Femme Fatale Read online

  She downs her vodka in one. ‘Stand up. Let me show you something.’

  I empty my shot glass and do as she says. She takes my hand and leads me into what seems to be the master bedroom. One of the walls is almost completely mirrored. She stands in front of me, looking at our reflections.

  ‘What do you think of that?’

  ‘Makes the room look a lot bigger than it is.’

  ‘I think we make a good-looking couple, don’t you?

  She leans back against me. She’s wearing the Ombre Mercure Extrême again. She flicks her long black hair away from her face. Our eyes meet in the mirror. She sighs as I pull the zipper of her dress all the way down in one sudden, swift movement. I yank the fabric away from her shoulders and the dress falls to the floor. She steps out of it. She’s still wearing the silver heels. I take a handful of her hair in my hand and pull her head back. I can see her body react to this and I can hear her breathing become more rapid. She covers her breasts with her hands and her eyes are half closed.

  ‘Shall we order a dessert, Caroline?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she gasps. ‘What do you think?’

  I tighten my grip on her hair. ‘They had some nice things.’

  Her voice cracks as she speaks. ‘The coffee and Amaretto crème brûlée looked rather tempting.’

  ‘I think I might go for the raspberry fondant.’

  ‘Oh, shut the fuck up.’

  13

  BORDELLO

  I walk out of Green Park tube station and cross over Piccadilly, almost getting clipped by a bike messenger zooming past on the wrong side of the road. It was warm when I came out but now there’s a chill in the air. I look at my watch. It’s just a little past eight-thirty. I feel a little nauseous from the exhaust fumes.

  I took a quick look at the Bordello website before coming out and decided that I’d better put on something relatively smart. I didn’t want to follow up my only lead to discover that I wasn’t wearing someone else’s idea of appropriate.

  There was no dress code that I could see, and that usually means you should instinctively know what to do. I opted for my only decent outfit, a black Paul Smith travel suit accompanied by an open-necked white linen shirt. I guess I could have worn a tie, but I don’t own one. I’m sure they’ll have spares for guests if it’s an issue. Anyway, this is burlesque, not an interview for an office job.

  It looked like quite a classy place, despite that fact that the interior decorators went a bit mad with the gold and crimson. They’re pushing a cosy and intimate vibe, but that’s just what the photographs are showing. There are thirty bookable tables so it can’t be that small. Red drapes on all the walls, big potted plants and Tiffany lighting.

  Despite being a two-minute walk from Piccadilly, Ryder Street is not one of those roads you’d normally visit unless you were a big fan of expensive art or antique books. As I walk down the west section, I pass a coffee bar, two art galleries, several office blocks and an estate agent. Helpfully, there are no street numbers on any of the buildings. Well, if I’ve walked past Bordello I can always come back and check, or, if the worst comes to the worst, ask someone. I have plenty of time before the show starts.

  I cross over Bury Street and into the east section. There’s a jewellers, a premises belonging to Christie’s, a rare books shop and what must be the entrance to some serviced apartments. It’s just as I’m crossing over the road to look in the window of Moretti’s that I see the entrance to the club.

  It’s discreet. You’d assume it was the entrance to a private house. You can’t just walk in; you have to press a buzzer. I press the buzzer. I’m buzzed in.

  A friendly doorman/bouncer in a black suit gives me a wide smile and shakes my hand. He’s wearing a discreet earpiece in his left ear. He gives me a rapid once-over, then a busty girl in a black and white polka dot wiggle dress with a big red hibiscus in her piled-up hair asks to see my ticket. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much lipstick on a single mouth. When she’s satisfied, she gives me a big grin and asks me to follow her.

  As I suspected, the club is pretty big and it’s already quite full. I take a quick snapshot of the clientele when I’m not looking at her ass and tiny waist and wondering how she doesn’t fall over wearing seven-inch pencil heels.

  There are gay couples, straight couples, singles of all persuasions and the age range is from twenties to sixties. The women, whatever their ages, are dressed in basques, corsets, bodies, retro, leather, plastic, Forties, Fifties, Sixties, pin-up, Hollywood and every mash-up in between. The men, apart from a couple of drag queens (both dressed like Dusty Springfield), are generally dressed like me, so I don’t feel too conspicuous.

