‘Well the reason I was calling you…’ I say.
‘Ye-es?’
‘…was to see if you fancied having lunch with me tomorrow.’
‘At your place? I could get a cab over if you want.’
He walks past the café and looks in briefly. He tried to make it look like a casual glance, but it wasn’t good enough.
‘No, not at my place. I’m a little busy tomorrow, but I can get a cab over to where you work. Is there anywhere we can go for lunch near you? Expense is no object.’
I’ll be charging it to Raleigh, is what I mean. The waitress puts my espresso in front of me. My new shadow is going to be pissed at this. He’s going to have to hang around and look innocuous while I finish my coffee and whatever else I decide to do to put him on edge so he’ll make mistakes. I’m damned if I’m going out with Anjukka with another fucking tail on me.
‘Hmm. Well there is a lovely oyster bar not too far away,’ she says. ‘Do you like oysters? I hear they’re an aphrodisiac. Something to do with amino acids, apparently. I could take the afternoon off to see if that’s true, if you like.’
‘I’m not sure I’d be able to handle you on aphrodisiacs.’
She gives me the name of the oyster bar and we arrange to meet at twelve-thirty. She’ll book it, as it’s nearly always busy. I say that’s fine. I finish my espresso, get up and put my jacket on and leave the café.
I’m wondering where this guy came from. I’m sure I’d have noticed something if he’s been following me all day. I have to assume that he’s Tote Bag’s replacement, or maybe the replacement of her replacement. I try to think about where I’ve been and where I could have picked him up.
After I left Anjukka’s place this morning, I got a cab to see Ms Gavreau in Old Bond Street and after that walked up to see Sakura, who royally beat the shit out of me. I took Sakura to lunch in that pub and then back to her place. After that I took a cab to Chiswick to speak to the courier company, and then got the tube up to Green Park to talk to Mr Kerrigan at The Bolton Mayfair, then another cab to Exeter Street. Raleigh doesn’t know where I live, so if he was behind it, as I suspect, then my big-nosed friend must have tailed me back to my flat without my noticing.
Of course, there’s always the possibility that he wasn’t working alone. After the failure of Tote Bag, someone may have thought a two-person team might have been the thing to do. I had a feeling that someone was tagging long just before I visited Louisa Gavreau.
I try to remember who I noticed as I was walking along Old Bond Street; fat guy on his mobile, girl with great legs, old woman with walking stick, middle aged guy in cream suit. Was that him? Did he have a change of clothes with him? Had he been on my tail since I left Anjukka’s this morning? Quite possibly, if Tote Bag had reported back to Raleigh and he’d identified Anjukka as the woman I was with.
Depending on the timeline, Raleigh or Fisher may have given Grey Hair Anjukka’s address. If that’s the case, they’ve succeeded in pissing me off; I don’t like being followed and I don’t like people knowing where I live. I decide I’ve had enough. I’m not going to spend another evening steering Anjukka across roads and into shops and I’m not going to keep checking reflections to see who’s behind me.
I can see him walking away from me into the market. He stops, bends down to tie a non-existent shoelace and bears right towards the shopping colonnade opposite the main entrance. I’m about ten yards behind him as he pauses and starts innocently eyeing shop windows.
It isn’t that crowded here for early evening. There’s an old couple looking in another shop window about ten feet away from my man. Two groups of five tourists are heading towards the same area. Two girls come out of the front door of the shop he’s pretending to look into. Each big shop window along here has a recess next to it with either a door or a door-sized window.
I have to act quickly. I jog up to him and brightly say, ‘excuse me.’ Before he realises what’s going on, I grab his upper arm and steer him towards one of the doors. He looks surprised and is about to say something, but it never comes out. With only a gap of about nine inches between my fist and his solar plexus, I punch him just the once, with as much ki as I can manage. He inhales loudly with the pain and slumps against the door, his face pale. I know that will incapacitate him for the few minutes I need to leave the area and get a cab. I feel bad about it as I know what that must have felt like, but if he doesn’t want events like that in his life he should work in insurance.
