Femme Fatale

by Dominic Piper

  My thought processes seem to be working OK, or at least they are at the moment. I do a mental recitation of Mohs’ scale of mineral hardness in reverse order. No hesitation and no mistakes. Good. More details of Lady O’s attack are coming back to me. As far as I’m aware, I can recall every moment from ringing the front door bell to dropping to my knees after I’d decked her.

  Now I have to decide what I’m going to do next. I stare at the ceiling. There’s a wooden rack up there with a dozen bunches of drying lavender hanging from it. It’s only now that I notice the smell. I want to focus on what just happened. It’ll give me something to do while I start to recover.

  Doug said that Lady Ombersley had been under Footitt’s care for six and a half years. With that knowledge, her behaviour makes sense, or is at least a little more explainable.

  Once again I try to guess what might have triggered her attack, but I’m at a loss. In useless hindsight, I can see that she must have been concealing the poker behind her back when she was standing in front of the fireplace. Her posture was strange, but so was her whole demeanour, which is probably why no alarm bells started ringing. That’s no excuse, though; I was sloppy and paid the price.

  Now I turn my fragmented attention to Chudwell. He knew who I was and he knew what I did. The telephone call he wanted to make must have been to Tansil. I can only assume that Tansil told him about our street meeting and got Chudwell to call Cordelia to find out the real reason I was visiting Fly a Kite.

  Tansil’s not stupid. Once he realised I’d lifted his wallet and identified him, he knew it would only be a matter of time before it led me to Chudwell. He must have told Chudwell to give him a bell when I inevitably showed up. If they’ve discovered that I’m a private investigator, they’ll guess that I’m not really Paige’s boyfriend and they’ll have to assume that I’m on to them.

  The kitchen door flies open. I turn my head to see Chudwell striding in, followed by Footitt, both of them trying hard to look serious and tough. Each one of them grabs a jacket sleeve and I’m hauled up to a standing position. I really don’t want this. The shock of this sudden movement is overwhelming and I can feel my eyes rolling up into my head. I lean forwards and throw up over the floor and over Footitt’s shoes. I can see the salmon sushi I’d eaten earlier. It makes me smile. It’s like some old friend that I haven’t seen for a while, if I was the sort of person who had friends. It’s almost comforting to see it. A reminder of better times.

  ‘Come on, you,’ says Chudwell. I can see the fat on his face wobble as he speaks. I’m dragged over to the far side of the kitchen, spun around and plonked down on a brown Cheltenham chair that’s up against the wall. There are two of these chairs. I wonder if they were bought at the same time. I don’t like sitting up. I want to lie down on the floor again.

  ‘Is he likely to try anything, do you think?’ asks Chudwell.

  ‘Not in this state, my lord,’ replies Footitt. ‘He’ll barely know where he is after a bash on the head like that. Lady Ombersley is a star.’

  Chudwell grabs the other chair and sits opposite me, about five safe feet away. He’s puffing and panting from his exertions. Footitt leans against the breakfast bar and just stares. I watch his face. I remember him in Regent’s Park. I remember the girl he punched. I remember the girl in Rikki’s flat. No one’s saying anything. I decide to break the ice.

  ‘So what is it? Does your wife not like you having friends around?’ My voice sounds a little thick. I’m panting but at least I’m not slurring. Speaking has made me feel slightly faint.

  Chudwell clasps his hands together and repeatedly pushes both thumbs against his lower lip. It’s as if the whole situation is a little too much for his brain to cope with.

  ‘You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you,’ he says, trying to sound suave and sinister. ‘First my daughter, then Mr Tansil and now here. Sorry about the head, by the way. Wasn’t on the agenda. If you hadn’t mentioned that bloody woman’s name to my wife it would never have happened.’

  ‘I’ll remember the next time.’

  ‘Hm. Of course this seals your fate a little more decisively, eh? I can’t have Debs getting into trouble with the police for grievous bodily harm or whatever. Though I suppose I could say she thought you were an intruder.’

  ‘That sounds a bit thin to me. I think you’ll have to do better than that.’

