Kiss Me When I'm Dead Read online

She’s staring to her right, her long blonde hair falling down to her neck and almost obscuring one of her deep blue eyes. Her mouth is full and sensual, but the artist, whoever it was, has captured a moue of boredom or contempt, which makes the whole thing rather unsettling.

  It’s quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen before and I can’t tear my eyes away from it. It’s sexy, sure, but there’s also something sinister about it, something wrong with it. Who knows, maybe that’s part of the sexiness? It’s also completely impossible to tell how old she is. But I don’t know that much about portrait painting. Maybe all of this was intentional.

  ‘You like it, Mr Beckett?’

  I snap out of it and turn to face Nathan Raleigh. He’s grinning at me. I assume he’s pleased that someone is admiring one of his works of art. I feel annoyed that I didn’t hear him come in.

  ‘It’s fascinating. Who’s it by?’

  He’s in his seventies, and in the past would have been described as ‘dapper’. Green tweed jacket, white shirt, red bow tie, brown cords, brown Hush Puppies, red socks that match the bow tie. Only a few flecks of grey in his hair, unless it’s been expertly dyed.

  He has a strangely shaped and fairly recent scar an inch above his left eyebrow. It’s about the size of a peanut and is mostly circular, apart from the bottom, which is a dead straight line. I can’t imagine how he’d have acquired it.

  ‘Oh, no one you’d have heard of, I fear. I had it commissioned by an artist who was recommended to me by a friend. It’s my wife. Her name’s Rosabel.’

  ‘Your wife? Well now I feel embarrassed for looking at it. Please convey my apologies to her.’

  This makes him laugh. ‘It’s there to be looked at, Mr Beckett! You don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. My wife is a very liberated woman.’

  She wouldn’t mind me looking at her portrait or she wouldn’t mind me looking at her while she was half undressed? I don’t pursue this line of thought with him. It’s probably not a good idea.

  ‘She’s very beautiful.’

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know that. A lot of men would kill to have snagged a beauty like that. Don’t think I’m not aware of my good fortune. I’m a very lucky man.’

  He sure is. She’s quite a bit younger than him, by the look of things. It’s hard to guess from a painting, but I would say she’d have been between thirty-five and forty when this was painted. If it’s recent, she’d be around thirty years younger than Raleigh.

  ‘Do you want something to drink? Or did my girl get you something? I’m sorry I was a little late for our meeting. Tedious business call, but they have to be dealt with. Am I sounding fractious? If so, I apologise. I’m a little stressed.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. And no – I had a coffee a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Beckett.’

  I sit on one of the sofas and Raleigh sits across from me. He’s scrutinising me, almost as if I’m not really meant to be here. When you become obscenely rich and successful, your social skills are usually the first thing to go to the wall. His face breaks into a smile again.

  ‘You know Athos Baresi.’

  ‘Yes. I worked for him in Milan.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he says, as if I’d managed a correct answer in some quiz about myself. ‘He recommended you to me. He said you were one of the most efficient insurance investigators he’d ever come across and he’s a hard man to please, I can tell you that for nothing! Said you worked fast. Said you were discreet.’

  Baresi was a big man (and I mean that quite literally) in the world of fine art insurance. Some robbers stole a painting by Giuseppe Veneziano from a swish private gallery and he suspected it was an inside job but couldn’t prove it. He was right. It was the owner’s asshole son. I didn’t quite beat the truth out of him, but it was a close thing.

  Well, it’s nice to know that Athos remembered me. That must have been almost three years ago. I wonder how Raleigh knows him. Perhaps all of the very rich are mates and send each other Christmas cards, which are full of miscellaneous recommendations.

  ‘Well, speed can be of the essence, sometimes,’ I say, pointlessly, wondering when he’s going to get to the point, whatever the point may be.

  ‘Why were you working in Italy in the first place? I hope you don’t mind my asking.’

  You can ask all you like, but you won’t get a straight answer. ‘I just fancied a change.’

