Kiss Me When I'm Dead Page 5

  ‘Hello? Are you still there?’ says the voice.

  ‘Yes. I’m still here.’

  ‘She’s not here at the moment, but she’ll be in at about seven. Can I ask what it’s about?’

  ‘It’s a personal matter. It isn’t to do with police work.’

  That’s told him.

  ‘Oh.’ He sounds pissed off. I wonder why? ‘Well I’m not sure that I can…’

  ‘Perhaps you could ask her to give me a ring when she comes in. My name’s Daniel Beckett.’

  I give him my number, say thanks and click off. Well at least I’ve done something now. She might not ring back, of course, but I tried to make it sound vaguely intriguing.

  After I’ve eaten something, I decide to go for a wander and get a drink. I don’t make a habit of this, but often like to sit somewhere and get slowly hammered just before I start a case. It’s a habit I picked up in Italy when I was living and working there a couple of years back. Of course it’s a little bit hotter in Milan than it is in London, there are more outdoor bars and cafés and the boozing culture is different, but still.

  I worked for a couple of years as an insurance investigator there, and would occasionally collaborate with a local freelancer that the big companies sometimes used. It was this guy – Flavio Moretti – who told me that all the facts of a case melted like butter into your brain after you’d had two Campari and sodas, though sometimes it took more than that – it all depended on the case. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes you just got pissed, but it was all fun.

  I walk down Tavistock Street until I find a bar that I haven’t been to before and go inside. It’s lit up like Christmas and is maybe half full, mostly a work crowd having a few drinks before going home. This is usually the pattern around here and the majority of the bars and pubs thin out after about eight o' clock. I order a double vodka and soda and sit at the bar, away from the workers and with a view of the doors. Like my ever-changing, convoluted routes home, this is another hard-to-kill habit. I like to be able to see who’s coming in and going out for no other reason than it makes me feel more comfortable and better able to relax.

  There’s music playing, but I can only hear a dull thump over the noise of the other customers, and can’t identify the song. I sip my drink and look at a bunch of girls dressed up to the nines, all standing about twenty feet away. One of them you notice straight away; short blonde hair, tall, very pretty and wearing a pink halter top and a tight white cotton skirt. There’s a bag at her feet and it’s stuffed with cards and wrapping paper. I have to assume that this is a birthday celebration or maybe she’s leaving her job. It’s impossible to tell.

  There’s something about noisy, busy places like this that allows me to focus on problems in a way that I can’t when I’m home. I keep seeing Viola Raleigh’s face from that photograph and wonder what her evening was like up to the time she was reported missing. Of course, I don’t know for sure that she was working, but for the moment I’m assuming it was so.

  I’m also still assuming that it was her pimp that called the police. There’s no time limit on when you report someone as missing, unless it’s something crazy like five minutes. The fact that she was booked into a room in the hotel is a little baffling to me, but I’m sure that will sort itself out in due course. Remembering what I saw on all those escort sites, some girls rent a flat where clients can come and visit. Maybe Viola did the same sort of thing, but in a hotel room. Would that be an in call or an outcall? I’ve no idea.

  The blonde girl turns briefly and stares straight at me. We make eye contact for a millisecond and after giving me a brief, distracted smile, she turns back to her friends.

  When a call girl first encounters a client, there must be a moment, fairly early on, when she makes a decision about whether she’s going to take the job or not. This would depend on how high class and expensive she was; whether she could afford to turn down work.

  What would make her decide not to take things any further? It could be that the client is extremely drunk or high on drugs. It could be that the client’s level of personal hygiene is so repellent that she wants to call a halt to proceedings. It could be that the client is immediately abusive, creepy or violent. So she may have some way of letting her pimp know that she’s going ahead with the job. Maybe she would send a text or make a call. The pimp would then know, roughly, when that job was going to end.

  The blonde girl turns and looks at me again, but in a way that makes it seem like she’s just scanning the bar, possibly looking for someone she knows. But her focus is slowly drifting away from her friends or colleagues and towards me.