  He smirks. He rubs the side of his nose. ‘We still haven’t decided what we’re going to do with you, my lad. This is all so sudden and unexpected. This is such an inconvenience, such an inconvenience. What are you in all of this? What are you?’

  ‘What about that coffee you were going to get me? The service here is appalling.’

  ‘Some bloody snooper poking your nose into someone else’s business. Business that is no concern of yours whatsoever. You really have no idea what you’ve got yourself into.’

  I’m starting to remember why I’m here. I’m attempting to find out what happened to Rikki Tuan. Things aren’t going well.

  ‘So your wife hit me across the back of the head with a poker because I mentioned Paige McBride?’

  ‘You’re a private detective. My daughter said you were trying to get lists of everyone who obtained tickets to the charity evenings at the Café Royal, is that correct? Some cock and bull story about one of the performers being stalked, yes? My friend Mr Tansil said that you’d claimed to be the latest paramour of that bloody…’ He looks over his shoulder as if he doesn’t want to be overheard. ‘…of that bloody stripper tart. But that isn’t true, is it.’

  ‘What’s it to you? Are you jealous?’

  He leans forwards. His breath is bad. It reminds me of burning rubber. ‘Listen here, my lad. I know people who can make you disappear off the face of the earth just like that!’

  He snaps his fingers an inch away from my face. The doorbell rings. Chudwell turns to Footitt. ‘Get that, Barnaby, would you?’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘And get us some drinks while you’re at it,’ I say. This is ignored by everyone.

  Footitt leaves the room to answer the door. I’m left alone with Chudwell and his exceedingly bad vibes and breath. If I was in better condition I could disable him and use him as a way of getting out of this madhouse, but I know I won’t be capable of anything physical for a while without passing out, throwing up or both. I notice he has a slight squint in his right eye.

  ‘You’re not in my good graces, Mr Beckett, not in my good graces at all,’ he says. ‘You appear on the scene from nowhere. All we know about you so far is that you are antagonistic towards us and possibly dangerous. Out of control. Violent. A con artist. A creep. A busybody. You’re dabbling in affairs that are none of your business. And you’re connected in some way to the McBride woman. Did she hire you? Is that what this is?’

  He stands up and walks towards me. For a second I think he’s going to attack, but he just leans forwards and hisses in my ear. ‘You have interrogated my daughter as if she were a common criminal, you have sent a good friend of mine to the hospital with a broken nose, and you have assaulted my wife. What have you got to say for yourself?’

  I turn my head slowly and look into his eyes. ‘Where’s that coffee?’

  And talking of broken noses, Footitt returns to the kitchen with Tansil in tow. At last, a friendly face. That was almost funny. I’d laugh if I didn’t know it would hurt so much. Chudwell takes him over to a corner of the kitchen and they have a little whisper.

  Tansil is pretty smartly dressed. He’s wearing an expensive-looking black wool suit, a white shirt and a dark green bow tie with grey spots. It looks like he was on his way to some formal occasion, perhaps a gala dinner for bent ex-cops. He doesn’t seem annoyed, though. Perhaps the honour of having your evening disrupted by Viscount Ombersley is worth the hassle. Hassle. There’s that word again.

  There’s one small feature that spoils Tansil’s suave and sophisticated look. He has a hugely swollen discoloured nose from where
I hit him, four or five stitches from the resultant laceration and two black eyes.

  He walks over to me, smiles, and gives me one hell of a punch on the jaw. This knocks me off the chair and onto the floor. All the various injuries I’ve been busy recovering from start their painful dance again. I’m seeing stars and wonder if I’m going to pass out. The nausea is back.

  ‘That’s for the nose, you piece of shit.’

  I think of a few witty ripostes like ‘It was my pleasure, fuckhead’, but I can’t be bothered to say them. Besides, I’m too busy throwing up again. I can hear Footitt say ‘disgusting’ as he stands and watches me. Some doctor he’s turning out to be. Now I’m definitely reporting him to the GMC.

  Tansil grabs both of the shoulders of my jacket and hoists me up, throwing me back into position on my chair. He drags the chair away from the wall by about four feet. I don’t know why he’s doing this, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon.

