9 Tuesday 18 July
“I trust you.”
“Wow. Can I quote that on my GirlsDirect profile?”
Cheriton’s office catches rays of morning sun, and I can see tiny specks of dust in the air, like stars. Fairies, we used to call them at the children’s home. You’d try to catch one in your hands, but they would always fly away.
He fills the silence with a smile. Well, it’s not quite a silence: there’s one of those fancy gold clocks under a glass dome, like in a stately home or an old person’s house. A loud tick, and then suddenly it does a chime, like a little peal of church bells. I glance at it, and then at him.
“Get lucky at the jumble sale?”
Cheriton’s sense of humour – when the joke is on him – is on permanent holiday. He says stuffily “It’s a Napoleon III mantel clock. It’s ormolu, with panels of blue celeste porcelain.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s pretty, but I don’t have it because of that. It’s an amazing piece of precision engineering. It’s well over a hundred years old, but it still chimes the hours and half-hours perfectly on time. Did you know, I did my degree in engineering?”
“So why are you running this” (Holly, Holly, don’t say whorehouse) “hotel then? Wouldn’t you rather be doing something with engines and spanners and stuff?”
“I did electrical engineering. But engineering – finding solutions for problems, solutions that change the world – it made this country great. Stephenson, Brunel, Whittle, Flowers, Berners-Lee. And I especially appreciate precision. See my watch.” He stretches out his pink wrist. It’s quite an ordinary-looking watch.
“This is a Jaeger LeCoultre Reverso. One of the finest pieces of pure precision engineering ever made. The mechanism was first designed in 1931. Craftsmen make this, not machines. It can take up to two years from start to finish of the process to build one watch. It winds itself.” He shows me the back of the watch, it has a glass panel, so you can see all its little workings. “As I move around the room, the movement in my arm moves the mechanism, and it winds the watch. No quartz crystal, no artificial accuracy. Purely mechanical responses to the outside world, captured in a motion as regular as –”
“Clockwork?”
“The movement of the planets, I was about to say. Appreciating a watch – appreciating the Reverso, anyway – it’s like astronomy, except – a man made this, using his skill and dedication. It’s like holding the solar system on your wrist, these tiny movements, regular, perfect.”
“I can see, it is nice. I’d ask you if they did a Ladies’ – but I bet it’s too pricey for me anyway. I get by with the time on my iphone, I must admit.”
“I appreciate reliability. I deal constantly with young women that are like bloody children. That’s why I’m asking you – who seem to have a little bit more maturity, albeit sometimes with a touch too much assertiveness – to do something a bit extra. That’s why I’ve asked you to come here this morning. I feel that you won’t – unlike many I could mention – go into a sulk, or ask for a silly amount of money, or bugger up a simple task. This little job would be paid at the usual rate, but will earn you payment for your travel time too, and on top of that, a thousand bonus if you’re successful. And, my appreciation.”
Two thoughts in my brain. First, his little speech about the watch and how nice it is to have something reliable – just his slimy way of telling me that he values me, not because I’m the hottest girl in his stable, but because I’m the steadiest. Even though he hardly knows me. Second thought: last night, Krasniqi’s call, his demands. I’m flush right now: I’ve got well over £2k, putting together the weekend’s punters and the Cattrell booking, plus there’s what I’ll earn on Thursday, plus my regular punters this coming week. An extra thousand quid would mean I’d be in a position to pay Krasniqi off.
“What do you want me to do, Mr Cheriton?”
“You came here on spec. That’s not the usual way that girls start working here. We do sometimes need to actively recruit – obviously, there’s wastage here, girls move on. Most of all, our clientele like to see new faces.” He turns the screen of his mobile towards me. It’s a page from EscortNet.
“Hi, I’m PantiesOff, I am like my name, I am only happy when my body is naked for YOU. I am SEX-ADDICT – Stunning Blonde – 6 feet tall, dress size 6, Long Legs, perfect Ass and Boobes size 32D. Have super toned Body and dellicate soft skin splashed with perfume! 1000% real photos. I love to Satisfy Men – Let me do it! having sex with hot strangers is a FUN for me not a work! I would be seeing you in my Discret Apartement in London also I have fresh towel and clean shower facility for you also complimentary Drinks to lighten up as I want you to feel comfy in my place and in my companion...”
