Expose! (24 page)

“I’m interested,” piped up Annabel, thrusting out her boobs.

I stared at her with horror. “She’s joking.”

“No. I’m serious.”

“Very nice,” he said, giving her an appraising look that made Steve’s leering bland by comparison. “Name’s Liam.”

“I’m Annabel.”

“Let’s go somewhere quiet and I’ll take your particu lars.” He took her arm before I had a chance to intervene.

“I’ll come and find you later,” Annabel said with a wink.

Liam steered her back into his office saying, “Have you danced before?” and closed the door.

“She’ll be all right. Liam looks after his girls,” said Bert. “Let’s go and find Ms. Sparkles.”

Bert led me down a second corridor. Above, I could hear the beat and muffled applause. We had to be right under the stage. We stopped outside a door clad in red velvet and emblazoned with dozens of glittering stars. The nameplate, SADIE SPARKLES, was embossed in large silver letters.

Bert knocked. “Someone to see you, luv.”

Sadie greeted me with a big smile. I’d met her before. Although she was only two years older than me, she seemed much more worldly.

“I expected this last week,” Sadie said, snatching the box from my hands. She wore her waist-length blond hair down, heavy kohl-rimmed eye makeup, thick false lashes, and a full-length pink silk robe decorated in sequins.

Sadie opened the door wider. A silver pole was bolted to the ceiling behind her. “Come in and tell me about Mum. How is her arthritis?”

I followed Sadie inside, glad of her genuine concern for her mother and, at the same time, suffering a mixture of feelings for my own. I rarely spoke to Mum so would never know if she had any ongoing ailments. The postcards I received from my parents were more a statement to say “we’re alive” rather than a warm personal letter filled with “we miss you.”

Sadie pointed to a daybed covered with a fake fur leopard-skin throw. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get some scissors.”

I sank down on the bed and took in my surroundings. A large mirror hung on one wall framed with naked lightbulbs. Stacks of makeup littered the countertop beneath along with half-used tissues, brushes, and perfume bottles. Sadie had plastered the other walls with photographs of Hollywood celebrities—notably Catherine Zeta-Jones—and fellow showgirls executing pole dancing climbs, spins, and inversions. Above the daybed was a shelf of books with lofty titles such as
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
and
The Way of the Peaceful Warrior
by Krishnamurti.

Pointing to a photo of Catherine Zeta-Jones playing Velma Kelly in the hit show
Chicago
, Sadie said, “I really want to get into musicals like Catherine. Get out of Plymouth. Move to New York, you know?”

“At least you got out of Gipping-on-Plym,” I said.

“Yeah. What a dump. I can’t imagine why you’re there.”

My thoughts exactly
. “I’ll be a full-fledged journalist in July,” I said defensively. “Then I’ll be off.”

“Mum said you fancy yourself as the next Christiane Amanpour.”

I felt my face turn red. “Well . . . not really.”

“You’ve got to visualize it. Know what I’m saying?” Sadie said. “I’m very spiritual. You have to act like you already
are
Christiane Amanpour.”

Clutching the scissors in her beautifully manicured hands, Sadie joined me on the daybed and started stabbing at the brown paper. “I don’t know why Mum always has to do it up like this.”

Sadie’s robe gaped open. Beneath was a minuscule halter-neck, one-piece leopard-skin cave-girl costume. It was hard not to stare, especially since her voluptuous breasts were barely restrained by the flimsy top. I couldn’t help wondering how everything stayed in place when she was hanging upside down.

“Here, you try.” Sadie thrust the box at me. “I don’t want to ruin my nails. These are acrylic tips and cost me a fortune.”

Finally, we got the paper off. Sadie tipped the box upside down onto the bed. Two packets of Marks & Spencer digestive biscuits came tumbling out, followed by some homemade raspberry jam, a pair of brand-new pink pajamas still with the price tag on, and an envelope. Sadie ripped it open and pulled out five ten-pound notes. “Good old Mum,” she said grinning. “Your parents are dead, aren’t they?” I must have looked startled because Sadie added, “Mum told me. I’m sorry. Must be hard.”