  Of the three, he’s certainly the strongest. He grabs my wrists, takes my watch off and expertly slams a pair of rigid ASP police handcuffs onto them. The watch goes in his pocket. Damn. That watch was a cool-looking Bell & Ross Aviation that a girl called Giuliana gave to me four years ago.

  He nods at Footitt. ‘What’s the damage here, Barnaby?’

  ‘Big laceration to the back of the skull,’ says Footitt, pleased to be able to help. ‘Certainly concussed. Can’t say how badly without a proper examination. All the vomiting is a sure sign. Mental faculties might be impaired, but once again, it’d need examination. He might have difficulty concentrating. Foggy thoughts. Memory loss.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Bugger all that. Can he answer questions? Accurately and quickly, I mean? We need to know what’s what with this prick.’

  Footitt looks crestfallen. ‘More than likely in this case, Larry. Might be a bit slower than usual, but he was talking just now and sounded as right as rain. Sometimes you can get a delayed reaction, though. Different for everyone.’

  ‘It’s the memory loss I’m concerned about, doctor,’ I say to him. He looks slightly alarmed that I’m addressing him directly. ‘That boy the other night. I can’t remember whether the snake tattoo was on his left forearm or his right one. Perhaps you can help me out.’

  His smug expression instantly changes to a cocktail of bafflement, anger and embarrassment. Tansil taps my left cheek. I try not to flinch, but it’s too painful not to.

  ‘Who did all this damage to the face?’

  ‘That was me, Larry,’ says Chudwell, grinning. ‘Had a little go at him while he was unconscious. Angry about what he did to Debs. Gave him a bit of a kicking.’

  ‘He deserved it, my lord. Snooping round your business. Well done.’

  I look at Chudwell. ‘Perhaps we could have a rematch when I’m fully conscious. I’ll find a chair for you to stand on.’

  ‘How dare you speak to him like that!’ says arselick Tansil, looking genuinely upset. He reaches into his pocket and produces a pair of black leather driving gloves, which he slowly puts on. He walks behind me and starts poking around the wound on the back of my head. The pain is so intense that I jerk forward. It feels as if someone has just hammered a chisel into my skull.

  ‘That hurt, did it, sonny boy?’ laughs Tansil. He walks around to face me and bends over so he’s looking straight into my eyes. ‘That was very, very sly of you this morning. Getting me all riled up like that so you could lift my wallet. Very professionally done. Very clinical. You set me up, didn’t you, old son. Told poor old Declan that you were that girl’s new squeeze, so I’d come for you. Even told him where you’d be and what time you’d be there to make it easier. And we fell for it. And it’s brought you here. But here is where it all stops. Now where’s my wallet? Have you got it on you?’

  ‘Left it at home. Sorry. How’s the nose?’

  He rifles through the pockets of my jacket. He pulls out my wallet, takes a look at the contents, sighs, and tosses it to one side. Looking for his money, no doubt, which is in my bedroom. From the inside pocket, he produces my tactical pen, doesn’t recognise it for what it is and drops it on the floor. My keys get the same careless treatment. Then he pulls Anouk’s mobile from another pocket and crushes it with his heel.

  He scowls at me. ‘We don’t quite understand how you’re involved in this,’ he says. ‘We don’t quite understand who you could be working for, though we have a damn good idea. But don’t fret. You’ll tell us. We’ll find out exactly what you know and who you’re reporting to. And if you don’t cooperate…’ He walks behind me again. A second later, I get a terrific blast of pain as he slaps me hard on the poker wound. ‘…I’ll hurt you in ways you hadn’t thought possible and that’s a promise. We know you’re just the hired help. It’s your employer that we’re interested in. Don’t take the fall for other people, sonny. It’s not worth it.’

  I hear Footitt and Chudwell having a chuckle. I’m bent double. I can see my vomit on Footitt’s shoes. I think about Anouk losing control and lapsing into her native Dutch. Just as I’m starting to sit up and recover, I can hear a blood-curdling scream coming from somewhere upstairs. I hear Chudwell exclaim, ‘My God!’ and he and Footitt rush out of the room. Tansil looks at me and smiles. I think it’s going to be a long night.

