‘Yeah. Me too. Look – I just need you to cast your mind back to this Miss Holland.’
He doesn’t hesitate. ‘I remember her. Paid with cash. It was thirty quid. Up near Marble Arch. Tony did it.’
‘Tony’s one of our despatch motorcyclists,’ says Rob Wickham, usefully.
‘OK. Can you remember what she looked like?’
Declan looks up and to his right. I can see he’s visualising her.
‘Yeah. I mean you couldn’t forget her, really. She was power-dressed, you know? Like she was the director of a successful business. A small business, though. Not too grand. But definitely designer clothing. Expensive. You don’t get women who look like that coming in here very much. She was wearing a grey suit. The top was like a bolero jacket. No buttons at the front. The skirt was about three inches above the knee. Black stockings. She had on something dark red under the jacket, but I couldn’t quite work it out. It was almost like it was a camisole, you know? Little trim of lace at the top, like she was wearing something a little sexier to offset the suit. Black or grey shoes, I can’t remember.’
‘Any distinctive accent?’
‘No. Southern England. That’s all I can say, really. Not particularly Londony.’
‘And she seemed fine, she seemed relaxed, she didn’t seem nervous.’
‘Maybe in a bit of a hurry, but everyone’s in a bit of a hurry. I don’t think she was local, though. She had a cab waiting outside with its engine running.’
‘That’s great. What about her physical appearance.’
‘Blonde hair but short. Again, an expensive cut. I’ve seen a picture of Carey Mulligan with that style, so it can’t have been cheap. I couldn’t tell if the hair was her real colour or not, but I think it was. Her eyebrows were a light colour, which makes it likely she was a natural blonde. Very, very pretty. Green eyes. She looked like a model.’
‘What sort of model are we talking about here? Catwalk model? Page Three model? Glamour model?’
He has a quick think and places a forefinger against his mouth. ‘None of those, really. More like your girlfriend’s lingerie catalogue model. Pretty and wholesome, but sort of sexy and beautiful at the same time, you know? Bra size could have been a 35DD – I am a bit of an expert – and she was about five foot nine. That height could be wrong, though, as I didn’t notice if she was wearing high heels, and if I did I can’t remember.’
I smile at him. ‘She obviously made quite an impression!’
‘Well, like I said, you don’t get women who look like that coming in here very much. If women come in here, they’re usually secretaries, not boss types. And this one struck me as a boss type, at least from the way she was dressed anyway and her whole demeanour. Having said that, she wasn’t that old. Early twenties, I would have guessed.’
‘OK. That’s great. I won’t use up any more of your time. Just one thing. If I do a sketch, like a facial composite, of this woman, can you just tell me if I’m going in the right direction?’
‘Sure.’
‘Have you got a sheet of paper I could use, please?’
Rob Wickham fetches me an A4 sheet from under the counter. I get out my pen, poise it above the sheet and take a deep breath. Both he and Declan watch my hand, fascinated. I imagine this must be a change from whatever else they’d both be doing at this time of day.
‘OK. What shape face did she have? You mentioned Carey Mulligan. She has a heart-shaped face. Would you say that Miss Holland’s face was like that?’
‘No. This one had a longer face that that and with more prominent, wide cheekbones.'
‘Sort of like Charlize Theron? She has what they call a diamond-shaped face. Cheekbones that are wider than the chin and forehead.’
He thinks about this for a moment, as if he’s running through films he’s seen her in.
‘Yeah. Yeah I can see her now. That’d be about right.’
I quickly sketch a diamond-shaped face on the sheet of paper and sketch out a few wisps of blonde hair.
‘This starting to look like her?’
‘More hair across the forehead. Like a fringe. It was swept back over her ears so you could see her ears. Yeah. That’s cool. That’s like her without a face.’
‘What about her eyes, apart from the fact they were green? What about the eye shape and eyebrows? Keep talking film stars, if that’ll help.’
