by Owen Mullen
‘Good evening. Nice to see you. Follow me, please.’
At the table, she asked, ‘What would you like to drink?’
Drake was enjoying being the centre of her world and forgot she was paid to make him believe it.
‘Champagne.’
‘Certainly. I’ll bring our wine list over.’
‘No, don’t bother, you choose.’
She acknowledged his faith in her judgement with an imperceptible nod and said, ‘Are you fine by yourself or would you like some company?’
Dropped so casually, so easily, into the conversation she could have been enquiring if he’d prefer Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong. Drake pretended the notion hadn’t occurred to him, hesitated, then said, ‘What a good idea.’
The women arrived before the champagne – gorgeous and eager to please, making eye contact with him, each one chatting for a few minutes before excusing herself. Algernon Drake would’ve been satisfied with any of them but something about the fourth one intrigued him. She was different; they were young, she was younger still, with an energy he couldn’t resist.
He lied for a living. Making conversation with a teenage prostitute would be easy.
‘What was your name again?’
‘Zelda.’
‘Zelda? Unusual. I’ve never met a Zelda.’
She laughed and he noticed the perfect teeth. ‘Then you’ve never lived.’
‘Are there many Zeldas where you come from?’
‘What, in Dublin? You’re joking.’
‘So why Zelda?’
She allowed her accent to thicken, the practised smoothness falling away, and Drake realised it was Sheriff Street Dublin rather than Castleknock talking.
‘It appealed to me, will that do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure, now. Because I can make up a fairy story if you like.’
Drake refilled his glass and drank, suddenly overwhelmed by her. She leaned closer, her scent filling his head, and whispered in his ear. ‘You want me, don’t you?’
The polished performer from the Old Bailey wasn’t here. Drake felt his pulse quicken, his heart beat faster as he whispered in return, ‘How does this work?’
Zelda wasn’t more than seventeen years old. For all his experiences with women, the frankness from someone her age stunned Algernon Drake.
She said, ‘Ask for the bill. I’ll be on it. Then, we’ll get out of here.’
Drake poured what was left of the wine he’d started on earlier and guided her out onto the balcony. Her reaction was predictable: she pulled in close, her breasts brushing against him, and under his breath he thanked Nina.
Zelda said, ‘How can you afford this? How can anybody afford it? What the hell do you do?’
He gave his stock reply, an answer that amused him, one he’d been using for years. Tonight, it had a special irony. ‘I provide a service to people prepared to pay for it. Same as you.’
She watched him over the rim, her lipstick smudging the glass. ‘You’re wondering why I do this, aren’t you? A fine girl like me, eh? Don’t deny it. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘I’m wondering a lot of things – that isn’t one of them.’
She slid her hand inside his shirt and stroked his chest. ‘In some ways, men are more romantic than women, did you know that? A man will imagine a sad history behind me and see a victim.’ She laughed. ‘A woman would see a whore taking the easy option and that would be the end of it.’
Drake said, ‘Sorry to disappoint you but I’m not even a little bit curious.’
She continued as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘And she’d be right. I do it because the money’s great and I like sex.’ Zelda changed the subject. ‘Did you check your bill?’
‘No, I never do. It would make me feel poor and I can’t have that.’
‘Then you don’t know how much I just cost you.’
‘I can guess.’
She peeled his jacket off. ‘Close your eyes and think of a number.’ Drake played along. ‘Okay, now double it.’
‘Really?’
She put her arms round his neck and stared up at him. ‘It’s my job to make sure you get your money’s worth. What would you like me to do?’
‘I’m… I’m… not sure.’
‘Shall I call you Mr Drake?’
Drake unbuttoned her top and led her to the bedroom; he was nervous. ‘Call me Algie. Will you tell me your real name?’
‘My real name’s Zelda. Do you need any help?’
‘Like what?’
Zelda opened her bag so he could see inside. ‘Like, whatever you fancy.’
‘I don’t do drugs.’
She gave a coarse dismissive grunt. ‘Don’t be stupid. ’Course you do, everybody does.’
They moved together with the familiarity of old lovers, easy and unhurried, savouring each other. His lips explored the youthful skin, taut and yielding at the same time. Zelda rolled on top, her naked thighs pinning him to the bed, nails gently scratching a path through the hair on his chest. He moaned and remembered her words.
it’s my job to make sure you get your money’s worth
The first pinprick of anxiety arrived as a sensation in his arm, no more telling than a bee sting. Algernon Drake ignored it. But the unease that followed was impossible to dismiss – a deepening sense of nameless dread. In seconds, he was sweating, drowning in fear; terrified and free falling, panic rising in his throat. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe – her flowery perfume was choking him.
‘What’s wrong? You’re shaking.’
‘I… I… don’t…’
She held onto him. ‘It’s all right. Relax. You’re having a reaction, that’s all. It’ll pass.’
Drake fought her. ‘Let me up!’
‘Stay calm. It isn’t happening.’
He punched her. ‘Get away from me, you bitch!’
‘It isn’t real, Algie.’