  38

  A BUNCH OF PUNKS

  While Chudwell and Footitt sort out whatever the hell is going on upstairs, Tansil gives me a couple of friendly slaps on the cheek and goes over to make himself a coffee, while keeping a wary eye on me from time to time. He’s obviously confident that I’m no threat to him at the moment and he’s probably correct, especially considering the handcuff situation. I’ll have to apply my mind to that little problem later.

  I use this hiatus to take some deep breaths, channelling the ch’i around my body, trying to recover a little more. I feel a lot better now than I did when I was lying on the kitchen floor, despite Tansil’s eager attention to the back of my head.

  I have to tune out the physical pain and get my brain in gear. The nausea is fading, but it’s fading very slowly. The headache ebbs and flows. I also have to prepare myself for aggressive questioning; maybe even torture. I know what they’re capable of: all I have to do is think of Jamie Baldwin’s X-rays.

  It has occurred to me to try and make a break for it, but that would defeat the object of why I’m here in the first place. I have to remember that despite everything, I’m still working, and that the reason I’m here is to find out what happened to Rikki Tuan. I have to observe and analyse. Play for time and manipulate. Avoid and deflect. Antagonise and irritate. Disrupt and confuse. Divide and conquer. All the other clichés. Who knows – it might even work.

  They have no idea exactly how I got this far or precisely what I know. What I’m going to attempt is a subtle, high-risk and potentially suicidal form of reverse interrogation. I make sure they think I know too much. I spill the beans. I mix truth and speculation. They decide that what I’ve discovered and/or am close to discovering is so damning that they’ll have no choice but to dispose of me. With that in mind, they’ll get relaxed and cocky and tell me everything I need to know. I escape. It brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘optimistic’.

  ‘Who knows you’re here?’ asks Tansil. ‘Are you working alone? Who knows about all of this?’

  His interrogation technique is all over the place. An ex-cop should be better than this. Perhaps he’s panicking. The central puzzle they’re struggling with is who’s employing me. Could they even begin to guess?

  Chudwell storms into the kitchen, walks up to Tansil and places a hand on his shoulder. His speech is a little above a whisper.

  ‘She’s in a terrible state, Larry. Can we get her here?’

  ‘The girl?’ murmurs Tansil.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That could be a mistake, my lord,’ says Tansil gently. ‘She doesn’t know about us. She doesn’t even know we exist. That’s the very last thing you should…’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how it
matters,’ interrupts Chudwell, sounding jittery and sullen. ‘It would just be a nice thing for her to do. We can tell her my wife’s a big fan or something. We’ve got to do something.’

  Chudwell is clueless. Tansil sighs patiently. ‘It matters, my lord, because she’s not stupid. Think about it. If you were her and you were coerced into comforting Lady Ombersley, a person who you didn’t know from Adam, you might start to put two and two together; make connections. You, your daughter, the charity, the Café Royal, all the personal trouble she’s been having; she’d be talking to the police before you knew it. It could get us in an awful lot of trouble. And your wife’s behaviour is unpredictable. We have no idea what she might say to this woman. We have no idea who she might incriminate. She might tell her about the others.’ He points at me. ‘And we don’t know how much this joker has told McBride. She helped him convince Declan they were an item, so she’s a liability now. And we’re going to have enough on our plate dealing with him.’

  Chudwell looks as bewildered as I feel. It’s as if he’s never been besieged by so many sentences before. His face is red. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish’s.

  ‘This is my wife we’re talking about!’ he barks. ‘And I don’t like it when she goes off the rails. This bloody idiot here has caused this. He made her attack him, then he assaulted her and now she’s in crisis. And if a visit from the girl will make her feel better, then it has to be the right thing to do. We’ll sort out the consequences later. There’s nothing we can’t handle. I’ll take responsibility. I’m sure you can think of something. Can we just do it? Barnaby is with Debs now, but he can’t hold her hand forever. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll just deal with the girl. One way or another. Money, threats, who knows what. You said yourself she was a liability. D’you understand? Is this penetrating your thick skull? Are you forgetting who we are? Are you forgetting who I am?’