I skim-read all that, because I’m caught by the photos, simply because they are so bad. There’s no face photos – not even the ones that the married escorts have, with the face blurred out so they won’t be recognised. These pictures have terrible lighting, unflattering angles, and every single one is out of focus. A chimp could have taken better photos. Her profile image, the one that comes up on searches, is in near darkness, and it’s of her bum. It looks like two pale ovals with a dark line between, it could be anyone’s, a man’s even. How the fuck does she ever get any trade at all? Then Cheriton scrolls to the Feedback section of her profile. The pages on EscortNet are laid out a bit differently from GirlsDirect, and each punter uses a nickname rather than just an ID number, but basically it’s the same thing. She only has three Feedbacks, two have just put a thumbs-up Like. Only one has bothered to write anything.
“Feedback from: JackRabbit 30/06 1hr incall
Nice girl – six foot tall! Legs that go on for ever, great to have them wrapped round you. But neighbourhood is dodgy, don’t park round here, and avoid evenings if you can. Shame she doesn’t do outcalls.”
“I think I’ve met JackRabbit” I muse. “He must use both websites.”
Cheriton ignores me. Is he drooling over this girl, imagining the casting-couch interview that is to come? Or does he just see her as a profitable asset for the Soames to acquire? Either way, he keeps on reading, then he stares at the photos again. I make the obvious statement, and I ask the obvious question.
“I have to say, this is about the crappest profile I’ve ever seen. There must be thousands of girls across London on these websites. Why this one?”
“I just have a sense, that’s all.”
No way. I don’t believe you, Mr Cheriton, but of course, I’ll never get the truth from you. Just keep listening, Holly…
“So here’s your little task. Ruby has already phoned this girl, to tell her the basic proposition and get her home address. But now it needs someone to make proper contact with her, visit her. For a chat, and to set out our offer to her. Don’t mention the Soames by name, don’t even mention we’re in the Kingston area, and keep it all pretty vague, nothing at all identifiable – we’re a discreet establishment and we don’t want people knowing about us, talking about us. To everyone, except our membership, we need to be – invisible. But do tell this girl enough to establish if she’d be interested in, if she might be cut out for, this sort of work.”
“Is this how you normally recruit?”
“Yes.”
“So who usually does these little jaunts for you?”
“When I first started here, I did. I’d visit them in the capacity of…”
“A punter.”
“Yes. It was the best way. Not just girls’ physical attributes, but politeness, cleanliness, the standard of their English. Problem was, girls put on an act with punters. You don’t get to know the real person, you don’t get any sense of whether they are –”
“Reliable?”
“Of whether they’d fit in here. Of whether they’re going to be an asset to the Soames, or a bloody nuisance.” He sounds bitter for a moment. “Then, I had the idea of sending one of our older girls, who was good at talkin
g, listening. Women are – different with other women, than they are with men.”
Don’t laugh at him, Holly. Whatever you do, hold back that laugh.
“Recently, I’ve been sending Ruby. But I’d like you to try it for me.”
I think: of course you’d like someone other than Ruby to do it. I can imagine Ruby’s bedside manner. Not.
“I’ll do it.”
“The address, phone number etcetera are all in a text I’ve sent you. Plus of course a link to this girl’s profile. It would be good if you can meet her before the end of this week. I need to know by next Monday or Tuesday whether she is willing to come here for an interview with me.”
I hear the door open, without any knock. A face appears.
“Oh – Ruby.”
“I’ve just heard –”
“Listening at doors? Again.”
“Her? You trust her?” She looks fire at me. “She’s a tart off the streets. And you offer her a thousand quid bonus to do something I’ve been doing as a normal part of my job?”
“We need you here, Ruby. I can’t spare you to go on these recruitment outings any more. I’m trying Holly. That’s all there is to it. Besides, do you actually want to go to Brixton?”
“You’re happy to have me out of the office to drive people here and there. Driving there and back to Home Croft, for instance. So you can spare me from desk duty at the Soames to be a taxi driver, but not to do anything more. You’d rather trust GirlNextDoor here. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Giles.”
The look on her face is venom: I realise it’s directed mostly at Cheriton, not at me, but I squirm in my seat all the same. She stands there silently, staring, for ten, fifteen seconds maybe, and Cheriton stares back, like some mad Mexican standoff. Then she turns on her heel and flounces off. I breathe. And while I so much need that thousand quid, I’m annoyed with Cheriton. If Ruby resents me, she’ll be more watchful of me. And that won’t help me find out what the fuck is going on at this place.
