12 Sunday 23 July
We always tell each other: next time, we’ll walk to Sainsbury’s. It’s the other side of the Park. I like looking at the boating lake, and in this weather it’ll be beautiful. But when it comes to it, we always decide we’d rather not be carrying the shopping back, so we end up driving in Jazz’s dinky but rather nice Mercedes A-Class. She’s got the sports edition – for a city car, it handles well, it’s great to drive: I use it for my more distant outcalls on the odd occasion when Jazz isn’t using it. As she starts the car, I say “The Helpline... did you ever meet a young, tall girl, real English Rose, called Lucy? Long dark hair, aged perhaps seventeen? Very clever, could have gone to university if things had turned out different. Might have called into the Helpline office maybe June, or May, last year?”
We turn onto Woodstock Road. “Yes, maybe. I didn’t speak to her. I saw her at the Helpline office. She was talking to Jean. I’ll ask Jean about her.”
“Oh well, case solved then.”
Because Jean is this middle-aged, slow-moving, slow-witted bint who mans (if you know what I mean) the desk during daytimes at the Helpline, and takes a lot of the initial phone calls. Despite her work, she’s got a doe-eyed innocence, and she’s the sort who comes out of the loos with her skirt tucked in her knickers, and would walk round like that all day if you didn’t tell her. Jazz tells me she was a pro, long ago, but that’s almost impossible to imagine. She’s married now and her husband drives her over to the Helpline office in a Vauxhall Meriva. That tells you everything, really.
“Jazz, you know Jean won’t remember. Half the time I think she doesn’t actually realise what the Helpline does. And she’s not exactly the Memory Man, is she. Wouldn’t surprise me if she forgot to wipe her own bum.”
“But she’ll have recorded the girl’s visit, even if she doesn’t remember. You know Jean. She loves her filing.”
“If she knows how to switch the computer on.”
“Trust me. I’ll work on Jean, I’ll find something. I can tell this is important to you. Leave it with me. But just tell me everything you know about this Lucy, and why you’re trying to find her. After we’ve shopped, of course.”
Sainsbury’s car park is manic. She taps the steering wheel as we wait for a space. An old couple are loading up their car in slow motion. Once inside, the aisles are frantic too. Jazz is Mother, she has the list, she knows what we need to buy. She pushes the trolley and reads to me from the list. My job is to go and find things. Teamwork gets things done quickly. We stand in the queue at the till.
“Sometimes, I think I’ll just start talking to the next person in the queue, tell them what we do, see how they react.”
“Shh.”
“Not joking, Hol. A bit of education and enlightenment.”
I change the subject. “Was that your Mum on the phone this morning? All OK now with her ankle?”
She tunes back into what I’m saying. “Yes – she’s doing fine. They’re planning a holiday, for next year when they both retire. They’ve saved up. A week in Florida, their trip of a lifetime, they’re really excited.”
When we’re back in the car, I ask her my usual question.
“Do you ever think you’ll tell them? What you’re really doing in London?”
“Mum and Dad? I’d love to, as you know. See the expressions on their faces. My fantasy IT job is such a reality in their minds. Last week, you know, they thought I was in Silicon Valley. Again.” She smiles as she turns the key in the ignition. “They never even think to question how I got from A levels in Politics and English Lit, and telephone operative at Haringey Council Call Centre, to international computer whizz. But they’re not ready yet. It would shock them in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons. I want to tell them when I can prove to them that I’ve been right with my life choices, with the person I’ve become.”
“You mean, when you quit the game and get what you call a real job. Then they never need know.”
“Back to office hours, twenty days’ annual leave and sucking up to the boss? It’s not a realistic option, Hol. I’m already too old to go back and rise up the career ladder. So London_Courtesan is not going anywhere soon. Hell, we’re queuing even to get out of this car park. But enough of me, you talk now. Tell me about this Lucy girl and why you’re interested.”
I tell her everything. I’ve already explained to her about the Soames, but only in outline. And of course I have to tell her about my shag with Jack Downes, despite my vow of secrecy to Cheriton. We get back to the flat, we’re packing the shopping away, when I say “I’ve got another appointment there – at the Soames – this afternoon. In fact I’ll need to be off in an hour. Have you ever come across it, heard it mentioned by anyone?”