  ‘And some decent, warm weather, I’ll bet!’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I would like to hire you, Mr Beckett. If you’re free, that is. Have you ever dealt with missing persons?’

  ‘No. That’s usually a job for the police.’

  ‘The police. Yes.’

  He leans back and looks at the ceiling. The meeting seems to have gone into suspended animation for a few seconds. For the first time, I notice there’s a stuffed dog sitting by a door to my left. It’s a big breed, possibly a Doberman mixed with something else. Oh well, each to his own. After a minute has passed, he leans forwards, gripping his hands together tightly until the knuckles are white.

  ‘This is not going to be very easy for me, Mr Beckett.’ He gives me a smile, expecting a sympathetic response. ‘I have a daughter. You wouldn’t know that, of course. How could you? Her name is Viola. Viola Imogen. She will be twenty-four in a few months, but I haven’t seen her for two years. Just over two years, to be exact. Two years, two months and eleven days.’

  ‘I see.’

  He looks down at the floor. When he looks up, his eyes keep darting to the left. ‘We used to have an ordinary relationship, just like any father and daughter might have. But as she got older, she started going off the rails. It’s that old cliché – she got in with the wrong crowd.’

  I nod sympathetically. He stands up and wanders over to take a look at his wife’s portrait. This seems to be pretty painful for him. He’s fidgety and there’s a tremor in his voice, which he can’t seem to control. I’m not really sure whether it’s genuine or not.

  ‘I don’t know whether this was some act of rebellion against me personally or just a fault in her psychological makeup, but she developed a heroin habit and in due course drifted into prostitution to pay for it.

  ‘Even now as I’m telling you this I can’t quite believe it’s true. It is as if I’m talking about someone else. The last time I saw her, we had a flaming row. She told me all about it. Her job, I mean. What she did, the sort of people she saw – everything. It was the sort of thing that no father ever wants to hear. Are you married, Mr Beckett?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not. You’re probably too young. Or are you? I don’t know. You look early thirties to me.’

  ‘That’s about right.’

  ‘People marry when it suits them, I suppose. I married late. There just wasn’t time for it when I was younger. I had a lifestyle – is that the right word? – that didn’t allow me much time for social affairs. Then I met Rosabel and everything changed. I hope that doesn’t sound too clichéd.’

  ‘Not at all. How frequently were you in contact with Viola before the row?’

  He turns away from the painting and sits down opposite me again. These sofas are incredibly comfortable. I must get one when I win the lottery. I don’t do the lottery.

  ‘She visited me every three or four months, and it was usually to get money. But after our altercation the visits stopped. After a while, maybe three months, I went to the police and reported her as a missing person. I don’t know if I was being stupid, but it seemed the thing to do. That was, as I say, over two years ago. I had no idea what had happened to her. I didn’t know whether she was dead or alive. You can’t imagine what it was like.’

  ‘And the police haven’t been in touch about it since?’

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. They have. I got a call from a detective. Some bloody woman. Bream, her name was. Like the fish. And she said that as I was next of kin, they had to tell me that somebody e
lse had reported Viola as a missing person three weeks ago.’

  ‘Did they say who it was?’

  ‘They couldn’t. Or they wouldn’t. But the whole point is that Viola is still alive. Or at least she was three weeks ago. I didn’t know what to think. I suppose I was relieved, or I should have been relieved, but I really don’t know what I thought.’

  His speech is hesitant, as though he’s not used to talking to people about his feelings. ‘I think I was afraid for her all over again. It was as if she’d come back into my life and then gone again. Does that sound strange?’

  ‘Did they tell you anything at all?’