Drake manhandled her aside and ran from the room; she heard him crashing through the flat, arguing with people who weren’t there. Seconds later, he was back, his face twisted and ugly with rage, the blade of a kitchen knife glinting in his hand. In the middle of the floor, the barrister made his stand, striking out at unseen enemies.
Zelda crawled to the end of the bed. Giving him the drug had been a mistake – he hadn’t even wanted it. Drake jerked and danced like some possessed marionette, half-formed words tumbling from his mouth, while the blade cut the empty air in one deadly arc after another.
She tried again to reach him. ‘Algie! Algernon! It’s okay.’
His head came up like an animal testing the wind, turning towards her, no recognition of who she was or where they were. Zelda saw his expression darken as his crazed eyes fixed on her and knew Algernon Drake was going to kill her.
The first thrust entered her breast an inch from the nipple, instantly turning the milky skin red; the second severed her windpipe releasing a crimson gusher that sprayed the bedclothes and up the walls. Then he was on her, thrusting and stabbing, again and again.
The effort drained him; he walked slowly, dazed and exhausted, to the lounge still clutching the knife, lay down on the couch and fell asleep.
27
I drove with the radio murmuring in the background, hardly audible, but as much noise as my aching head could stand. Champagne hangovers were the worst. I was in a strange space – no longer drunk but not yet sober. Through the window a young guy in denims and dreadlocks was making an early start, setting up a display of fruit and vegetables on the pavement outside a West Indian grocery store. I’d read Rastafarians had used their ‘dreads’ to instil fear in non-believers. I had my own methods, and they didn’t include braiding my hair. It was three a.m. when I’d finally left LBC with a brunette who claimed she was a flight attendant with Finnair. Four hours later when the call came through, she was asleep and didn’t stir. I’d stretched out a resentful hand to the bedside cabinet, dragged the mobile to my ear and listened. Her voice was sh
rill, the story garbled – fragments of apology jostling with barely contained rage as she described what she was seeing.
‘Easy, Nina, easy. Take it slowly.’
In the background I heard a man crying. Her final words before she gave me the address and broke the connection had me on my feet.
‘You need to get over here. This is really bad.’
Mark Douglas was standing on the cobbles in the middle of Shad Thames, waiting for me; he’d done well to get here so fast. Four and a half hours ago – it seemed like days – he’d walked me to the front door of the club, shaken my hand and wished me a good night.
Nina was leaning against the wharf’s brick wall smoking a cigarette.
Douglas got into the car – he had something to say and wanted me to hear it before I spoke to my sister. ‘Don’t blame Nina. She isn’t responsible for this.’
I felt a sudden surge of irritation. ‘Don’t blame her for what, Mark?’
He stared like it was a question he ought to have the answer to but didn’t, then showed he hadn’t forgotten his police training. ‘Didn’t know what route you’d want to go down so we’ve got their mobiles, the murder weapon’s been bagged and I’ve taken a video. It… isn’t nice.’
Nina saw me get out of the car, pulled deeply on the cigarette she was holding, exhaled slowly and watched me come towards her through the smoke. The cigarette dropped from her fingers. She studied it like the remains of a dead insect, her expression empty. My first thought was that whatever had happened had upset her. I was wrong – she was angry.
‘Are you okay?’
Her reply was tart. Answering a question with a question. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’
From behind me, Douglas said, ‘Charley’s on her way. Be here any minute.’
Mark Douglas, Nina, and now Charley. What the hell was going on?
He read my mind. ‘Be warned, you’re going to need a strong stomach.’
We climbed to the fourth floor, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Nina was a tough lady. Her reaction was enough to know what was ahead of me wouldn’t be pretty. I’d only understood snatches of what she was telling me on the phone; I was about to find out the rest.
The front door was wide open. Douglas spoke quietly. ‘The room on the right – she’s in there.’
Heavy curtains covered the window; a lamp knocked onto the floor cast ghostly shadows over the naked body. Mark Douglas had told the truth about needing a strong stomach: a metallic smell stuck in the back of my throat and made me want to throw up and, in the half-light, blood stained the crumpled sheets and spattered the walls. In the centre of the room a mutilated woman lay across the bed, as dead as it was possible to be, her arms and legs splayed awkwardly, almost as if the torso and the limbs didn’t belong together and had been forced into place like the wrong pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Her chest had taken the brunt of the attack, the wounds on the perfect breasts too many to count. Any one of them could’ve been fatal. But the slash at the neck had put the outcome beyond doubt, severing a major artery and probably the trachea, causing massive haemorrhaging.
After that, death, as violent as I’d ever seen, had come quickly.
There were all kinds of men in the world.
This girl had been unlucky – she’d met the worst kind.
I said, ‘Do you know her?’
Mark Douglas didn’t get a chance to reply – Charley picked that moment to arrive, dressed like she was on her way to dinner at Le Gavroche in Mayfair instead of the scene of a horrific crime in Bermondsey at half-past seven in the morning. She stood at my shoulder, the couple of stray hairs she’d missed when she was putting her act together falling across her cheek. Charley was seeing what I was seeing, yet didn’t comment. It was hard to imagine an uglier end but the damage one human being had done to another left her unmoved. Her breathing was steady and even, unaffected by the atrocity in front of her and, again, I realised my suspicions about my sister and her past were on the money.