“No. But I don’t like the sound of it... I know celebrities need to get away from the paparazzi, everyone needs their privacy, but – it still sounds dodgy, somehow. You should really, really watch yourself there. It won’t go down well with the police, if they find out about that place, and about you working there.”
I’m glad I’ve not told her what I found out about Josh Borrowdale: she’s such a do-gooder, she’d try to make me report it to the cops.
They said that Friday was the peak of the heatwave, but yesterday and today seem equally fierce. Although being a Sunday the tube is empty of commuters, it’s still sweaty, sticky, dirty. Lots of tourists – young travellers, both sexes tanned, tall, blond-haired, American, Australian, European accents, big rucksacks blocking the aisles and doors. I brush my hands over my dress when we come out into the midday sunshine, as if some of the dark might have stuck to it as grime. Kingston is roasting; smell of tar from the pavements. I feel sweat between my legs as I walk up the Soames’ drive.
Cheriton’s at the door to meet me. “Holly, can you come and see me? Straight away.”
OK, keep your knickers on. “What is it, Mr Cheriton?”
I go into his office, he shuts the door as if the whole hotel might be listening. “It’s about Jurgita. I got your text. Why won’t she come here? I told one of our members about her, he likes tall thin blondes, I told him we had a six-foot girl joining us. He’s asked for her. For tomorrow.”
“Well he won’t ever get her. Unless he goes to Brixton and pays eighty quid to her rather hard-looking boyfriend.”
“Her pimp, you mean.”
Pot calls the kettle black.
“She can escape that, Holly. OK, she’s scared of him, that’s normal. You told her, didn’t you, that we can sort out that kind of thing. We can deal with this pimp so he’ll never trouble her again.”
“She understands exactly what we can do for her. No, she had another reason for not wanting to work here.”
I remind myself why I joined the Soames. There’s only one reason I’m standing here talking to Cheriton right now: I’m trying to try to find out who killed Wycherley. To avoid being sent down for a crime I didn’t commit. I might as well explain what happened, what have I got to lose? I might find out something, if I tell him. I speak.
“OK, I’m no diplomat. I know I was supposed to be all secret about it, but I ended up telling her the name of this place.” I hold up my hand, to fend off his interruption, so I can finish what I’m saying. “And once I told her that, she said that she had a friend who had worked here. It was that friend who, a long time ago, gave you Jurgita’s name as a recommendation. This friend – something happened. And Jurgita is scared of coming here. More scared than she is of her pimp.”
Cheriton folds his arms, almost hugs himself.
“Did she mention the name of this girl?”
“Klaudija, she said.”
His eyes widen. “Not Agnieszka?”
“Agnieszka’s a Polish name. The girl that Jurgita talked about was her friend, from Lithuania. Definitely called Klaudija. She was here, I think, about a year ago.”
As I speak the name again, I see something I’ve read about, but never seen before. His face changes colour. Pink to gr
ay. Skin to ashes. Like the blood has literally drained from it.
He’s struggling to say something, but all that comes out is one word.
“Klaudija.”
“Yes. Klaudija. What does that name mean to you, Mr Cheriton?”
Suddenly, his head slumps, his shoulders crumple. He’s no longer looking at me. All pretence of being in control of the situation, of being my superior, has gone. He breathes to himself “Three.”
“Three what?”
But I already suspect. I chance my arm.
“Three girls?”
It’s as if I’m not in the room. I hear his poncy glass-domed clock ticking, and his breathing. He seems to be struggling to inhale: the office is airless, stuffy. I open the window. “You need some fresh air.” I take his arm and lead him to the window; he doesn’t resist, puts his hands on the sill. I pour a glass of mineral water from the bottle on his desk and hand it to him.
“Tell me, Giles.”
He hesitates, looks vaguely out of the window into the distance. Then suddenly it’s as if someone’s pulled a cord and he jerks to life, starts gabbling, like a wind-up doll. His hair flops up and down as he talks.
“Two years ago, a girl called Agnieszka came to work here. She was great: elegant, refined, really good with the clients. She was a natural here. And then, after about six months, one day she simply didn’t turn up. We do lose people, of course, but normally we get some indications, some clue that maybe it’s not working out for them here. The most usual thing is that we have to have words with them, helpful words generally, to explain to the girl that she’s struggling to meet the Soames standards.”