  There’s pushed up and strapped in female flesh everywhere and my senses are constantly being whipped by seamed stockings and suspender belts. The predominant fragrance here is alcohol and expensive scent. I imagine this is what it would smell like if they had a risqué cocktail party in Selfridge’s perfume department. In a moment I’ll be pinching myself to see if I’m really awake.

  From what I can tell, the staff are primarily female and all dressed like the girl whose tail I’m currently watching. There’s an L-shaped cocktail bar to my left with two female bar staff and one barman. Some job.

  Behind row after row of lit-up bottles is a large frieze of Modigliani nudes. In front of the bar, Bettie Page and Marilyn Monroe are chatting animatedly and down the other end I’m pleased to spot Lieutenant Uhura from the Enterprise, but she’s wearing a PVC uniform.

  I like this place.

  I’m shown to a two-seater table which is right in front of a moderately-sized circular red stage. In the centre of the table, there’s a big ‘reserved’ card with a topless Vargas girl on the front. So that’s it. As far as Véronique is concerned, Rikki is a VIP.

  I can spot six hefty-looking Cessaro speakers on both sides of the stage. I can see I’m going to have tinnitus tomorrow morning. For the moment, though, the only music being played in the club is cool, medium-paced jazz. I recognise Générique by Miles Davis, but only because it was used in a film I saw recently. All this place needs is some old-fashioned cigarette smoke and it would be perfect.

  My hot guide tells me that someone will be along to take my drinks order in a moment. There’s a food menu on the candlelit table, so I take a look at that while I’m waiting.

  As I shouldn’t really be here, I’m expecting people to be staring at me, but I’m getting no attention at all, of course. Well, apart from the woman sitting on her own at the table to my left, whom I’m keeping under close supervision with my peripheral vision. She’s dressed entirely in red: a red fluffy top partially unbuttoned to reveal a well-filled red bullet bra, a red micro mini skirt, red suspender straps, red stockings and red patent leather shoes. She’s about five foot three, maybe mid-thirties or older with dyed platinum blonde hair. A good, pleasingly pretty face: possibly Scandinavian. I’ll keep her in mind.

  I decide to order fried king crab with a parmesan dip and rosemary seasoned flatbread. When my drinks waitress arrives, I ask for a couple of double vodka and sodas and give her my food order at the same time.

  I can see why Rikki would like this club: whether it’s his personal taste or not, a lot of the stuff in his flat fits in with this aesthetic. Also, it kind of transports you to another world, and that’s even before the entertainment starts. Perhaps he needs a break from the unrelenting, face-scraping horror of his nine to five.

  Now I have to give some thought to how he knows Véronique, or rather, why he gets perfumed front row tickets to her performances in the post.

  My first guess is it’s the drugs. The more I think about it, the more unlikely it seems that he sells drugs to his collection of cut-price connoisseurs. If these people are genuinely friends of his, he probably just gives them the stuff. It’s no skin off his nose, it’ll make him look like The Man and he can probably afford it.

  Maybe the subject came up in conversation once and he said he kn
ew a friend of a friend of a friend who could get hold of some high quality gear. He would keep it to himself that he could get virtually anything with a single phone call. I think Lee just made the assumption that money changed hands, and why wouldn’t he? As I think of Lee, I find I’m involuntarily opening my mouth and rubbing my jaw.

  So let’s say that the link to Miss D’Erotique is the guy who makes the feathery showgirl headpieces. This is only a minor possibility, of course, but I’m going to run with it. They get chatting one day and she asks him if he knows anyone who can get her whatever it is she’s into. This guy mentions Rikki. He tells her Rikki doesn’t want money, but just loves to be a part of exquisitely cultured lifestyles. So Rikki gets on her personal mailing list. He gets her kisses and he gets her perfume on his tickets. I’m guessing she has a lot of gay fans, so Rikki is just another gay fan, but with useful benefits as far as she’s concerned.