‘Big, round eyes. Pretty. Slightly turned up at the side. Angelina Jolie. Eyebrows were pale, but up and down, like a roof shape that a kid might draw.’ He makes a roof shape with a finger.
‘Got it.’
Both men are watching with fascination now. Declan turns the drawing so it’s facing him. ‘Hang on.’ He goes into the back room and comes out with a green felt pen. He colours the eyes in. ‘There. That’s her eyes exactly. Eyebrows a little paler, but apart from that – brilliant.’
‘OK. Let’s do her mouth next. Lipstick?’
‘Yeah. Red. Don’t know which shade. My girlfriend uses red. This was lighter, but not by much.’
‘Mouth shape?’
‘Er – well not Angelina Jolie. But not thin, either. Sort of average, I suppose.’
I sketch in a ‘typical’ female mouth which fits in with and complements all the other features. ‘How does that look?’
‘A bit fuller than that.’
I alter it.
‘Now?’
‘Fine.’
‘And her nose?’
‘Nothing distinctive. Not big, not small.’
‘OK. Let’s see.’ I sketch in an anonymous, but fairly feminine nose that fits the face shape and turn the drawing around to face Declan. ‘So how are we doing?’
‘That’s fucking incredible. That’s her. Fuck. You should be an artist, man. Can I make a copy of this?’
‘Sure. Could you make me one as well?’
Just before I leave, I stick a hundred on the reception desk. ‘This has been really helpful. I don’t want any argument. You may have saved someone’s life. Go down the pub tonight on me, OK?’
They both grin and looked equally pleased and astonished. I think they enjoyed this. Just as I’m on my way out of the door, Declan calls me back, while waving his photocopy of the rather dishy Lara Holland.
‘Can you sign this, please?’
I walk down Chiswick High Road and try and square Lara Holland with Amelia Finch. What did Sakura say Amelia’s voice was like? Educated and home counties. That would fit in with Declan’s assessment of her voice as sounding southern England, but not Londony. But there are a lot of people who could be described as speaking in that way; it doesn’t mean that Amelia and Lara are the same person, by any means, but something tells me that they are.
I decide to get the tube from Chiswick Park, so I can walk along and have more of a think. If, by a stroke of luck, Amelia and Lara are the same person, then I’ve got something I can show hotel staff at the Bolton, if it comes to that. I smile when I think of Declan wanting a photocopy of that sketch signed. I sense that the hotel isn’t going to be as much as a walk in the park as Shamrock Courier Services, though, and I stop at a cashpoint and get out another five hundred.
All in all, this had been quite a good day so far. I’ve had the disturbing info about the Rosabel Raleigh portrait off Ms Gavreau, Viola’s work name at the hotel that night from Sakura and a possible lead to the identity of the person who booked Viola in the first place, even though I don’t think she’s really called Amelia Finch or Lara Holland.
It’s almost five pm now, and I’m wondering whether to go home first or go straight to the hotel. I had considered leaving the hotel until tomorrow morning, but there’s slightly more chance I’ll be able to talk to staff who were there when Viola arrived than if I visit during the day. That may not be the case, of course. Hotel staff change shifts around a lot, but hopefully the night managers stay the same.
I’m feeling quite tired and still haven’t quite recovered from my bout with Sakura. Missing persons is reall
y rather exhausting and time consuming. No wonder the police don’t have enough people to cover it. I stop for a moment, and take a look at my face in the window of an estate agent’s. Still no evidence of swelling, but I fancy that I’ve got a black eye coming on the left-hand side. Oh well.
I’m just approaching the tube station when my mobile goes off. My first thought is that it’s Sakura, but when I look at the display I can see it’s Anjukka.
‘Sugar Daddy Dating. How can I help?’
‘Oh, Daniel.’
She’s sobbing. Before she’s said a word, I know exactly what’s happened and exactly what it tells me.
‘What is it, baby? What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve been sacked. I’ve been bloody sacked.’
‘What? What for?’
I think of the lifestyle that her job has allowed her to set up. The clothes, that fabulous flat in Battersea which she obviously loves so much.