Meeting the Soames standards, I say to myself, means things like not complaining when a monster like Josh Borrowdale takes his fist to you. Or letting the manager shag you and photograph you as part of your ‘interview’. And Cheriton’s still talking, staring out of the window, not meeting my eyes. I can only see the profile of his face, but I can tell, his self-control is already returning. The mask slipped for a moment, but he’s working on it, pushing it back into place.
“Anyway, if we have to have such words, then some girls listen, apply themselves, improve. Others realise they’re not cut out to achieve our standards, and they leave. Which saves them, and us, trouble. When they leave we remind them that our confidentiality contract remains in place for the girl’s lifetime. So far, we’ve never had any leaks.”
“You must live in fear, though, of a leak happening?”
“Our measures are strong.” Oh yes, either the fresh air, or the water, or just spilling his guts to me, has worked its magic on him, he’s trying his Cheriton-speak on me, as usual. But he keeps telling me the story.
“Anyway, none of that was an issue with Agnieszka. She was – a star, really. And then suddenly, she was gone. We made enquiries, we instructed someone.”
“Who did you instruct?”
“An agent that we use for such things. He found out that she’d been meeting a businessman member of ours – he was Polish too – outside the Soames. It seemed like a genuine, um...”
“Romance. They do happen, from time to time, you know.”
“Yes. Well, so we thought, she and he had got together, and she’d gone off with him. But then, our Polish businessman came in one day and asked where she was. The last time he’s seen her was here at the Soames. He told us that he and she had arranged to have a weekend at a hotel in the Lake District, he was going to drive her up there, and she never showed. She had vanished, without a word to him. He was – very upset. I comforted him in this room.”
I’m struggling to picture that scene. Cheriton handling another human being’s genuine distress.
“Anyway, that was eighteen months ago. And we’ve never heard anything since. She’s not with him – but, if she was working in London, and doing the level of escorting that she was capable of – ”
“You’d have heard about her on the grapevine from someone.”
“Yes. I concluded either she went back to Poland, maybe something to do with her family, or she’s still escorting, but abroad. It was – strange. Not the sort of girl to disappear without a word.”
“I can understand her not contacting you. I won’t myself, you know, when I stop working here. But not contacting her boyfriend – even if only to say I’m sorry, this relationship is not working, goodbye – that’s odd. I know nothing about this girl, but women don’t usually behave like that.”
I look at him, the muscles in his face have changed. He’s manoeuvring his mask into place. The troubled human being that briefly appeared is being squashed back into his box. Soon this chance to learn something will be gone. Press him, Holly. Squeeze that raw nerve of his.
“So, who’s Klaudija?”
“Klaudija was here about a year ago, but I don’t remember her well. She was not very memorable, except I recall thinking that she wasn’t living up to her early potential.”
“By which you mean, she didn’t live up to what you thought of her from your casting couch.”
He ignores my little dig. Oh yes Cheriton, you’re back in full-on sleaze mode, Mr Bedroom Interview.
“She was pretty but not exceptional, her English was surprisingly good, which was a big plus. And yes, she did recommend a friend, two friends in fact – I remember now that it was her, not Agnieszka, who showed me a photo, three attractive girls together. One of the girls, I noticed – your Jurgita – was exceptionally tall and attractive. Anyway, Michael and Ruby kept the details. And one of our girls – Sunita, you may have met her – is leaving us, so the other day, Ruby suggested Jurgita as a replacement.”
“And Klaudija?”
“There’s not much else to say about her. She was only here a short time, and soon after she arrived I went to Australia for a month – exactly this time last year. When I came back, she was gone. Ruby and Michael told me that she’d been unreliable for a couple of days, then back here for a week, then she was gone again. It didn’t seem like the Agnieszka matter: it merely seemed like this girl Klaudija wasn’t fitting in here. Then –”
On last push. “The third one?”
“About six months ago. I can’t really talk about it.”
Racism is, I guess, lurking there just under Cheriton’s very English skin. So I ask the question.
“Harder to talk about – because – she was British, this time, wasn’t she? With family, friends, connections maybe? Because you were worried there might be people – people in England, in London – who would be asking about her?”