  So it’s possible that Viola thought everything was OK. The client came into her hotel room and they had a few drinks. Everything’s going fine and nothing seems to be out of the ordinary.

  The blonde girl looks over here once more. She turns and says something to her pals. Three or four of the other girls laugh. Now they look over here, too. The bar guy sees my drink is finished and asks if I’d like another one. I say yes.

  So Viola and the client start the evening’s activities. They have sex, she beats him, he dresses up as a baby, whatever. As far as the pimp knows, this is going to be a typical evening for her and she’ll report back in one way or another when it’s all over, if that’s what the normal MO is.

  The bar guy places another vodka and soda in front of me. I nod and smile at him. Finally, the blonde girl peels herself off from her friends and walks over, but her bag remains on the floor.

  She’s smiling. Fabulous figure. I can smell her perfume when she’s three or four feet away from me. ‘You look lonely over here, so I thought I’d come over and say hello. Are you waiting for someone?’

  She’s a little nervous, but seems nice.

  ‘Waiting for someone? No.’

  She’s a little drunk, but nothing too serious. She extends her hand and I stand and take it. We shake. Her skin is soft. Her eyes are dark brown like Viola’s and with the same hint of flirtatiousness.

  ‘I’m Jodie.’ She indicates her friends with a turn of her head. ‘They’re from work. It’s my birthday.’

  ‘Happy birthday, Jodie. I’m Daniel.’

  So the client’s evening with Viola is going fine, but then something happens that changes things. For some reason, they must have left the hotel, possibly at the same time, possibly not.

  ‘Hi, Daniel. Can I buy you a drink? As it’s my birthday?’

  ‘Thank you, Jodie. I’ll have a vodka and soda.’ This, despite the fact I’ve hardly started on my last one. She orders the vodka for me and a Whisky Sour for herself. Good choice. She’s obviously a booze connoisseur.

  We sip our drinks and stare at each other. Despite the length of her hair, she bears more than a passing resemblance to Viola; the eyes, the figure, the legs. We’re standing less than a foot apart. Her perfume is getting a little intoxicating now.

  ‘So,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘So,’ I say, smiling back.

  She takes a sip from her drink and places it carefully on the bar. ‘Are you going to give me a birthday kiss, Daniel?’

  Or maybe Viola left the hotel alone. Or maybe she and the client agreed to meet up later, somewhere else, some agreement being made that cut the pimp out of the equation. Or something bad happened there and Viola was spirited away without anyone noticing. I’m going to have to have a look at this hotel. I’m somehow going to have to get a look at Viola’s room, if I can find out which one it was.

  ‘Well,’ I say. ‘If you insist.’

  There’s another possibility. Something – maybe an actual event, maybe not – made Viola decide that she wanted to quit. She walked out of that hotel and out of that life. She didn’t tell her pimp. The pimp was concerned about her because she was a good source of income for him. That’s why he reported her missing. He wanted her back.

  Jodie’s arms are around my neck and we’re kissing as passionately as teenagers at a disco. I can taste lime
juice in her saliva. My hands are on her hips and I let them slide up to her waist, just below her ribs. Her body is warm against mine and her breasts press against my chest. I can hear a loud roar of approval coming from her friends. I can feel my mobile vibrating in my inside jacket pocket. For a millisecond, I start imagining I’m kissing Viola, that this is what it would have been like. But Viola didn’t have innocent, slightly tipsy, fun encounters like this with a pack of laughing colleagues nearby. Viola was disturbed. Viola was damaged. And in that millisecond, I decide I’m going to find out what happened to her, and if it’s bad, I’m going to find the scumbags responsible, and I’m going to punish them.

  5

  BEAUTIFUL WHEN SHE LAUGHS

  ‘Daniel Beckett?’

  ‘Yes. Hi. How can I help you?’