‘He said I’d breached one of the company protocols.’
‘What the hell does that mean? Who said that?’
‘Mr Fisher.’
‘Fisher was the one who sacked you?’
‘He said I was on a month’s notice, but I had to leave after a week.’
‘After Raleigh’s big meeting that he’s so concerned about.’
‘They’re bastards, aren’t they. They still want me around to help organise that for them. I should just walk out now.’
‘Don’t do anything until you see me. Look. Let’s meet up for dinner tonight. Selfridge’s at eight, OK?’
‘I’ll need a stiff drink first. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this has happened.’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be OK. Anyway, you said you’d been thinking about leaving for a few months. This might be a good thing for you.’
‘I can’t wait to see you.’
‘I’ll be there at eight.’
I click my mobile off and go into the tube station. So that confirms it. Tote Bag was almost certainly hired from Raleigh’s office. She didn’t have much to report, but she would have given them Anjukka’s description and maybe even her address and I guess that would have been enough to infuriate either Raleigh or Fisher or both.
Either there really is a company protocol regarding female staff dating people like me, or they were afraid she might tell me something she shouldn’t. Maybe they felt dumb for swallowing her fake engagement story. Maybe they think she really is engaged and were morally outraged and/or humiliated by her showing interest in someone else. Maybe they’re just plain jealous. Well fuck ’em. If you work for bastards who think like that, you’re better off in another job.
Just as the tube train leaves the station, I realise that I’ve conceivably got a way of helping her.
15
THE BOLTON MAYFAIR
The Bolton Mayfair is situated in a small, slightly pokey one-way street that must have been quite a fashionable place to live about a hundred years ago. Now, of course, most of the houses belong to various commercial concerns and I don’t think many of them are purely residential.
There’s a blue plaque on one of the houses letting everyone know that the writer Henry James lived there for a while. I remember reading The Turn of the Screw when I was in school and finding it impossibly creepy.
Despite the relative narrowness of the road, The Bolton Mayfair is big, impersonal and classy, and looks like it was built sometime in the last five years. Asking reception staff or management if they can remember the movements of one or two women who stayed here for one night three weeks ago may not be a successful ploy, but I have to try. At the very least, I may be able to confirm that Amelia Finch and Lara Holland are the same person, which means I’ll have a rough idea of what Amelia Finch looked like. I can’t get over Anjukka getting fired like that.
Once you walk through the big doors at the front and into the spacious reception area, you’re in another, air-conditioned world. New-looking black and white marble floors, lots of sparkly white lighting and maybe eight or nine guests hanging around, some checking in, some getting ready to leave and some just loitering. If you were a guest, it would be pretty easy for you to come in or leave without anyone noticing, but hotel staff are pretty sharp-eyed so I might be in luck.
To my right is a spacious waiting area near a fake fireplace with three big black sofas and miscellaneous chairs set around a couple of tables. There’s also a stand with magazines and today’s newspapers. To my left is a more homely version of the same thing, minus the fireplace, but with cushions on the sofas, a big, flowery print on the wall, real flowers in a vase, more magazines and a low, wide coffee table.
The reception area is dark brown wood with an even larger flowery print on the wall at the back. There are two staff behind it. One of them, a guy in his fifties, is standing up and talking to a blonde woman. There’s a girl a few feet away, who’s sitting down and typing away at a keyboard. I’ll talk to the guy, who looks like the man in charge here. I walk over to the more homely seating area, pick up a magazine and sit down, taking a better look at the place and waiting for the reception guy to be free. He’s got an ID badge on, but I can’t see what it says from here. I’ve no idea what I’m going to say to him, but it’s better to be straight. Hotel people have seen and heard it all and can usually detect bullshit and spot bullshitters a mile off.
To the right of the reception desk, there’s a staircase going down to the lower ground floor. There’re no signs there, so it’s more than likely for staff use, or maybe there’s a spa area or restaurant. Also on my right is a pair of doors which lead into a bar. There are menus on the table, so presumably it’s also a restaurant. On my left, there’s a staircase and a sign saying ‘lifts’. Whichever way you came from, you’d have to walk past reception to get out.