He sighs and looks at me. “You see?”
“Well, I can see how she might see it, if she feels I’m on her patch …”
“Problem is: for this type of work, I need someone who can relate to the girls. Someone with the experience, the outlook – someone who knows where they’re coming from.”
“And Ruby?…” My question hangs in the air. Since I first saw her, of course I’ve been wondering: jumped-up call girl, or professional receptionist?”
Cheriton does have the knack of guessing what you’re thinking – if, that is, you’re thinking about either sex or money. “You’re correct in your guess, Holly. Ruby has never worked here – or anywhere else – in, ah, that capacity. She came here with long legs, a pretty face and a university degree in marketing. She does her job here, that’s all.”
Does that explain, I wonder, Cattrell’s remark? “Fucking tart.” Mr Two Porsches called me that, because I wouldn’t have sex with him (not the way he wanted it, anyway). Maybe Cattrell called her a fucking tart, because she’s not available for sex with him. She’s the only sweetie in the sweet shop that he’s not allowed to unwrap. “Fucking tart” means exactly its opposite.
“So you’ll do it then? Go over to Brixton and see this girl?”
“I said, yes. Leave it with me.”
“There’s another benefit, too, if you do this job well, and if you’re looking for extra work. Ruby and Michael are both pretty busy. In the past, I’ve trusted our more intelligent and responsible girls to do odd things for us. Such as filing the medical records, like the one you’ve given us, on our system. And Michael told me that you can drive too. That can be an asset, we need drivers. You’d have no problem, say, driving for an hour or so out of London for us?”
I hear the buzz of my iphone in my bag. Phones get taken off us by Ruby when we arrive – but this morning, I came straight into Cheriton’s office without seeing her.
“Yes, to those questions. I’d like those opportunities. Can I answer this call?”
Cheriton nods. It’s another unknown number, but I have a bad feeling about it. Not Krasniqi, though – I added him as a Contact. Because I want advance warning, next time he calls.
“Hello, Holly Harlow, the GirlNextDoor?”
“Miss Harlow. It’s DS Chris Rainbow here.”
“Oh.” I realise, almost like it had never occurred to me before, how fast I’d be thrown out of the Soames if Cheriton got even a whiff of the police investigation. “Can I call you back? Just two minutes?”
“No. I’d rather see you face to face to talk about this. In fact, I’m at your flat right now, I called round to see you. You’ve not kept to what we agreed. I asked you not to travel. I’ve just been speaking to your flatmate. Apparently you’re out, somewhere. She couldn’t – or wouldn’t – tell me where.”
“Sorry. Really sorry. I’m in south west London, heading back now.”
“I have to be in the centre, soon. Meet me there?”
“Of course.”
“Embankment? I’ll see you in the café in the Embankment Gardens, at two o’clock.”
“I know the Gardens are near the tube station, but I don’t know where the café is. Can you text me a link?”
“I’ll do that for you, but you won’t need it. You can’t miss it.”
It’s an hour later. I’m sitting under the verandah of the café, alone. Rainbow was right – if you can find your way the dozen yards from Embankment Station to Embankment Gardens, then you can’t miss this place. It’s a funny little building, with a pointed tile roof and lots of fancy ironwork, like it should be somewhere at the seaside, on the Promenade. But oddest of all, it’s raised up on a tiny hill, like it’s on a little stage. On one side it looks over the river; on the other, over a nice part of the gardens, lots of trees and flowers. The trees’ shadows make deeper green splodges on the patchwork of grass and petals. I watch people come and go among the colours, relaxing, laughing. I easily spot him coming along, of course – his gray suit, his businesslike walk, stands out from all the tourists.
“Mr Rainbow. Are we having a drink here?”
“No. We’re walking. I don’t want anyone overhearing.”
Next thing, we’ve left the gardens and the greenery and we’re walking, too fast for me, on the hot, dusty pavement between the Embankment’s roaring traffic and the river. The glare bleaches the colour from everything; Cleopatra’s Needle sticks up like a big sword against the sky. There’s a few scabby trees along here, but somehow there’s no shade. Rainbow strides along in the heat, it’s just like my walk with Krasniqi. After two minutes, he speaks.
“I’ve got a few more questions for you. Firstly, I wanted to let you know that from now on, I’m leading the investigation into Mr Wycherley’s death. So, treat me as your first point of contact, if you have further information.”
