‘No. Sorry. You have to remember that when someone reports a person as missing, it’s a confidential matter. The person who’s missing could be found dead. We can’t share this information with members of the public, which is what you are. Also, you could be a reporter or something. If we started giving out details of cases like this, it would open a whole can of worms. If I passed on information like that I may as well show you the file, which I’m not going to do.’
I’m smiling. I realise that I like listening to her talk. It’s that husky voice.
‘OK. Viola Raleigh has been working, I think, as a prostitute for two or three years. It’s possible – probable – that’s she’s still working as one. Is The Bolton Mayfair known to you as a place where call girls would do business?’
She tilts her head to the side. She has a long, elegant neck.
‘Most big London hotels have their fair share of visiting call girls,’ she says. She’s trying to be helpful, I can tell, but I have to read between the lines.
‘If Viola Raleigh was working as a call girl at The Bolton Mayfair, would she book her own room there? Wouldn’t it be more normal for the client, if there was one, to book the room and Viola would visit them?’
‘It’s possible she’d book her own room, but unlikely. Visiting one of these girls in their own flat, or in a hotel room they’d booked, would probably be classed as an in call. They get more money if it’s an outcall. Therefore it would be more financially viable for the girl to visit the client in their hotel room. Some of that extra money from an outcall would be used for travelling expenses, but not all of it. Having said that, there are all sorts of variations in this line of work, so nothing’s a hundred per cent, but the Bolton’s not a cheap hotel.’
‘Would it be true to say that you strongly suspect that Viola Raleigh was working as a call girl and because of that you’re not taking this seriously? This is not my opinion, but the opinion of my client.’
‘We take all missing persons cases seriously, Mr Beckett.’ She takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, then sips at her coffee. ‘It would seem to me that Miss Raleigh does not want to be in contact with her father. There are a lot of reasons people go missing and one of the most common is family conflict. She’s over eighteen. She doesn’t have to see him ever again if she doesn’t want to. It’s not relevant in this case, but if we come across a missing person who’s over eighteen, we won’t pass on their whereabouts to anyone without their permission.’
‘But what about the person who called in the missing persons report on her three weeks ago? Would that not make any alarm bells ring for you?’
‘Not really. In fact, it could be seen as a good thing. At least we were able to tell her father that she was still alive. Also, if someone was staying in a hotel for, shall we say, normal reasons, it’s unlikely that someone would report them missing.’
‘So, as far as you can gather, Viola Raleigh was meeting a client in that hotel. That would be the most likely scenario.’
‘I would say so, yes. I don’t think she was on holiday.’
‘So the person who called and spoke to you would probably be someone who was professionally connected with her, for whom alarm bells were ringing when she didn’t clock off at the expected time or make contact at the expected time.’
‘It’s possible.’
She’s so bloody cagey. I’ll needle her slightly and see if I can get her to slip up in some way.
‘What did you tell the person who called? Did you say it was nothing and that Viola will probably pop up again in two years?’
‘When I spoke to her…’
‘It was a woman.’
‘Oh God, you’re quick, aren’t you. Yes, it was a woman. I told her that this was a borderline lost contact case, for want of a better phrase. That Viola Raleigh had a history of cutting herself off from friends and family and that it might be better to use a tracing service that may be able to expend more effort on this than we could. It was just a suggestion, though. We’re still investigating and Viola Raleigh is still officially a missing person.’ She looks impatient. ‘Once again.’
I finish my coffee and slowly stroke my chin with my thumb. ‘So you’re only a missing person if someone reports you as such.’
‘Technically, yes.’
‘What did this woman you spoke to say when you suggested using a tracing service?’
‘She didn’t comment on it. Of course, it could be said it’s her father who’s pursuing that option by employing you.’
‘Do you know anything about her father?’
‘No. He’s just a name and a telephone number to me. It was just a courtesy call, really. We have to contact next of kin if something like this happens, if the missing person reappears, even if it’s only for a short time.’
‘He’s a billionaire arms dealer.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? Well there you are. I wonder why he didn’t hire someone like you two years ago. Or maybe a whole army of people like you. It’s what I would have done. Could have saved us time and money.’
‘Maybe he did, I don’t know. But there’s a reason he wants some sort of closure this time.’
‘What is it?’
It’s hard to stop a laugh appearing in my voice. ‘Well this is going to sound terrible because it is. He’s got a big deal coming up next week and he wants a clear head during negotiations – at least that’s what he told me.’
This makes her laugh. ‘What a wanker!’
‘Yeah – um – yeah. That’s what I thought. He wants to know one way or the other what’s happened to her. If she’s dead he wants to know about it and if she’s alive he wants her to come home. As I said, he thinks you’re doing nothing about it, or if you are it might take months, and he wants it sorted out fast while the trail is still hot, so to speak.’
‘I suppose I can understand that in a way. Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.’
‘He wasn’t too keen on my talking to you, either. He thought you’d be offended and would do even less than he thinks you’re doing already.’
‘He sounds like my kind of guy.’
I signal to one of the waiters who looks only too glad to have something to do. She walks over and holds a pen and a black pad, as if she’s expecting us to order a complex meal. ‘Could we have two more coffees, please?’