  Jodie has taken my jacket off and very carefully placed it on the back of one of the bar stools. It falls on the floor; so she squats down to pick it up. This action reveals about seven inches of bare flesh between her halter-top and the back of her skirt. It’s hard to tear my eyes away from this sight, but I have to concentrate; I’m on the phone.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Bream at Seymour Street police station. I got a message asking to call you.’

  ‘Oh yes. Hi. Good. Thank you for calling back.’

  Attractive, husky voice. Very slight North of England accent. Yorkshire.

  Jodie runs her hands over my shoulder muscles and biceps. She keeps giving me meaningful looks and tries to start kissing again. I run a hand through her hair and slowly place a finger against my lips. Her hands snake under the back of my shirt and, for a second, I think she’s going to try and take it off.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Beckett?’

  ‘I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time. It’s regarding a missing persons case that you’re involved with. I’m an investigator and I’m working for Nathan Raleigh.’

  ‘I’m sorry – who?’

  One of Jodie’s friends, an extremely curvy woman of about forty, brings over Jodie’s bag and drops it at her feet, raising an eyebrow at me as she does so. Jodie is standing right behind me, pressing close and massaging my shoulders through my shirt.

  ‘Nathan Raleigh? His daughter is Viola Raleigh. He reported her missing about two years ago and she was reported missing again three weeks ago. I’m, um, trying to assist him in locating her.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I remember the name now. She was a guest in a hotel. I can’t quiet remember…’

  ‘It was The Bolton Mayfair.’

  ‘Of course it was. So what are you, some sort of private detective that her father has hired?’

  ‘That’s about it, yes. So as I say, if I could just have a few minutes with you whenever you’re free, it would be a great help. Nothing long and exacting, I promise.’

  I try to put a laugh into my voice. Jodie is biting the back of my neck. I can feel her warmth and dampness and I can smell her sweat. I reach back and rub the front of her right thigh, while grabbing a handful of her skirt and tugging it sharply to the side.

  ‘Well, you do understand that I can’t really discuss…’

  ‘I know there’ll be a limit to what you can tell me, but really – anything will be fine at this point.’

  Jodie is purring.

  ‘Do you want to come over now? I’m just catching up with some paperwork. Where are you calling from?’

  ‘Now?’

  Jodie is panting.

  ‘If it’s not too late for you. Or inconvenient.’

  ‘Now will be fine. I can be there in thirty minutes. I’m in Covent Garden.’

  ‘OK. Just ask for me at the desk.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Jodie looks upset, as well she might. ‘You’re going?’

  ‘It’s one of my patients. Really urgent. Diabetic.’

  Hopefully, she won’t remember that I said that.

  I disengage Jodie from my back, take her phone, punch my name and number into it and get my jacket back on. Straight away she’s around my neck again. God know what DS Bream is going to think when I turn up reeking of vodka and perfume. Or maybe she thinks that’s what all private investigators are like. Jodie kisses me hard on the mouth once more. ‘You owe me for this,’ she says, picking her bag up and heading back to the party. As she’s leaving, she turns around and smiles and I know she’ll call.

  I walk down to Aldwych to hail a cab and manage to get one almost straightaway. It takes us ten minutes to get to Seymour Street, so I ask the driver to drop me at a nearby Prêt à Manger so I can coffee up and hopefully clear the alcohol from my breath. There’s not much I’ll be able to do about the perfume, though.

  Seymour Street is not a full-on police station and I manage to walk past it twice, thinking it was just offices. When I ask for DS Bream at the desk, the officer looks at me with narrowed eyes and I know immediately that he’s the guy I spoke to earlier on.

  I sit down on a rickety chair and wait. It’s very quiet here and I’m guessing this is some sort of administrative police centre and it’s no surprise that someone involved with missing persons might be based here. I’m looking down at my shoes, but I can see that Reception Boy keeps glancing at me from time to time.

  After a few minutes, I can hear female steps approaching from the corridor to my right and I know it’s her. I look up in time to see my deskbound pal indicating me with a pen.

  ‘Mr Beckett?’