  A different waitress in a green and black polka dot wiggle dress brings my drinks on a Valley of the Dolls tray. I can see my blonde neighbour making a note that I’ve ordered two vodkas and I guess she’s wondering who the other one’s for. Or maybe she thinks I’m an alcoholic.

  Shortly after that, my food arrives. It looks like they’re preparing something on the stage now. Someone has killed the ambient lighting and I can hear low level white noise coming out of the speakers. People in black clothing are dragging things around. There’s a whirring noise as a pair of black curtains move across the front of the stage and stop you seeing whatever it is they’re doing.

  Of course, all my theorising about how Rikki and Véronique may have met has no bearing on where the hell this guy is and why he’s gone missing. It’s not as if he’s drifted out of some nice, safe lifestyle into a sinister and dangerous one: quite the reverse. I’m going to have to speak to Véronique and see if she has any theories. If I hit a dead end with her, I’m going to have to get Doug Teng to hack into Rikki’s computer and see what that turns up. Ideally, I’d need his mobile, too, but presumably that’s with him, wherever he might be. I’d like to speak to each one of his dinner party amigos, but how difficult that will be I have no idea.

  My train of thought, such as it is, is suddenly interrupted. The background jazz stops. A single white spot has just illuminated the centre of the stage and the audience chat has ceased. There’s a big burst of applause as a guy in a top hat and tails holding an outsize glass of champagne bounces onto the stage.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Bordello, the most sizzling, the most scorching and the hottest and stickiest burlesque club in London! My name’s Johnny Fuego, the compère without compare, and I’m going to be gently taking your collective hand and leading you into an evil, forbidden place where unthinkably wicked and erotic things dwell.’ He pauses for a second. ‘But enough about my underpants.’

  The audience go crazy and are lapping it up. They obviously know this guy well and love him.

  ‘Tonight’s show is going to leave this stage absolutely covered in sex. It’s going to be dripping off the spotlights and seeping down into the dungeon. Just make sure you don’t get any of it on your clothes or you’ll have a lot of explaining to do when you get home, if any of you have homes, which I doubt very much.’

  He takes a slug from whatever’s in that glass while raising his eyebrows in acceptance of the audience’s continued loud appreciation. I see him look at me for a millisecond, then he clicks his fingers at the lighting guy who’s sitting on the far left of the stage.

  ‘One thing, though, ladies and gentlemen.’ He taps both sides of his head with his fingers. ‘I think I must be losing my memory. It’s true. Because I thought it was my birthday three months ago!’

  I’m suddenly lit up in the glare of a bright white spotlight. This gets a big laugh from the audience and from me, too. I guess you have to expect this if you’re sitting at the front. I’ll bet Rikki loved this sort of thing.

  ‘Welcome to Bordello burlesque, sir. I hope you have a fabulous time tonight and leave here without a shred of decency left in your body, if there’s any there in the first place, and I can tell there isn’t!’ He takes another drink and turns his attention back to the audience. ‘We have a fantastic evening of urbane and cultured entertainment for you this evening. Topping the bill, of course, we have the marvellous, the romantic, the obscenely sophisticated Miss’ – his voice turns to an awed whisper – ‘Véronique D’Erotique!’

  The audience go wild at the mention of her name. He waits until the whooping and whistling has died down.

  ‘We shall also be seeing quite a bit of the delectable, the pert, the almost-too-voluptuous Miss Strawberry Sapphire!’

  Miss Sapphire gets an equally frenzied reaction from the crowd.

  ‘But now, ladies and gentlemen, mesdames et messieurs, Damen und Herron, signore e signori, damas y caballeros – would you please give a warm, moist, Bordello-style welcome to the bewitching, the pulchritudinous, the unwholesome, the atrocious – Miss Kitty Bourbon!’

  Our master of ceremonies dashes off the stage to more wild applause. The club lights dim. There’s a sudden hush and the black curtains slowly open to reveal the backlit silhouette of woman sitting side-on at a desk in the straight-backed posture of a secretary. She’s pretending to type on an old-fashioned typewriter. She glances frostily at the audience as the lights slowly come up and the sleazy, saxophone-heavy jazz strains of Harlem Nocturne by Earl Bostic pour out of the sound system.