  ‘They said she’d been a guest in a hotel somewhere near Green Park tube station. I think they were rather amused by it all. That was my impression, anyway. They said that other than letting me know, there was nothing they could do about it. As Viola is over eighteen, if she wants to go missing that’s her affair, and if she doesn’t want anyone to know where she is, that’s her affair, too. I think they thought they were doing me a kindness. Bloody condescending, I call it. She might have been abducted or she might have been murdered, but they’re still keeping her on the missing persons file as if the whole thing was of no importance whatsoever. Do you know how many people are reported missing in London each year?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Roughly fifty thousand. Fifty thousand! I mean, there’s no way on earth that they have the manpower to investigate all of those. This bloody woman said they would do their best, but I don’t consider their best is good enough. I’m afraid I lost my temper with her on the telephone. I’m sure that didn’t help things, either. I know the police have a lot on their plate, but I suppose I expected more because it was me. I thought I might have received special treatment. I’m stupid, I know.’

  ‘But it must have relieved some anxiety. At least you know she’s not dead. Or at least you knew that she wasn’t dead three weeks ago.’

  I guess there must be a limit to how many times a person can be reported missing before the police decide that they actually want to be missing.

  ‘Knowing that she’s not dead is not quite enough, Mr Beckett. God knows what sort of life she’s been leading. God knows what sort of people she’s been hanging around with. God knows what sort of physical shape she’s in or what diseases she’s picked up. She’s probably a junkie, I can accept that, but I can help her.’

  His eyes now fill with tears. This is killing me. He licks his lips.

  ‘She’s my daughter. When I reported her missing she may well have been safe in some sense of the word. Not dead, anyway. Do you know what the police call that? When they’re found dead? A fatal outcome. God Almighty. But now someone else is obviously concerned for her safety and this time she may not be so lucky. Do you understand? I’m not articulating this properly. You must forgive me, Mr Beckett.’

  I give him my understanding and sympathetic half-smile. I practise it in the mirror and it’s pretty good.

  ‘I just want to know what has happened to her and I want her back. I want her safe. If she’s got problems I can help her. If she’s still got addiction problems I can pay for her to go somewhere. I just can’t stand the idea of her being out there somewhere. I just want peace of mind, can you understand that? I’m seventy-four now. I don’t want to die without ever seeing her again.’

  Seventy-four. Viola is almost twenty-four. Sexy blonde wife. Good work.

  ‘Well, as I said, I haven’t done missing persons before, but…’

  ‘How much do you charge, Mr Beckett?’

  ‘A thousand a day plus expenses and what I consider expenses are non-negotiable.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll double that and give you a twenty thousand bonus if you find her. I’ll give you three days’ money in cash right now.’

  Well, now he’s piqued my interest. He gets up, walks over to a big Richmond Hall wall safe and takes out six slim packs of fifty-pound notes. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that the safe is absolutely stuffed full of cash. Why do that? If I was as rich as this guy I’d make sure all my money was in a bank. Maybe he needs cash for bribes.

  I do some quick mental arithmetic, based on the stacks of notes and the size of the shelves; depending on the denominations and currencies, there could be half a million in there. He picks up a white Jiffy Bag, slides the banknotes inside and places it in front of me on the coffee table. All sorts of deranged methods of spending this money flash through my head. I also think of coming back here and robbing his safe.

  ‘And when I find her?’ I say, as casually as possible.

  ‘You just tell me where she is.’

  ‘And that will be the end of the job.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what happens if I find her and she’s dead?’

  He looks rattled. ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, from my point of view, the same amount of labour will go into this investigation whatever the endpoint will be. Therefore, it should make no difference whether I present you with a living, breathing girl or a cadaver. You just said she was still alive, but we only know that she was still alive three weeks ago. She may have been dead five minutes after the person who reported her as a missing person did so. She could even have been dead before that call was made. Understand?’

  I get a bit of the silent treatment for this, but it had to be said. I can tell he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. I hate people who do that. He’s staring very hard at me, as if he expects me to back down, but that’s not going to happen.

  ‘Very well, Mr Beckett. The bonus stands whatever the result.’

  ‘OK. I’ll do it. But I’m going to need some help from you. I’m going to need a recent photograph, for a start.’

  ‘I have already anticipated that. My head of security, James Fisher, has some photographs and has prepared a meagre but helpful document for you. I think perhaps he should join us.’

