoon thing. A promo for her photo book. Starts at one-thirty, finishes at six. After it’s over I’m going home for a restful evening.’

  ‘Don’t make it too restful.’

  She sticks her tongue out at me. ‘Mind your own business.’

  ‘Are you going to use Declan?’

  ‘No. He knows about it, though. I’ll be sharing a cab back with a couple of the girls.’

  ‘OK. Watch yourself.’

  ‘Are you related to my mother, by any chance?’

  I get up and prepare to leave. Just as I’m going out of the door, Paige touches my arm. I turn around to face her and she stands on tiptoe and kisses me on the cheek.

  ‘I know you’re not working for me, but it feels as if you are. I just wanted to say thank you.’

  I smile at her and brush a stray lock of hair way from her cheek. ‘You’re welcome.’

  *

  Back in Exeter Street, I take a long, hot shower, standing under the spray for ten whole minutes in an attempt to wake myself up. Once I’m dressed, I make myself a mega-coffee in a Pillivuyt French Coffee Bowl, switch on the computer and check that all the files I emailed to myself are actually there. Everything looks OK. I really owe Doug; I could never have sorted this out in ten minutes. I really want to start digging around in all this stuff, but won’t have time this morning.

  Fly a Kite is on the King’s Road near The World’s End pub. This area is a short walk from the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Maybe I can pop in on Annalise for lunch.

  I can’t be bothered with using the underground to get there, so go outside and hail a cab. The journey takes about fifteen minutes. I told Declan I’d be there at eleven o’ clock and I’m a bit early, but if anyone has hopes of finding me hanging around this area, then they’ll probably be early, too. I know I would be. Declan is an ex-cop. I’m hoping that will work in my favour and he’ll be able to give Friendly Face and Co a pretty good description of me. I don’t want to have to wave at them if I spot them.

  I find a small café, sit outside, and order a large Americano and some scrambled eggs with smoked salmon on bloomer toast. I can see the Fly a Kite offices on the other side of the road. For some reason, I’d been visualising a charity shop with second-hand stuff for sale in the window, but this is an office, situated in an early twentieth century three-storey townhouse with the bright yellow Fly a Kite logo to the left of the letterbox.

  The building is well-kept, freshly painted, and, from what I can see, the interior looks new and very smart. There’s money here and I wonder where it comes from. I’d never heard of this charity before the other day, but they seem to be doing very well for themselves. Are charities OK with that, I wonder? Shouldn’t they be doing very well for other people?

  As I eat, I take a look around for a dark blue Mercedes S Class, but can’t see one. Of course, I’m only working on a hunch here and this could be a waste of time. Declan may just be an ass and have nothing to do with any of this, but I’m guessing he was straight on the phone to Friendly Face or some other goon as soon as I told him that Paige and I were an item. The Audi Quattro outside Paige’s flat last night would go some way to confirming that.

  My main objective this morning is to find out who Friendly Face actually is, assuming that he turns up. Identifying him would be a huge leap forward. Finding out about Footitt was useful, but I think he’s an auxiliary player, so not as important.

  I just realised that Paige forgot to ask her agent about which company Declan came from. Or maybe she did and forgot to tell me. I’ll call her about it later. On the spur of the moment, I decide to give Tom Nyström a call. Tom may well have been a darling, but his rapid departure from Paige’s employ with its multiple reasons just didn’t ring true. They were the sort of emotion-packed reasons that no one would question.

  ‘Hello?’

  He’s Irish, which surprises me. With a surname like that I’d expected to hear a Swedish accent. I put mild aggression into my voice.

  ‘Is that Tom Nyström?’

  ‘Yes it is. Who’s this?’

  ‘You know who this is. Just checking up to see that everything’s OK.’

  ‘Of course it is. Why shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘It’s just that some people have been nosing about, asking about why you stopped working for Miss McBride so abruptly.’

  ‘What people?’

  ‘They wanted to know why.’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘Perhaps you could remind me, Tom.’

  ‘Listen. Who are you?’