  I stand up and we shake hands. She’s slim and attractive, medium-length brown hair, freckles on her face, wide mouth and striking blue eyes. No makeup but doesn’t need it, no perfume as it’s not allowed. A lovely face. Probably a couple of years either side of thirty. Dark blue jeans, yellow ochre t-shirt and a faux-biker’s black leather jacket with a diagonal zip down the front. Very cool.

  I can see her taking me in with a single glance in much the same way that I’m doing it to her. She realises what we’re both doing and she smiles.

  ‘Shall we go round the corner?’ she says. ‘There’s a sort of wine bar place that serves coffee. It’s usually empty at this time. Any excuse to get out of the office.’

  ‘Sure. Fine by me.’

  She turns briefly to the other officer. ‘I won’t be long, Roy. I’ve got my mobile if anyone needs me.’

  ‘OK, Olivia,’ says Roy, who gives me a look like I’m taking his fiancée out on a perilous hot date or something.

  I give him a big smile. ‘I’ll promise she’ll be back by ten.’ Cruel, yes, but some people are just asking for it. DS Olivia Bream laughs at this, which only makes things worse for him.

  She was right about the wine bar. Very new, very big and totally empty. It’s situated in one of those areas in the West End where you’d never think of going for a drink and I’ll bet anything it won’t be here in six months.

  There are two grinning girls standing behind the bar in black tops, trousers and smart white aprons who look a tad disappointed when we only order coffee. I feel so bad that I consider ordering a dozen bottles of champagne just to put the smile back on their faces.

  We sit down, opposite each other, at a long, black table by one of the windows. I keep thinking how this is like a first date and we’ll soon be reaching over to hold hands. Very unprofessional and mildly ridiculous, but I can’t help it. There’s a little silver vase with a single red carnation in it. I touch the petals to see if it’s real and it is. I look around.

  ‘I bet this place can get pretty wild if the right crowd comes in,’ I say, taking my jacket off and putting it over the back of the seat next to me. DS Bream eases herself out of her leather jacket and drapes it over her own seat. These tables are for six people; there are nine of them in here and several assorted smaller tables. Eleven seats at the bar, too. Someone was being very optimistic. I feel sorry for the girls and wonder what they’ll do when this place closes.

  ‘So do all private investigators wear Calvin Klein’s Secret Obsession eau de parfum nowadays?’

  I
laugh to let her know she’s caught me out. ‘Only weekdays. At the weekend it’s usually Rihanna’s Reb’l Fleur. We all meet here on Saturday nights reeking of it. It’s crazy and wild. You should pop in as you only work around the corner.’

  ‘You private sector people get all the luck.’ She sips her coffee and makes a face. ‘Too hot.’

  ‘That’s what they say about me here on Saturday nights. It’s nice of you to see me at such short notice, by the way. I’m sure you’re very busy.’

  ‘What would you like to ask me?’

  ‘Well, I’ll just fire some stuff at you and you can just say ‘no’ if it can’t be answered. OK?’

  ‘OK. Off you go.’

  ‘Can I see the missing persons file for Viola Raleigh?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Good start. I think I’m on a roll now.’

  This makes her laugh. Her whole face changes. She’s beautiful. I can’t imagine being arrested by her.

  ‘Next question. Can you tell me the name of the individual who called in Viola Raleigh as a missing person three weeks ago?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right. Do you know the number of the room that Viola Raleigh was staying in The Bolton Mayfair and the name under which she was staying?’

  ‘Yes. Both those pieces of information are in the file.’

  ‘Which I can’t see.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Would you consider giving me that information as a friendly, informal gesture towards the private sector on the off chance that I may be able to help you one day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it you who took the call from the person who reported Viola Raleigh as missing three weeks ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about this telephone conversation and the person who called? Accent? Emotional content? Concern, genuine or otherwise?’

  She looks upward and to the left, mulling this over. For a second, there’s a glimmer of hope, which is soon dashed mercilessly to the ground.