  He presses a button on his desk. Where there had been angst and distress, there’s now a wolfish grin. This is a man who likes getting what he wants.

  3

  A MISSING PERSON

  ‘You offended my boys, Mr Beckett.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  James Fisher is about six foot five and looks like he’s the father of the two security goons, who, for all I know, are still standing in that anteroom and trying to look tough for the security cameras. Maybe he is their father. Maybe there’s a place where insecure macho security thugs are specially bred.

  His comment is an attempt to make light of the supposed offence, but I know I’ve pissed him off. He’s holding a bright green plastic folder. He’s suited up, but in a much more expensive way than his two halfwit sons. Ex-army like Purple Tie, I would say. I wonder where Raleigh gets them all from. Perhaps there’s a high street agency.

  I stand up and shake his hand. He attempts a punishing bone-crusher, but I’m ready for it and press a nerve on the side of his wrist with my ring finger. His hand jerks open and he glances at it with confusion, as if he’s unexpectedly developed some painful carpal problem. I know that would have hurt like fuck, but he took it pretty well and isn’t breaking down in tears or anything.

  ‘Cramp?’ I say to him, innocently.

  He looks at me uncertainly, flashes a matey grin at Raleigh and sits down next to him on the sofa. I’m not really sure why Raleigh should have a head of security, but I’m sure I’ll find out in due course. I recognise Fisher’s type from long experience and from the in-control tough guy stare he’s attempting to intimidate me with.

  You’re quite welcome to join one of the armed forces and serve your country and get shot at if you wish, but no one’s forced you to join up, and it doesn’t mean you have to be a grim, humourless wanker who doesn’t suffer fools gladly for the rest of your life, but people like Fisher just can’t help themselves.

  ‘Wouldn’t let the boys search him when he came in, sir,’ he says, rubbing his wrist. ‘Sherwood had to ask me if it was OK. I decided he wouldn�
��t be a threat. You’re no threat, are you, Mr Beckett?’ he jokes, flashing his teeth at me.

  I must assume that Fisher must have been watching the aborted search on CCTV somewhere and decided I was safe. I don’t answer him and look at Raleigh, giving him the chance to appear like a nice guy.

  ‘You must think I’m rather eccentric having all these security precautions,’ says Raleigh, with a self-depreciating smirk. ‘The fact is – and this doesn’t leave this room – some people tried to kidnap me a few years ago.’

  ‘Really? That’s awful.’

  This doesn’t leave this room? Damn.

  ‘Luckily, my chauffeur of the time, man named Peters, managed to see them off. I don’t think they were proper professionals and I don’t think they were expecting any resistance.’

  I notice that Fisher is wringing his hands and looking at the floor with more interest than it can possibly warrant.

  ‘What made them pick on you?’ I say, placing an edge of sincere concern in my voice.

  ‘I don’t really know. I imagine money was the main motive.’ He smiles in an appealing, modest way. ‘I suppose I’m one of the super-rich. I try to keep a low profile, but these things get out and it’s inevitable that the wrong sort might get hold of the information and decided to act upon it.’

  This doesn’t sound like the truth to me. That little gang was too international, but basically I don’t give a shit. Fisher opens up his little folder and places the contents on the coffee table. He pushes an A4 size photograph over to me and I pick it up and look at it.

  So this is Viola Imogen Raleigh; junkie, prostitute and AWOL billionaire’s daughter. It’s a head and shoulders shot. She’s breathtakingly beautiful and is clearly the daughter of the woman in the unsettling portrait on the wall.

  She has thick, shoulder-length, blonde hair, exquisite cheekbones and a sensual mouth, with eyes that are intelligent, flirtatious, humorous and tragic. She’s wearing a turquoise, off-the-shoulder top or perhaps it’s a dress. This looks like a professional photographer did it. If she still looks anything like this and is working as a call girl, I can’t imagine how much she must go out for. If you were a tired businessman and she turned up at your hotel room, you’d think you’d hit the jackpot or were dreaming. I can see that Raleigh has gone all misty-eyed.