I get out of my cab at the side of Selfridge’s, walk into the store and head for the perfume department. I’m a little early and intend to buy Anjukka a gift of some sort. After all, it’s indirectly my fault that she’s been fired.
I ask the glammed-up assistant for something not too flowery and she suggests a bottle of Mitsouko by Guerlain. Spicy, earthy and woody, she tells me.
She sprays some on her wrist and holds it out to me. Perfect. I get it gift-wrapped and head for the main entrance. I recognise her from behind immediately; it’d be hard not to. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, red top with short puff sleeves, black stockings with seams and red patent leather high heels. That retro look again but it really suits her. People walk by and look at her as if she’s something to do with the shop. She kisses me, I hand her the perfume and we stroll along Oxford Street once more.
‘Is this a sympathy date because I’ve lost my job?’
‘Absolutely. That perfume is a sympathy gift, too. All this sympathy makes me feel good. I feel on top of the world. It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Raleigh is such a dick. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Really.’
‘So how’s your day been?’
‘Interesting.’ I’ve got so many things I could tell her, but something is stopping me. It isn’t professional reticence; I just don’t think it would be a good idea. I don’t want her exploding at Raleigh because she’s found out that he or Fisher had me tailed last night and inadvertently got an insight into her personal life. That would give them too much information, about her and about me. There is one thing I can tell her, though. ‘I went to see this woman this morning. Her name’s Louisa Gavreau. She lives in Old Bond Street.’
‘Does she know anything about Raleigh’s daughter?’
‘No. But she knows a lot about portrait painting.’
She stops walking and stares straight at me. ‘You didn’t.’
‘No pressure on your part. But she said she could do it in two five-hour sittings. She even works evenings and weekends, but that’s to accommodate people who work, which wouldn’t really apply to you, would it.’
She punches me on the arm, then puts both arms around my neck and kisses me. It’s a kiss that makes passers-by turns their head away in embarrassment and that’s the best kind of kiss there is. ‘Thank you,’ she says, finally. ‘That’s given me something else to think about and something to look forward to. We can discuss some poses later on tonight. I have a few ideas.’
‘I’ll give her a ring and get some dates, if you like. You can always cancel if they’re no good. You could go and have a look at her studio if you wanted to. She seemed very nice and I saw some of her work. It was excellent. I can’t wait to see the results. I’ll hang it in my bedroom and you can come and see it whenever you’re in the mood. How’s Raleigh doing with his big meeting next week?’
We continue walking, with me trying to stop myself looking for tails in shop windows. There’s a fishy-looking guy right across the road, but then he meets and kisses a girl who obviously goes for fishy-looking guys.
‘Hm,’ she says, not really wanting to discuss work. ‘There’s a very funny atmosphere around the place at the moment, not that that’s anything new. Mr Raleigh and Mr Fisher had a bit of a shouting match this morning. I couldn’t hear what it was about. I’m sure it’s all connected with the Oman thing. I could be wrong, though.’
‘What sort of a shouting match? Who was in
charge of the shouting?’
‘Oh, Mr Raleigh, definitely. Mr Fisher was just mumbling in reply. It was as if he’d done something wrong and Raleigh was giving him a bollocking about it. Then Fisher came into reception and fired me, as if it was all my fault, whatever it was.’
‘Forget about him. They’re a pair of twats.’
They’re certainly getting edgy about something. Is it my progress, I wonder? I can’t imagine it went well for Fisher when Tote Bag called her report in, which makes me wonder why they’re having me followed in the first place.
If Fisher was using an investigations company of some sort, they’d have been on the phone to him as soon as Tote Bag’s cover was blown. They would have grovelled to him, apologised profusely and got someone else on the job straight away.
Fisher, shall we say, would have identified Anjukka from Tote Bag’s description (and who knows – she may have taken photographs) and then someone would have made Grey Hair an emergency replacement. Grey Hair would have been supplied with Anjukka’s address and he or Fisher would have assumed I would be spending the night there, which is quite flattering, in a way. At that point, of course, they didn’t know where I lived, but they do now.
