Night Market

by Daniel Pembrey

  I turned to her. She had light, almond-shaped eyes, and some amount of rouge on the planes of her cheeks; she was dressed in muted browns, but the soft garments did nothing to disguise her figure. At one time, I might have been flattered to imagine that she was drawn to my own physique. Being tall had been helpful that way.

  ‘And you?’ I replied. ‘Are you here on business?’

  She gave the briefest of smiles, then clamped her red lips back around the straw in her glass.

  The level of the cranberry juice didn’t drop. I got the sense that her drink was intended to last a while.

  She stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘In case you are lonely later,’ she said, sliding a discreet, matte-black business card beside my wrist.

  I looked around self-consciously, but the male eyes were on her rather than me, following her to the other side of the bar. She sat down there alone. She’d taken her drink with her.

  ‘Another Americano?’ the barman asked. His name was Francisco and he was from Bilbao, I’d learned when ordering earlier. He would have caught it all.

  I widened my eyes briefly to acknowledge what had just taken place. ‘I should probably take my leave.’

  Turning the card over revealed that she went by the name ‘Kamilla’. It was embossed in a silver, cursive script. There was just a phone number beneath.

  I glanced across the bar at her, but her attention was already on someone else.

  ‘I didn’t take this hotel to be the kind of place where that stuff goes on,’ I said to Francisco.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ he remarked, leaning over the bar. ‘It happens at all the best hotels across London.’

  ‘No one minds?’

  ‘What’s there to mind?’ He glanced at the card. ‘A beautiful woman just gave you her phone number.’ He laughed, then shook his head. ‘She probably earns more in an hour than I make in a week, tips included.’

  ‘Her tips, or yours?’

  He gave a snort of a laugh, but his eyes were maudlin.

  I didn’t give him time to dwell on it. ‘A guy I knew stayed here a few weeks ago, did you come across him by any chance?’

  I pulled a photo of Heinrich Karremans from my inside pocket. Francisco tried to make sense of the image, the context; the photo had clearly been clipped from a magazine. ‘I don’t recall,’ he said.

  ‘Take a closer look,’ I insisted.

  It didn’t help.

  ‘Maybe you should ask her.’ He nodded in Kamilla’s direction and went to serve another patron.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I said, putting her card in my pocket, and Karremans’s photo with it.

  I left a ten-pound note for the coffee and a tip and then went off to meet Tommy Franks.

  *

  Taking the Jubilee line from Southwark to Green Park brought me out in another world altogether. To my right was the Ritz Hotel. Opposite lay a district known as Mayfair; Park Lane bordered it to the west.

  I had never seen so many Bentleys and Rolls Royces before in one place. It was as if the two car marques had sponsored the street. The rear windows of the vehicles were invariably tinted, perhaps to keep the hoi polloi like me guessing as to their owners’ identities.

  It took me back to a favour Rem Lottman had asked me to do, chaperoning a Ghanaian diplomat from Antwerp to Amsterdam. The diplomat and I had made the journey together in the back of a diplomatic Bentley.

  As I waited, I wondered what had become of Mr Lesoto. Hadn’t he been looking for a European child bride at one point?

  Franks arrived on foot, a newspaper folded under his arm. He made strong eye contact as he shook my hand.

  ‘I hope I haven’t wasted your time here,’ he said as we crossed the busy street, navigating our way between glamorous bumpers and grilles.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I asked, quickening my pace to keep up. We headed up a dark side street into Mayfair.

  ‘There’s something off about this place.’ He was referring to The Silver Key, apparently. ‘My enquiries so far have pretty much come to naught.’

  ‘Glad I’m here to help, then.’

  We passed a sign for Shepherd Market; the area was a curious mix of opulence and the quotidian – sandwich bars, dry cleaners… even a sign pointing up some dingy steps, promising ‘foxy models’.

  ‘Where are we?’ I said.

  ‘A place in transition. Old tenants moving out – new wealth moving in. It’s the most valuable real estate in the world these days. There’s a few tales I could tell you about this neck of the woods, a few old slappers you probably shouldn’t know about, but another time… the address we’re heading to is just round the corner. Where are you staying, by the way?’

  ‘Maritime House.’

  His eyes slid suspiciously my way.

  ‘I got to know it while here last time. It’s only three stations away on the Underground.’

  He seemed to accept this explanation.

  ‘How far are we freelancing here?’ I asked.

  ‘Say again?’

  I rephrased my question: ‘Where’s the official enquiry into Karremans’s death got to? Are they aware of our field trip this afternoon?’

  Franks shrugged. ‘The Met now embraces the principle of flexible policing practices. I would have thought that you, of all people, could relate to that.’

  I caught the acidic tone of his comment, and wondered whether staying at Maritime House was a problem after all.

  As we rounded the corner I saw the venue. It was a grand corner property: brick with gothic stone features, notably an ornate entrance way. The windows either side were dark and gloomy.