She answered without missing a beat. ‘Yes. Called herself Zelda.’
‘Zelda? Couldn’t she have come up with better than that?’
‘She liked it.’
‘Who did this to her?’
Nina stood in the doorway at the end of the hall, framed by the light. We hadn’t heard her come in. It was clear she hadn’t shaken off her anger. She pointed an accusing finger at Charley, her shrill voice echoing in the hall. ‘She did it! Everything was fine until she persuaded you that she knew our business better than we do.’
I said, ‘You’re blaming me?’
‘Yeah, I’m blaming you.’
Charley took a step back, working to make sense of what was going on. Gradually, the pieces started to fit and she said, ‘Wait a minute. Why’re you here, Nina? This has nothing to do—’
‘He called me.’
‘Who called you?’
‘Algernon Drake.’
‘Algernon… you know him?’
‘He’s a client.’
‘A fucking psycho is what he is.’
‘No. He’s a lot of things but this…’ she hooked a thumb towards the body ‘… isn’t him. Your girl gave him something. Have a look; he’s wasted. What the hell are your skanks dishing out?’
I’d told myself confrontation wasn’t inevitable, that we were family and could make it work. A lie. Too much water had run under too many bridges for both of them, the enmity was mutual, deeper than I would ever understand. They were siblings. But above that, above everything, they were rivals; the fight my sisters were squaring up to have had been on the cards from the minute I’d told Nina about Charley. The dead hooker in the bedroom and the man in the lounge who’d murdered her had no part in what was going on between them.
Douglas shouted, ‘Get a grip, both of you! This isn’t taking us anywhere.’
Like the bedroom, the lounge curtains were drawn and the room was uncomfortably warm. Every light was on. The furniture was stylish and modern and unmistakeably masculine: a glass and polished metal coffee table, twin maroon chesterfield couches and a beige carpet, its thick pile stained in a red trail from the bedroom. A naked man sat at the end of one of the couches, hugging himself, shivering though it was anything but cold. I guessed he was in his sixties, his grey body hair slicked and matted with his victim’s blood. His lip was bleeding and there were bruises on his thighs. He rocked gently, backwards and forwards, in a world of his own and didn’t look up when we came in. Finally, he raised his eyes, drug-glazed and red.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’
It didn’t deserve an answer. Mark Douglas gave one anyway. ‘And you killed her, you sick fuck.’ He dragged the man to his feet. ‘Let’s go for a wee walk down memory lane. Take a good look at your handiwork.’
Charley scrutinised the man’s face, trying to remember him from LBC; his breath was foul. She’d been around drugs all her life – Nina was right, he was on something. She stood aside so he could see past her into the room. Zelda’s nude body lay broken. Drake recoiled, his face twisted in horror and disbelief. ‘Oh, God, no!’
‘What did you take?’
‘She… she gave me… something.’
Douglas shook him. ‘Gave you what?’
He fell to his knees, moaning. Mark Douglas didn’t let go; his fingers dug into the thin arm.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.’
So far, I’d watched and listened and let Douglas handle it. Now, I stepped forward so he could see me. ‘Algernon Drake?’
He looked up like a rabbit caught in the headlights. I turned the name over in my mind; it sounded familiar. ‘Take him back to the lounge.’
Douglas started to object. ‘But he’s—’
I wasn’t in the mood. Only weeks into Charley’s grand vision and already it was off the rails. Somebody was to blame and I was trying to decide who. If this got out, the consequences could be ruinous. A dead hooker wouldn’t make the front page of t
he newspapers, but any hint she was connected to the club could finish LBC for good.
‘Just do it.’
Drake ran an agitated hand over his smooth pate; he was terrified and he should be. I gave him a minute to pull himself together. Sixty seconds wouldn’t be enough – it was the only break he was getting. I hunkered down so he could see my face and understand the gravity of his situation and mine.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll know the girl you murdered worked for me and realise the only hope you have left is to tell the truth.’
Paranoid eyes darted from me to Mark Douglas and back again as he processed what he was hearing. Behind Drake, Charley anxiously bit her lip – the dead prostitute was a potential disaster for both of us.
Algernon Drake pleaded with Nina. ‘You know me. Tell them I wouldn’t do this, Nina. Please.’
I put my hand on his shoulder and felt him tremble. ‘Forget Nina, she can’t help you. Start at the beginning. Take your time. And don’t lie.’
He nodded, and for a moment I thought he was going to do the sensible thing.
‘She came on to me. I was having a drink at the bar in the club.’
The blow struck his temple and knocked him to the carpet. I dragged him to his feet and slapped him twice, hard. He’d stabbed a woman too many times to count, yet this guy wasn’t getting it.
‘The girls don’t “come on” to people. That isn’t how it works. You asked for her. One more lie and you’re going out the window head-fucking-first, Algernon. Try again.’