  There’s two seconds where I can almost hear his pain, doubt and fear, then he hangs up. Good. His tone of voice throughout that bullshit conversation told me everything I needed to know. Somehow he was manipulated out of that job. That puts Declan in the frame a little more and makes it likely I’ll be given my initial warning sometime in the near future, even if it’s not this morning. I can only hope that the worrying combination of Paige/New Boyfriend/Fly a Kite will make someone get their skates on.

  I look at my watch. Five to eleven. I pay my bill, cross the road and walk slowly past three or four houses before reaching the Fly a Kite building. I stop, check nothing on my mobile and look from left to right before continuing. I don’t feel that I’m being observed, but I want to give them a fighting chance.

  I don’t actually know what I’m going to say when I go inside. Either I continue with the lie that Paige suggested I tell Declan: that I’m a freelance who connects charities to entertainment agencies for a commission, or I just come straight out with the truth: that I’m a private investigator working on a missing persons job. I don’t have to tell them the whole story. I really can’t make a decision; it must be fatigue. I just hope inspiration will strike when I get inside.

  I trot up the eight steps to the front door and press the doorbell.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh, hi there. My name’s Daniel Beckett. I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping I could have a quick word with Cordelia Chudwell.’

  I was in two minds as to whether I should use ‘The Honourable Cordelia Chudwell’, but then ‘The Honourable’ isn’t really a title, it’s what’s known as a ‘style’, so probably not. No one replies, but there’s a loud buzzing noise, so I push the door open and go inside.

  I’m in a high-ceilinged hallway with a wide, plushly carpeted staircase straight in front of me. The place is clean, air-conditioned and tastefully decorated. There’s a table to my right with a display of white orchids and two Van Gogh prints on the wall to my left. I can see an open door about ten feet away and can hear typing noises and subdued voices coming from it. I walk up to the entrance and tap twice on the door to get someone’s attention.

  ‘Mr Beckett? Good morning. I’m Cordelia Chudwell.’

  The tall, attractive woman who walks towards me with her hand outstretched is about thirty, with a classless, educated accent and an easy, friendly manner. I’m surprised. The Honourable Cordelia Chudwell suggested some sort of English Home Counties horse-riding aristocrat with a braying voice and a family history of enthusiastic inbreeding.

  She’s wearing a bright red short-sleeved pencil dress which cuts off a couple of inches above the knee. Wide hips, no bust and an expensively coiffured mane of jet black hair. To make things worse, she has enchantingly beautiful eyes with long black eyelashes and a yummy mouth. Talking of mouths, I notice mine has gone dry. I wonder if she’s going to offer me a coffee?

  I realise immediately that my charity worker backstory has to be dumped. She’s too smart and she’ll see throu
gh it straight away. I can see guarded amusement in those eyes and a pursing of the lips as she realises the effect her appearance is having on me.

  ‘Hi there. I must apologise for dropping in without warning. I’m a private investigator and I’d be grateful if I could have a few minutes of your time.’

  She flashes me an incredulous smile. ‘A private investigator? Are you kidding?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And is this to do with a case you’re working on at present?’

  She has a soft, smoky voice which is pleasant to listen to and not a little sexy. But she seems slightly uncomfortable talking to me. She seems slightly uncomfortable, period.

  ‘Yes it is.’

  Her eyes hold mine for a couple of seconds. It’s unsettling.

  ‘Let’s go in the conference room. Would you like a coffee?’

  Thank God. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  There are three young women working in the office. They all look up as I walk through. Cordelia turns to one of them, a dark, serious-looking girl with red-framed glasses. ‘Gretchen – could we have a couple of coffees in the conference room, please?’

  As I follow her, I watch the way she walks: arms hanging loosely at her sides and what’s possibly an exaggerated sway of the hips. She has a big, well-shaped ass and I’d like to see her naked.

  The conference room contains a big, erratically-shaped white plastic table surrounded by eight chrome and black leather chairs. There’s a widescreen television screen down one end with a DVD player underneath. The windows are enormous and look out onto a well-tended garden. We sit opposite each other. She’s wearing Black Opium, but I decide to keep that to myself.

  ‘So how can I help you, Mr Beckett?’

  ‘I’m working on a case that involves a woman being cyber-stalked. I’m sure you understand that there’s a limit to what I can tell you.’

  ‘Client confidentiality.’