“OK.” As I try to keep up with him, I digest this information, thinking about what Krasniqi told me when he called – “Someone new is in charge, someone more interested in getting results.”
“Secondly, I need to ask you about something that’s not covered in your statement. When you left the Excel Hotel on the night of the murder, what route did you take to Russell Square tube station?”
“I don’t know. I was in a panic. Down an alley, maybe.”
“The alley alongside the Excel Hotel? Between the Excel and the Royal Hotel?”
“Yes, I think so, now you say it. What’s this about?”
“We’ve found some evidence, that’s all. We’ve been to a waste disposal facility where the rubbish from both hotels is processed. You’ll be aware, if you went down that alley, that there are hotel waste bins along there?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did you put anything into one of those bins?”
“No. Like, what would I have put?” He’s quiet: doesn’t want to say, because as usual he doesn’t want to show me his poker hand. But I’ve guessed what they’ve found. A knife.
; We’ve walked some distance already, far from the café. We come alongside a big boat moored in the river. Not far ahead, the river, and the road, go underneath the massive arches of Waterloo Bridge. I look forward to the shade under there. “Mr Rainbow, can I ask you a question?”
“Feel free.”
“I guess you’ll have done a forensic report, one of those autopsy body examinations, on poor Mr Wycherley. Like they always have on the crime shows on the telly?”
“Yes, there is a report.”
“He was killed with a knife, wasn’t he?”
Silence. Which means Yes.
“How long was it?”
“Sorry?”
“How long was it? The knife that killed Mr Wycherley?”
Suddenly, we’re in the shade of the bridge, like in a tunnel. It’s an odd place: from the pavement alongside the river, there are steps up to a kind of concrete platform, overlooking the water, all in the gloom below the bridge’s arch. It’s a grimy, forgotten place, but on the platform are a couple of benches: what a funny place to put them. But right now I’m feeling hot and stressed: I’d be glad of a sit down, and without thinking, or asking Rainbow, I go up the steps to them. They’re those solid concrete benches with slats of wood screwed to them to make the seats. But then I see sleeping bags, cardboard, newspapers, human forms lying among the seats. Remains of junk meals, strewn on the benches. So instead of sitting, I walk over to the railings at the edge of the platform, look straight down into the river. Deep, sludgy water churning along below me. To my left, there’s something odd: a stone wall going down into the water, but rather than going straight down, there’s a sort of big step, maybe seven or eight feet below the top of the wall. The step forms a flat concrete platform, a few yards square, covered with slime from the river, just a couple of feet above the water. The platform’s closed in by smooth stone walls on three sides, like an alcove, and there are no steps down into it. On the fourth, river side it’s open, so you could slide off it, straight into the water.
I guess that at high tide, this curious stone step, hidden from the road, gets covered sometimes. But the rubbish scattered about on the concrete floor shows that most of the time it’s above water. I look down at the moss, the stonework, the garbage. A funny little place, that hardly anyone ever sees. But as I look, all I can see, in my mind, is a red slice across a white neck.
Rainbow too looks down at the little slimy step. It’s deeply shaded, even though beyond the shadow of the bridge, light is blazing everywhere. “How long was the knife? Why do you want to know that?”
“Well – if you’ve found a knife in those hotel bins, and you think it’s the murder weapon, then I guess you’ve found out that it’s got Wycherley’s blood on it – but I guess, as well as that, the size of the knife you found would fit with what your autopsy-thingy tells you is the probable size of the blade that killed him. Does it?”
Silence again. Yes again.
“You’ve got your witness statement, from your Mr Krasniqi, which now describes me as both arriving at and leaving the Excel hotel. In a brightly-lit lobby. Without any coat, because it was a warm night. And I gave you my dress, which matches that description, and my underwear, and my clutch bag. A very small bag. Everything I had with me that night, you have, and it all fits perfectly with your witness’s description.”
He’s getting it.
“The skimpiest, thinnest of dresses, the tiniest of bags. All confirmed in detail by your witness’s description. I was carrying nothing but my little bag. So – unless you’re talking about a tiny little penknife – if you’re thinking that I dropped the murder knife outside, in a hotel waste bin, how on earth did I get it there? Conceal a big bloodstained knife in the lift, carry it across a well-lit hotel lobby in front of loads of people including your precious witness? How would I do that? Hide it in my hair? Stick it up my fanny?”