‘Is this your equivalent of bribing me?’ says Olivia.
‘Yes. I’m hoping two coffees will loosen your tongue and you’ll spill the beans.’
‘Leave my tongue out of this.’
‘And if that doesn’t work I’ve got a ten-pound note in my wallet with your name on.’
‘Well now you’re talking.’ She looks at my face and then my clothes. ‘How did you get into this? Did you used to be in the job?’
She means did I used to be a police officer.
‘No, no. Nothing like that. I just read a load of detective novels and thought it looked easy.’
She looks sceptical, as well she might. ‘Raymond Chandler, that sort of thing, I suppose. Yes. I thought you weren’t ex-police. You don’t have the vibe. So what’s your actual background? I can’t believe you got it all from detective paperbacks.’
The coffees arrive. I have to change the subject.
‘What made you join the police force?’
‘Doing the right thing. And stopping people doing the wrong thing.’
Three more people come in, two young guys and a girl. Things are hotting up here. DS Bream looks thoughtful for a second.
‘You don’t think – I mean, this may be nothing – but you don’t think there’s a connection there somewhere?’
‘Where?’
‘Between this girl’s dad being an arms dealer and her being a call girl?’
‘Didn’t occur to me. I did think there might be a connection between him being very rich and her being a call girl, you know – always busy when she was a child. No time for her, all that sort of cod psychology thing. He may have se
nt her away to school, I don’t know. She’s had a drug problem for some time, I was given to understand. Don’t know about the mother. He had a big topless portrait of her in his office.’
I can see Rosabel’s portrait again in my mind. I don’t know if the artist was intending it to be memorable, eerie and haunting, but he or she certainly succeeded.
‘Topless?’
I laugh at how ridiculous that must have sounded. ‘Well, yes. Very classy. Very well done. Sitting down and holding a fur coat. Maybe it’s just a thing that rich guys do. I wouldn’t know. So what made you think…’
‘Well, it would depend on who her father deals with. Arms dealers have been known to, er, entertain foreign clients.’
‘With prostitutes.’
‘It has been known. The Arab countries are quite big on it. If you have a client who’s going to be spending a few billion, you’re not just going to give them a cup of tea and a biscuit when they come over.’
‘You’re going to give them one or more beautiful women who’ll do anything they’re asked to do and make them feel like gods.’
She laughs. ‘It’s just a link. It may mean nothing. I don’t want to colour your investigation.’
She clasps both hands behind her neck and stretches backwards in her seat. The action stretches her t-shirt against her body. Her breasts are small and ravishingly shaped. Unintentional or not, it’s electrifyingly erotic. Poor old Reception Roy. I’ll bet he has a terrible crush on her.
‘I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.’
‘I really have to get back, Mr Beckett. I’m sorry you didn’t manage to prise much out of me.’
We stand and get our jackets on. I pay one of the bar girls and glance out the window as I wait for her to give me my change. Out of the corner of my eye I can see her turn towards me, then with an involuntary jerk, I fling my left arm out and catch something. A second later, I realise it’s a bottle of champagne that she’s accidentally knocked off the bar with her elbow and my hand is tightly gripping the neck. Both the girl and DS Bream share a couple of seconds of stunned silence before the girl laughs with shock and there’s a round of astonished applause and cheering from the three people who came in a few minutes ago. I guess it was their bottle of champagne.
‘Jesus Christ,’ says DS Bream as we leave, staring at me with a quizzical expression on her face.
I walk her back to the police station, thanking her again for her help. Her mouth is twisted into a wry smile. I should have let that champagne smash on the floor; Crouching Tiger moments like that can be a bit of a giveaway.
‘It was, er, interesting meeting you, Mr Beckett. If anything odd floats up to the surface from this, can you let me know? I’m a bit overdue for promotion and I need something big and spectacular.’
I smile at her. ‘Sure. Can you give me your mobile number?’
‘Why?’
‘So I can give you a call if anything big and spectacular comes up.’
She reaches in the inside pocket of her jacket and fishes out her card. I take it and slip it into my wallet.
‘I see. I thought you were going to ask me out to dinner,’ she says, raising an eyebrow.
‘I might at that. Have a nice evening and thanks again.’
She walks up the steps of the station, pushes the doors open and is gone.
I walk down towards Oxford Street to get a cab. It’s starting to get dark now and I can feel a few spots of rain on my face. So what did I get out of that? Not much, really, but at least I know that it was a woman who reported Viola missing the second time. So far, I’d assumed that it was a man, and had a picture of some nebulous pimp from Central Casting in my mind. This changes things. Perhaps it wasn’t a pimp, though there’s no reason why, if it was, it couldn’t be a woman. Perhaps Viola didn’t have a pimp or had no need for one. Perhaps it was a genuine friend; someone who Viola liked to keep in touch with when she was out on a job for safety reasons. It could have been another call girl. I’d still like to find out who it was, though. It’s a little annoying that DS Bream would have had a name and a contact number but wasn’t telling, but there it is. At least I tried.