So what does this tell me? Well, not much, other than the fact that Raleigh and/or Fisher are/is easily rubbed the wrong way and make panicky decisions under pressure, often with a big dose of self-interest thrown in for good measure. And that, despite his macho appearance and manner, Fisher is basically Raleigh’s man-bitch and is maybe a little frightened of him or just afraid of losing his job and its associated authority. He’s also, I suspect, not very big on women in general. But fuck it. I’ve come a long way in three days and when all this is over, I’ll never have to have any contact with them ever again.
As we think about where to go for a pre-prandial drink, a tall, stunning-looking woman with tied-back strawberry blonde hair is walking towards us at quite a pace. She’s wearing a fabulous, cobalt blue lace wrap dress with skyscraper heels and to say she’s making heads turn would be an understatement. She gives me a smug, knowing smile as we make brief eye contact and I know without any doubt that she’s Grey Hair’s replacement, or perhaps his co-worker.
Well, by now I don’t really give a damn, at least not this evening. It’s the investigation into his own daughter’s disappearance that Raleigh’s sabotaging here by pissing me off, and in one way or another he’ll pay the price for it.
After walking for a while, we find a bar in Margaret Street and Anjukka talks animatedly about possible poses for her portrait purely to wind me up, while I try to think of excuses for later on tonight when she asks me where all my bruising came from.
17
RETRO GIRL
‘My darling Sakura, it has been much too long, you foxy, bewitching slut you!’
If Anjukka had an older sister in the world of 1950s retro styling it would surely be Abigail Gastrell. As soon as Sakura and I are admitted into her large, Edwardian semi-detached house in Ewell, I feel somewhat disorientated, as if I’ve unexpectedly stepped back in time into an idealised version of what things weren’t really like, but could have been like in a British/American hybrid of sixty years ago. If your interior designer was crazy.
It’s perfect, from the palette-shaped coffee table, through the mint green, turquoise and pink furniture to the print of The Chinese Girl by Tretchikoff on the wall. The blue/black Eiffel Tower linoleum on the floor and the cherry red and white polka dot curtains are the icing on the cake. There are similarities with Louisa Gavreau’s place and I’m sure they could exchange ideas, but Louisa’s décor has more depth, I suppose, and is more art-based than this. This is tastelessness and camp raised to the level of art.
Abigail herself fits in perfectly. With ruby-red lipstick and ultramarine eye shadow trowelled on, she’s wearing a canary yellow dress which is covered in garish, cartoony flowers of white, orange and turquoise. There’s almost certainly a bullet bra underneath and her figure brings a new meaning to the word hourglass. She must have an absolutely tiny waist and the dress accentuates this with the help of a black patent leather belt. Big bottom, too, which always helps.
She also has the most amazing red hair, which is tied back in a long ponytail. It’s like a combination of Hot Housewife and Rockabilly. It sounds outlandish and bizarre, but the final effect is dazzlingly sexy. I wonder if she dresses like this all of the time and decide that she probably does.
As soon as we’re inside, she grabs Sakura and pulls her into a huge, sustained hug, and I stand around feeling like a spare prick at a wedding as she grabs Sakura’s ass, digging her red lacquered fingernails in deep, as if she’s trying to draw blood.
As I watch them smooch like teenagers at a village hall disco, I wonder if this 1950s image was the one that Abigail used when she was an escort herself, which I presume she was, and I wonder about the age range of the sort of men who would have gone for it. Sixty-something Bettie Page fans, probably.
Her image is so amazing that it’s difficult for me to guess how old she must be. At least thirty, without a doubt, and maybe as old as mid-fifties; but whatever it is she wears it well.
After what seems like an age, she turns to look at me, with a piercing, appraising stare that makes me feel extremely self-conscious and young.
‘And this must be Daniel.’
I shake her hand. ‘Hi. I’m pleased to meet you. I hope you don’t mind us barging in on you like this.’ Did I just say that?