“Good questions.”
I’m waiting for more of a response. And not getting it. Scratch where he’s itching, Hol. “You thought Agnieszka’s disappearance was a one-off, didn’t you, Mr Cheriton? When Klaudija went AWOL you thought it was a different thing. You’d been away, you didn’t know her well, you thought oh well, she’s unreliable, maybe she’s gone back to her old life, to her friends. But now you know she didn’t.”
This time, he has no answer for me at all. I press him.
“And the third girl. The British one. Again, I don’t know what you thought at the time – but now you know, don’t you? You know that there’s a pattern.”
Finally, he turns his face from the window, towards me. Oh yes, the ashen look has gone, his piggy-face mask is up again. His fucking public-school superiority is returned. There’s an edge to his voice now. “So Holly, why are you asking questions about this?”
“You started the questions, asking about Jurgita. And Klaudija. A name that seemed to upset you.”
But he’s all self-assurance again. He goes back to his desk, sits down as if the matter is concluded. He looks me in the eye. “Thanks for the water, Holly. I just need to sit for a moment. Could you get me my pills?”
“No problem. Where are they?”
“Uh – try Ruby. Or Michael.”
I go and find Ruby and ask her. Then I go and find Michael. It’s maybe seven minutes later when I go back to Cheriton
’s office.
“Michael doesn’t know anything about you ever taking any pills, Ruby doesn’t – “
What I see, as I re-enter the room, stops me mid-speech. Like someone’s hit the Pause button.
I hear my own voice saying “Put that fucking thing down.”
He’s got my bag open on his desk. He sent me out so he could look through it. Right now, he’s looking at my iphone.
“What fucking right do you think...”
He looks at me so strangely. I can’t read his face. But whatever he’s feeling, there’s one thing that’s not there. His smugness has gone again, completely. If I could read anything in that face, it’s just possible that what I’m looking at, in those eyes, is fear.
“Get out of here. Leave the Soames now. Never come back. If you do, or if I hear of you again, then everything I warned you of at our first interview will happen to you. I mean that.”
“What? What have I done?”
“Go. Just fucking go.”
“Ok, ok. But give me my bloody phone.”
For a moment I think he’s going to hold onto it. Then he throws the thing into a corner of the office. I scrabble and pick it up while he stares at me. Screen’s not cracked: good. I grab my bag. But I’m not leaving yet.
“I’m owed.”
“You’re owed nothing, here. Nothing at all.”
But I’m thinking of the £5000 I need. I’ve not yet had any actual cash in my hand from this place: Ruby told me she’d have it ready for me, today. I stand my ground, plant my feel firmly on his plush carpet. And glance at the screen of my phone. I wave it at him.
“What upset you? On here?”
It’s open at my Contacts, scrolled about half-way down the list of names and photos. Harmless enough, I would have thought: Jazz and the other girls I know, and tons of photo-less blokes’ names, Jack Croydon & Co, all my regulars, none of them rich enough to grace the portals of the Soames. Jack Downes, I put him on there too. I scroll up and down the names. H, I, J, K – OMG. Krasniqi. Yup, I put him as a Contact. After that scary midnight call from him, I decided that I needed some warning when he phones me next. Silly me.
“This guy.” I show Cheriton the name “Krasniqi Bastard” written on the screen of my phone. “This name rings alarm bells for you, doesn’t it?” Cheriton just stares at me, like he wants me to vanish.
“This guy, this Mr Krasniqi, he needs money from me. And the simple truth is: I’m more scared of what he can do to me than of what you can do. Give me what I’m owed, I’ll go, and you’ll never see me again.”
“And me, Holly? Should I be scared of him, this Mr Krasniqi?”
I’ve totally lost track of this conversation now. I can do nothing except answer truthfully. “No. Of course not. He’s threatened me, he wants money off me. I’ll go, like you want – but I need to be paid what I’m owed.”
“Go to Ruby. Get out of my sight, go to fucking Ruby, tell the silly stuck-up bitch to pay you out of the petty cash. Then go. If you try to interfere in our business again, then you’ll regret it. You’ll wish you’d never been born.”
But despite his threats, I’ve been looking into Cheriton’s eyes as he’s been blustering, and I know now. That expression in his face. Yes, I read it right.
Fear.