  Most of the neighbouring properties were wrapped in scaffolding. The sound that the wind made on the plastic wrapping had always reminded me of sails at sea, but this location couldn’t have felt more different; there was no sense of movement here. A curiously inert feeling pervaded the vicinity, as though it were a neighbourhood waiting to be lived in once more.

  ‘For one thing,’ Franks said, pausing on the opposite side of the street, ‘the sign’s vanished.’

  ‘What sign?’

  ‘When I visited last time, there was a sign saying The Silver Key. Beside the front door.’

  It had been the same in Amsterdam, at 840 Keizersgracht. When I’d returned the next day, the sign had disappeared.

  I told Franks as much.

  ‘How did you get to know about that address?’ he asked.

  ‘A colleague found out about it by digging up a complaint against a guy called Westerling. This guy has reaped a fortune from the redevelopment of Amsterdam’s docklands. Anyway, a young girl made the complaint, and the address given for the incident was the same one as The Silver Key’s.’

  ‘What became of the complaint?’

  ‘Nothing, though Westerling has been inside for other offences, including fraud and tax evasion.’

  ‘Not quite the same severity of offence now, is it?’

  I felt the force of Franks’s ire, and wondered about it. I’d seen how badly wrong things could go: the other team members in Driebergen… the ones who’d been abused at a Belgian boys’ home…

  The ones who’d been shot by Franks.

  What exactly was his backstory?

  ‘So how did you learn of this address?’ I asked, my gaze roving the moribund-looking building. ‘You mentioned some reference to it on Night Market. What was that, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  Franks tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. Need-to-know basis, the gesture said.

  Bastard.

  ‘Let’s go knock on the front door, shall we?’ he said.

  ‘What’s our cover?’ I asked tersely.

  ‘Buildings Inspectorate.’

  ‘Should we at least take a moment to get our stories straight?’

&n
bsp; ‘I’ll do the talking,’ he said, striding across the street.

  His ring of the doorbell brought no response. He looked away, grimaced, then rapped on the door with his knuckles.

  ‘How did you know he was here?’ I asked in a low voice.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Karremans, of course. Was it via the Night Market site as well?’

  Maybe the bell hadn’t been working, as the door now opened. The man who appeared was all muscle and at least two metres tall, his shoulders and biceps straining his well-tailored suit. We were standing on the steps below, and he towered over us.

  Behind him was gloomy hallway.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  Franks flashed his badge, quickly. ‘We’re here from Westminster Council Buildings Inspectorate. Just making sure everything’s OK.’ He nodded at a scaffolding truck down the street. ‘There’ve been some complaints about noise, and also some safety issues.’

  The man stared for a long moment. ‘Then talk to the owners.’

  ‘I’m talking to you,’ Franks said.

  ‘And I’m telling you: talk to the owners.’

  The door closed at a leisurely pace.

  Franks stood for a moment before stalking away a few steps.

  I could see the man’s eyes through the window.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ I told Franks.

  ‘What nationality would you say he was?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ I replied. ‘Why don’t you get that warrant?’

  Franks ignored my question. ‘It’s like entering a foreign fucking country here. Most of this area’s owned by the Arabs.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They even call it the Qatari Quarter.’

  It gave me an idea. ‘Maybe I know another address we could call on which is relevant.’

  ‘What address?’ he said. ‘Where?’ We were walking briskly back towards Green Park Underground station.

  ‘On Knightsbridge.’

  It was the site of Cyclamen’s European office – I’d tracked it down before coming here.

  ‘What’s there?’ Franks asked impatiently. ‘Come on, Henk.’

  I stopped, causing him to do the same, and tapped my forefinger to my nose.

  ‘Let me make some calls.’

  He glared at me. For a moment I thought he might take a swing, but instead he asked, ‘What are you doing this evening? Would you like to get a drink or three?’

  ‘I need to make those calls. I left some people in the lurch back in Holland by making this trip.’ My wife, for one.

  Franks grimaced.

  ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘is there a place to withdraw cash around here?’

  ‘Plenty.’ He nodded along the busy street. ‘Call me,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t matter how late.’ He strode off, saying over his shoulder, ‘Don’t be a stranger now, Henk.’

  ‘Nor you,’ I said. ‘Get that warrant!’

  *

  Back at the hotel, I rang the number on the card in my pocket. The call connected to Kamilla’s husky voicemail message.

  I thought about phoning my wife, but noticed that I’d missed a call from Sergei while dialling the escort.

  I called him back and he picked up.

  ‘You just tried to reach me?’

  ‘Yes, about Eva,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s Eva?’

  ‘The producer in Belarus.’

  ‘Ah. Any luck?’

  ‘Afraid not. She hasn’t replied to my email, and the number I had for her is no longer in service.’

  ‘Hmm. Does that strike you as odd?’

  He hesitated. ‘Not really. She probably just got a new phone in her home country.’

  ‘Could you keep trying?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sergei said. ‘We’re family now.’

  I winced as I switched on the TV and found a European news channel.