  She finishes typing and stretches like a cat, her back arching, her fingers clasped behind her neck. As the stage gets brighter, I can see she’s dressed in a dark blue tailored pinstriped jacket and matching skirt. Black stockings, black four-inch heels. It’s hard to see what she’s got on underneath the jacket: possibly nothing. Her long red hair is tied back in a ponytail and she’s wearing black horn-rimmed glasses.

  After she’s had a long, sensual stretch that gets the audience moaning for more, she suddenly whips her hairband off, allowing her long, wavy hair to fall over her shoulders. This gets a round of applause. Almost immediately, she takes her glasses off, throws them over her shoulder and swivels round in her chair to face the audience, crossing her legs to give everyone a view of her stocking tops and suspenders.

  She’s buxom and voluptuous, her breasts wide and firm, her lips full, red, and petulant. She stands up and strolls languidly towards the front of the stage, slowly undoing three of the four buttons at the front of her jacket. She gives a funny, questioning look at the crowd, as if asking permission to take the fourth button off. Should she? Should she not? When she does so, the black lace open cup body she’s wearing underneath can be clearly seen, as can the black, heart-shaped nipple tassels. Just as I’m taking this in, the jacket comes off, and after being swung through the air a few times is thrown away towards the desk.

  Each movement she makes grinds along with the rhythm of the music. The vocal appreciation from the audience is non-stop. People scream when she twirls the nipple tassels. The skirt comes off, the body comes off, the stockings are pulled off excruciatingly slowly. By the time she’s down to G-string, tassels and nothing else, she’s got everyone eating out of her hand, me included. I’m so close to the stage I can see the moist glow of perspiration covering her body and I can smell her perfume.

  Then she slowly heads back to her desk, wiggling her ass at all of us, looking over her shoulder as if all of this is our fault. Just as she’s about to sit down again, she’s brightly illuminated by a prop door opening to her left, as if someone has come in unexpectedly and caught her at it. She crosses her hands across her breasts, give a shocked look at the audience and then everything is black.

  The whole place explodes, of course. I can see the blonde woman next to me applauding enthusiastically. She catches my eyes and I smile at her. A waitress comes and clears my table. I’ve finished both vodka and sodas so order another. I ask her to ask the blonde if she wants anything. I can hear her order: she asks for a Royal Blush – a red
cocktail to match her red clothes.

  She smiles at me, stands up and approaches my table.

  ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Of course. Please take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you for the drink. You are most kind.’

  She has a slight European accent, but I can’t identify it because of all the chatter and the jazz, which has started up again while the stagehands do their thing. She makes herself comfortable and crosses her legs. She has firm, heavy thighs.

  I’m about to ask her if she comes here often. There’s no way around it. I try to think of another way of putting it, but nothing comes to mind.

  ‘Do you come here often?’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, recently, anyway. I am a big fan of burlesque. My name’s Anouk, by the way. Anouk Heijmans.’

  ‘Daniel Beckett.’

  Our drinks arrive. I take a sip of mine and try to stop looking at what the red bullet bra is doing to her eye-catching cleavage. Then I have to stop looking at her red stockings and the tops of those white thighs. This is murder. Her name and the accent click into place in my brain.

  ‘You’re Dutch. Where are you from?’

  She nods and smiles. ‘I’m from Eindhoven originally, but I live in The Hague at present. You know it? I perform at the Paarde van Troje.’

  ‘The Trojan Horse.’

  Her eyes brighten. ‘You speak Dutch!’

  ‘Genoeg om rond te komen.’

  ‘Erg goed!’

  ‘So you’re a burlesque artiste, Anouk.’

  ‘Yes. I’m called Suzette Rousseau.’ She blushes as she says this, as if it’s some embarrassing secret.

  I take another quick look at her thighs. She notices and crosses her legs the other way. I’m going to sleep with her. ‘So are you checking out the competition?’

  She laughs. ‘I perform mainly in Europe, though sometimes in the UK. I’m here for a brief break. But you are correct, in a way. I like to see the British girls. They are so innovatief, you know?’