It’s hard to know, but the way some of those escort agency sites were structured suggested that many of these girls worked for themselves and didn’t use a pimp in the old sense of the word. The people who run the sites just take a cut of the girl’s money in one way or another. It could be that the client hires the girl, pays the site and the site pays the girl afterwards, minus its commission. That sounds quite a risky method for the girls, but if one of these sites ripped them off, it would only happen once and I’d imagine word would get around pretty fast.
How many of these girls are casualties each year, in London alone? How many of them disappear into thin air without it being reported by anyone? It is a common occurrence? How much effort do the police put into these cases? It must be an added difficulty when the person who vanishes is operating using a fake identity. Perhaps hiring me was the smart choice, only time will tell.
Just on a whim, I get my mobile out and call the number that Raleigh gave me for Taylor Conway. I think it’s a long shot, but he might have some magical piece of information that will give me a breakthrough.
Well, it just rings and rings. Just at the point I’m about to click off, though, someone picks up and for two seconds I hear a distorted girl’s voice saying ‘Yeah? I’ve got…’ then it goes dead. London accent, early twenties or younger, stoned rather than pissed. There was music in the background. Difficult to identify, but I think it was The Architects.
I ring the number again, but this time it’s engaged. I try a third time and it’s silent. Fuck it. I’ll try again tomorrow. At least there was something on the other end, if only for a couple of seconds.
I get a black cab and get out near Leicester Square. I take out five hundred pounds from a cashpoint; walk down to Charing Cross and then up The Strand. It’s crowded here tonight and I look for a bar. For a brief second, I consider going back to the one where Jodie and her friends were having fun, in case Jodie is still there, but I decide against it, cross the road into Villiers Street and find a virtually empty pub.
I sit down at a corner table and try to focus on what I’ll do tomorrow. Today hasn’t been that bad, all things considered. Got an almost certain date with Raleigh’s PA, got mauled by a tipsy birthday girl, had a coffee with a dishy police officer and managed an abortive telephone contact with Taylor Conway. I’ll try and contact him again tomorrow. I somehow feel he won’t be an early riser. I’d like to have a look at the hotel, but I’d like to know Viola’s nom d’amour before I do that.
The barman is reading Sentimental Education by Flaubert. He’s probably a student. Three women come in; smartly dressed, possibly in their late thirties. They have spots of rain all over their clothes. It must be getting worse out there. I listen to them talk without looking in their direction. I think they’re lawyers.
I have to go to the bar again and stand a few feet away from the new arrivals. The woman nearest me is more like mid-forties on closer inspection. Red hair with a few flecks of grey. Roughly five foot five in her heels, which are dark green to match her business suit. Great legs. She smiles at me as we both try to attract the attention of the still-reading barman. I’m trying by telepathy, which doesn’t really work, despite all the claims made for it over the years.
‘Obviously rushed off his feet, poor dear,’ she says to me. Her smile is warm. Her two friends continue with their work talk. She rolls her eyes as if she’s letting me know how boring they are. It’s a little secret that gives us something else in common, exasperation with the barman being the first thing.
Then she snaps her fingers so hard that I can feel my ears ringing from it. I wish I could do that.
‘Hey! Are you asleep over there or something?’
There’s an accent that escapes when she yells like that. Australian?
The guy puts Sentimental Education face down on the bar to sa
ve his place and strolls over. I hope his pages get stained with lager.
‘I may as well order for you now we’ve got his attention,’ she says, looking pleased with herself. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘Oh, you really don’t have to.’
‘I’m feeling generous.’
‘I’ll have a vodka and soda. Thanks. Working late tonight?’
‘We’re really short-staffed at the moment. It’s actually getting quite serious now. Lots of overtime available, so it isn’t that bad, but it’s so hard to get good people. I’m sure all of this sounds intriguing to you.’
‘It’s fascinating and subtly erotic.’
‘You should hear me talk about our Internet connection. You’d salivate, I swear it.’
‘I’m salivating already.’
‘I wondered what that was all down your shirt.’
She laughs and orders a couple of Pinot Noirs for her friends who are still chatting away, a Yellow Tail Shiraz for herself and my vodka. I feel like I’m an alcoholic, but at least it’s women who are buying the drinks tonight.
‘It’s starting to rain out there,’ she says, smiling at me.
‘I noticed,’ I say, smiling back.
We smile at each other for a while, both trying to stop our smiles from turning into knowing laughs.
The barman brings our drinks over and she hands him a fifty-pound note. He looks pissed and raises his eyebrows at being handed such a large denomination. What a jerk.
She pushes the Pinot Noirs towards her colleagues who barely notice and turns her attention back to me, raising her glass.
‘Cheers,’ she says.
And then we’re both laughing at the inevitability of it all.
6
KINGPIN OF A BAD CROWD
I wake up when the sun starts streaming through the window. Another advantage of living in a Theatreland back street like this is that there’s nobody about early in the morning and rarely any traffic noise, not that I’d hear it this high up. On top of that, there’s the triple glazing, of course.
Eventually, I get up, go to the kitchen and start the Siemens and when I return to the bedroom she’s awake. When she sees me come in, she whips the sheet off her body. It’s an arresting sight and I feel slightly dizzy with sensory overload.
Kiss Me When I'm Dead Page 6