Two hotel porters walk past me and start talking to a family of four who seem agitated and keep pointing at their luggage. Nobody, whether staff member or guest, looks at me twice. A cab driver comes in and starts talking to the girl behind the reception desk. A man in a black business suit runs in, places a big envelope on the reception desk and runs out again. Two girls who are dressed like waitresses walk past and laugh and point at something they can see in the street. All in all, there’s a fairly big mix of people here and a lot of activity. If Amelia and Natasha were meeting up here, only their attractiveness would make you look at them.
The blonde woman who was talking to the reception guy turns on her heel and heads towards the main doors. She looks pissed off about something. She bumps into an elderly woman who’s coming in and doesn’t apologise to her. The guy behind the reception desk raises his eyebrows in amusement and starts to write something down. I think I’ll hit on him now. Maybe I’ll be a relief from whatever happened with the blonde woman. I’ve decided that my best tack here would to be totally honest and tell him everything. If he won’t play ball, I’ll just have to start flashing the cash and see where that gets me.
I approach the desk and catch his eye. I can see his ID badge now. It says ‘Mark Kerrigan. Senior Night Reception Coordinator.’ Well that sounds like the sort of person I need. At least it’s a start.
‘Hi. My name’s Daniel Beckett. I’m a private investigator working on a missing persons case. I’m sure you’re very busy, but I’d be very grateful if I could just have five minutes of your time.’
Of course, it’ll be longer than five minutes – at least I hope it will – but five minutes sounds nice and concise. His expression doesn’t change, but I can tell he’s interested. He has a calm voice with a southern Irish accent.
‘Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘Yes. One of your guests booked a visit from a call girl here about three weeks ago. The call girl has since vanished. I’ve just got a few questions about the guest and I’d like to know if anyone who was on that night saw anything that may be of help to my investigation.’
That sounded pretty good. The mention of a call girl makes him look rapidly from left to ri
ght to see if anyone has overheard any part of this conversation. I give him the date and watch his face carefully. He turns to the girl. ‘Ruby, could you take over reception for a few minutes, please? Give Francesca a buzz to come and give you a hand in case it gets busy. I think she’s having coffee.’
Ruby stops her typing and takes Mr Kerrigan’s place behind the counter. He beckons to me with his forefinger. ‘Come with me.’
I follow him through the bar, down a corridor with some shops which are closed and down some stairs until we come to a small office. We go inside, he closes the door, fires the computer up, and indicates that I should sit down.
‘Sorry to spirit you away so quickly. Nothing personal. We try not to discuss the peccadilloes of some of our guests in the reception area. The computer will be working in a minute or two and then we can have a look.’
‘I quite understand.’
‘So what’s the score? What’s going on?’
‘A woman called Amelia Finch booked a call girl from an online service which specialises in supplying bisexual and lesbian escorts. She booked a room in this hotel for herself and she booked another room here for the escort, who was using the name Natasha Hart.’
‘Separate rooms? What were they going to do? Phone sex?’
‘It’s a hangover from the old days, when for the escort’s safety, they had somewhere to go if the client seemed dangerous or high or mad or whatever.’
‘I’ve never come across that before. Between you and me, though, we have had lesbian escorts visit this hotel in the past, it’s just that they didn’t do that thing with the two rooms. OK, let’s have a look. What was the date again? Sorry, my memory’s starting to fail.’
‘Seventeenth of last month.’
He taps something on the keyboard, waits, then taps something else, while squinting at the screen.
‘You’re in luck. I was on that night. And the name was Amelia Finch, yes? OK. I’ve got her. Mrs Amelia Finch. She booked the rooms on the fifteenth, two days before they were required. She booked a King Deluxe room including breakfast for herself and she booked a Double Deluxe room for a Miss Natasha Hart, also including breakfast.’
Kiss Me When I'm Dead Page 21