‘Not at all. Not at all. You are helping Sakura, so you are my guest and my friend. Even though Viola was not one of my girls, I feel a physical pain whenever I hear about someone in our line of business who may be in jeopardy. And you know about my Eleanor, of course. Let’s go into the kitchen and we can talk.’
Did she say in jeopardy?
The kitchen is done out as a 1950s American diner. A massive sunburst design clock takes up one whole wall and most of the other surfaces are covered in retro adverts for Coca Cola, Route 66 root beer and other Americana. It’s fantastic, and would be a great venue for a party. She even has an enormous pink Smeg refrigerator. As Sakura and I sit down, she fires up an enormous royal blue espresso machine and turns to look at me once again.
‘Do you know Sakura through, er…’
She taps her cheekbone to indicate my black eye, which was worse when I woke up this morning; it’s now brown with green around the edges. Sakura quickly answers her. ‘No. We are not connected in that way.’
‘Oh. OK.’
I look at both of them and wonder what they’re talking about. Then it dawns on me. The three of us laugh briefly in our different ways and for different reasons. Sakura catches my eye and winks. Shortly, Abigail sits down opposite me and we sip our coffees for a few moments.
‘So Sakura tells me that you think Eleanor’s recent unusual behaviour may be linked to that of Viola’s disappearance.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. Not exactly. But it’s possible. There could be a tenuous link. To be honest, I haven’t got anything else at the moment. Let me show you something.’
I take my drawing of Lara Holland/Amelia Finch out of my pocket and hand it to Abigail. She takes a long look at it and smiles. ‘When did you meet her to do this? I don’t understand.’
So Eleanor Wallis is Lara Holland is Amelia Finch. Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘I didn’t meet her. Sakura told me that a woman called Mrs Amelia Finch booked Viola for a night in The Bolton Mayfair.’ She nods. She’s heard most of this from Sakura, but I keep going anyway. ‘She paid Sakura a deposit in cash which was delivered by a motorcycle courier. I visited the courier company and one of the guys there gave me a description of the woman who paid them for that job. That drawing is from the description I was given.
‘They told me her name was Lara Holland. When I showed that drawing to a manager at the hotel, he identified her as Amelia Finch, except Amelia Finch wore glasses and what we assumed was a wig when she visited the hotel.
’
‘This is Eleanor Wallis,’ says Abigail, finally. ‘There can be no doubt about it. This is an excellent likeness. It’s almost photographic. Could you – could you draw me like this? I’d love to have one of these of me. In a thick red plastic frame. Don’t know about the felt pen eyes, though.’
I have to laugh. ‘Sure. Whenever I’ve got time I’ll come down here with my pencil and sketch pad.’
‘Or I could come to your place.’
‘It’s always a possibility.’
‘Let’s make it soon, eh?’
Sakura bursts out laughing. ‘Oh, stop it Abigail!’ She turns to me and laughs. ‘She’ll fuck anything, Daniel. Don’t get too flattered.’
‘Thanks. I won’t.’
Abigail giggles. ‘I’m sorry, darlings. I can’t help myself. So let me get this straight. One of my girls, who was primarily heterosexual the last time I checked, hires a bisexual call girl from one of my rivals, my darling Sakura here.’
‘That’s right. She hired her for the whole night.’
‘But to protect her identity, for whatever mad reason, she called herself Mrs Amelia Finch. I like the ‘Mrs’, by the way, don’t you? Such a nice touch. It’s funny how that title can add a touch of respectability to a person, isn’t it, Sakura.’
‘It certainly is, Abigail,’ says Sakura, smiling. Abigail reaches across the table and holds Sakura’s hand. These two should get a room. I can see Abigail looking from Sakura to me and then back again.
‘You don’t think, Sakura, do you, that perhaps the three of us…’
‘Not at the moment, darling,’ says Sakura, grinning.
‘So, Daniel,’ says Abigail. ‘Why do you think she used another name when paying for this motorcycle courier?’
Kiss Me When I'm Dead Page 24