Finally, he speaks. Flat tone.
“It’s about a ten-inch blade.”
Don’t push it, Holly. Don’t antagonise him.
“Sorry for kicking off, Mr Rainbow. I’m under a lot of stress, I didn’t mean to sound stroppy.”
There’s a silence for a while: we both look out across the water: nasty brown, nasty gray, even where the sun shines on it.
“Miss Harlow?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. You’ve made a good point.”
We both look out across the water, silent for a moment. In that silence, I feel a massive sense of relief, a weight being lifted. But I’m aware of something else too. Something totally unexpected. I feel there’s a third person with us.
I remember last night, the Green: Krasniqi. I turn round sharply, look back at the road behind us: Rainbow’s surprised by my sudden movement. There’s no-one there.
“Are you OK?”
“I felt – there was someone watching us. Listening to us too, if they could.”
“You take care of yourself. I recognise, you know, that the situation you’re in, it’s stressful. It can’t be easy. I do actually appreciate that, and I am just doing my job. Perhaps… you should see a doctor?”
A softening in him. He doesn’t care, of course, and I’m still his number one suspect, but it’s nice to see a different side to him. But that’s not what I’m thinking of as he walks away, leaves me to walk back to Embankment, to take the tube home. I keep my eyes peeled – as if I still might spot someone watching me – but mostly, I’m seeing a knife, a massive fucking metal blade, being used to cut into living, feeling skin. As I look out across the Thames, seeing the big old buildings, I think about history again, like that witch TV programme I mentioned before. It’s Jazz’s fault, really: she tries to broaden my horizons, get me to do different stuff. So one time we went to Kew Gardens, I can’t really remember it, except for one place, like a gallery, a little room full of really bright flower paintings, all crowded together on the walls. I liked them; that was a nice room. A woman painter, Jazz said. And once we went swimming – well, we didn’t. Because I couldn’t bring myself to say, until we actually got to the Baths, that I can’t swim. She was fine about it, but it’s an embarrassing thing to admit, when you’re in your late twenties, that you never learnt something that tiny little kids can do. And then there was Wolf Hall. Not my sort of thing, but Jazz did coax me into watching the final episode on TV. Anne Boleyn. Henry VIII and his merry men framed her, put her on trial, said she’d slept with all these men, including her own brother. It was so obviously a bunch of crazy lies, but the court believed it, or they were told to believe it, even though it couldn’t stack up. A bit like the idea of me carrying a big fuck-off knife out of that hotel: a jury could be convinced, I’m sure, to think: she was there in that room, and she went down that alley – so, she must have killed Wycherley and hidden the knife in the rubbish in the alley, even though there’s no way on earth she could have carried the knife from one place to the other without it being seen. That’s just a logical detail which the prosecution briefs will gloss over, and which the court will not think carefully about. It probably won’t even get mentioned. Guilty, yes, she must have done it, look at her.
Anyway, enough of me: back to Anne. I’m glad it’s the twenty-first century and not the sixteenth. They found her guilty, of course, it’s the way these things always go. They sentenced her to be beheaded, or burned alive, at the king’s pleasure. There was a French executioner guy with a big sword; while he was getting it ready, polishing it up, she made her death-speech to the crowds, who used to turn up to see that sort of thing. Pale face, shaking, thin high voice. Brave. She said that Henry VIII was a merciful guy and that she still loved him. Well you would, wouldn’t you? If you’re standing there, facing instant death, that blade across your throat – but you know that, if you speak out, if you say to the crowd – “It’s all lies, I’ve been fucking framed, by the cruellest king and husband there ever was” – then ‘the king’s pleasure’ might change, he might stop being such a merciful fucking monarch and d
eath won’t be quite so instant. That they might drag you away, tie you to a post, pile wood around you, set fire to it, watch you scream and writhe and die slowly in limitless agony. I’ve touched the stove accidentally: so have you, I bet. Flames slowly burning through the skin, the muscles, in your feet, your calves, your thighs. Would your legs be cooked, like meat from the oven, before the smoke gets into your lungs and you thankfully choke to death? That’s the only reason, I bet, why she called Henry a merciful monarch. She took the tiny, tiny choice that she was given, the only choice she had left: how to die. The oldest story in the world, the story that is the same the world over. He was a man and she was a woman.