  ‘Thanks. I have to go,’ I said, ending the call.

  I fished a miniature Scotch from the minibar. Then I took a long hot shower, raking my fingers over my scalp, convinced that the enquiry into the events at the Royal Hotel via Sergei wouldn’t come to anything anyway. When I finally turned off the water, my phone was buzzing.

  It was an unidentified UK number.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, dripping wet.

  ‘You called earlier?’ came the husky voice.

  ‘Kamilla?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘The tall man at the bar earlier. You gave me your card.’

  Her voice betrayed no recollection as she said, ‘You would like to make an appointment?’

  ‘Yes, it needs to be tonight, though, as I leave London tomorrow. Actually, now is good.’

  She made a show of sounding busy.

  I said, ‘What kind of gift could I offer you for your time?’

  ‘Are we talking about dinner, a show?’

  ‘None of that. Just my hotel room.’

  ‘How much time do you want?’

  ‘The minimum.’

  ‘The minimum is one hour.’

  ‘Let’s do that then. How soon can you get here?’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how much the amount is?’

  ‘Of the gift? Not really. Not now, anyway.’ I’d withdrawn plenty of cash. ‘We can talk about it when you arrive.’

  I could hear a hint of unease in her voice. ‘You will need to meet me in the bar. I cannot come to your room without a key card.’

  Was it to check me out again – to make sure I was safe before venturing up to my room?

  ‘Let’s just meet in the lobby, then,’ I said.

  She hesitated. ‘I could be there by nine o’clock.’

  ‘Done.’

  As I got dressed again, I considered calling my wife. I found myself fighting a guilty feeling – but what did I have to feel bad about? There was nothing wrong with what I was doing.

  I ended up lying on the bed, watching the news.

  *

  At 8.56 p.m., I went down to the lobby. She arrived at nine precisely. There was no hip sway, no flashing smile. This is strictly business, her demeanour said. Yet her attire did nothing to hide her legs: her coat ended mid-thigh, her dress went no lower. She wore high heels with bright-red soles, matching her lipstick.

  The receptionists were busy checking in other guests. I escorted her past them, quickly, to the lifts.

  There were two problems with my plan.

  One was an awakening sensation in my lower body, which I needed to control. I hadn’t been up close with a woman this young and attractive in some time. Inside the lift, her subtle perfume lent a growing sense of expectation, like the prospect of unwrapping a Christmas present.

  The second issue was that she appeared to be acting independently, as opposed to via an agency. This would limit the amount of information I could expect from her, I now saw.

  I opened the door to my room and she followed me in, checking it out.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Not while I’m working,’ she replied, setting her slim clutch bag at the foot of the bed. She slid her coat off and lay it alongside. Her black dress was so flimsy she may as well have not bothered with it.

  ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she promised, picking up her bag again as she entered the bathroom. The light and fan clicked on and the door closed behind her.

  I blew air out sharply between my lips and fixed myself another Scotch. Then I found my wallet. The TV flickered away silently.

  When the bathroom door opened again, she was wearing just black underwear. She turned off the light behind her and leaned against the doorframe.

  ‘How much is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Six hundred.’ She took a coquettish step towards me. ‘Still dressed?’ she said. ‘Do you want to just watch
me?’

  ‘I can think of a couple of things. But I’m not sure whether you’re into either.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘What things?’

  ‘Erotic asphyxiation.’

  I brought my hand to my throat to demonstrate.

  She stiffened. ‘I do not know about this service.’

  I threw two fifty-pound notes down on the bed, choosing my words carefully.

  ‘Are you aware of anyone who does?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  I took a step towards her. ‘Do you know any girls – or boys – who offer that service in this hotel?’ I waved the rest of the money at her.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Just someone looking for information.’

  We stood for a second as she processed things.

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Take a look at this man.’

  I showed her the picture of Karremans.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you police?’

  ‘Yes, but not on duty. And not from around here.’

  She looked at me intently, then bit down on her lip. Reprising her seductive attitude?

  I lay several more fifties down on the bed. As she bent over to scoop them into her bag, I was engulfed by a yearning for her young body.

  She removed a small scent bottle from the bag.

  I brought up a warning hand. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t spray that in here. I don’t want anyone to smell –’

  Her outstretched arm swivelled. Instinctively I made to grab her wrist, in a judo move, but it was too late. My face was already wet with perfume mist.

  Only it wasn’t perfume.

  My hands stopped grabbing, instead palming my eyeballs. There was a burning sensation, and a rushing sound in my head – the sound of panic, all my senses on extra-high alert. The door to the room was opening; it was the movement of air that told me so.

  A large man. Had she made a call to him from the bathroom?

  As my hands fought to restore my vision, my thoughts reeled. Why had she picked me at the bar earlier?

  Another movement in the air told me the door was closing again behind the man. I couldn’t let that happen.

  My life was turning upside down like in a high-speed vehicle accident. I ran at the door – at him – and there was a deep thump as something collided with my right shoulder. It could have been a wall I’d run into.