“It doesn’t get any easier.” I had to change the subject. “Your mum seems quite happy at the moment.”

“Snail season,” Sadie said, getting up and moving to the countertop. She stuffed the money into her handbag. “Dad’s always nice to her in the summer. I wish he’d be nice to me.”

It was common knowledge that Leonard Evans heartily condemned Sadie’s chosen profession. I knew what it was like to have a dad who disapproved. “I’m sure when you’re dancing on Broadway he’ll come around.”

“Do you think so?” Sadie said hopefully. “It’s hard for Mum to put up with him sometimes. That’s why she likes to keep busy. I couldn’t believe it when Mrs. Fleming gave her the boot.”

“I heard about that.”

Sadie sat in front of the mirror and began to backcomb her hair. “She had it coming. It’s Karma. Know what I’m saying?”

“Really? Why?” My pulse began to quicken. I’d never thought to ask Sadie about Scarlett Fleming.

“I told Mrs. Fleming, ‘What goes around comes around.’”

“You
spoke
to her? When?”

“Just before she went off on her holiday. We get our nails done at Polly’s in the Barbican.” Sadie held up her hand and inspected her nails for a moment before continuing to backcomb her hair. “Mum worked for the Flemings for twenty years. She worked hard. They just bought a brand-new Range Rover and next minute, Mrs. F. tells Mum they can’t afford her anymore. Bugger.” Sadie winced as her hair got caught in the comb and she yanked it from her scalp. “Then, I hear she’s going on a fancy yoga retreat in Spain. If you want to get rid of someone, be honest about it, know what I’m saying?”

“I bet she didn’t like that.”

“She was a bitch. Told me to mind my own business,” Sadie said. “She even got the locks changed! Mum went back to get her feather duster and couldn’t get in. Yeah. Mum was upset. She didn’t even like cleaning there because it gave her the creeps. I didn’t like it there, either.”

“Why?”

“Everyone knows Headcellars is haunted.” Sadie shrugged. “Something to do with a dead monk. Mum used to take me there in the school holidays. It had a secret passageway, you know.”

It seemed everyone except the man who lived at Headcellars knew the place was haunted. I made a mental note to tell Topaz she was right. “Did you run into Mr. Fleming much?”

“Haven’t seen him since I was a kid.”

“What about Neil Titley?” I said suddenly. “He runs a company called Go-Go Gothic.”

“Neil? Yeah,” Sadie said. “Works here part-time as a bouncer. Sometimes I put a little business his way. Why?”

My first thought was,
Great! The missing link!
Douglas Fleming must have met Neil Titley here at the Banana Club. My second was acute disappointment. I’d never imagined Douglas Fleming to be the kind of pervert who would frequent these establishments, especially to see someone he’d known as a child, perform.

“I thought you said Douglas Fleming never came here?” I said.

“If he did, I didn’t see him. We get a lot of blokes sneaking in here wearing disguises. Wives don’t like it, you see.”

There was a tap on the door and Bert poked his head in. “Another visitor, Ms. Sparkles.”

“Hi!” Annabel burst in, eyes wide with excitement. “You must be Sadie. Wow. How great to meet you.”

“You’re the Annabel who is living with that old doctor, aren’t you?” said Sadie. I thought I detected a hint of malice in Sadie’s tone but couldn’t be sure.

It hardly mattered. Annabel appeared not to hear and made a beeline for the vertical pole. She swung around it, flicking her hair this way and that.

“Liam said I was a natural, but I needed practice,” said Annabel as she wrapped both legs around the pole and tried to shin up. Instead, she slid down, landing hard on her bottom. “Ouch!”

“It takes a
lot
of practice,” said Sadie, stifling a snort of laughter. I had to look away so as not to laugh, too.

“Of course, I’m in jeans,” said Annabel. “It must be easier with bare legs.”

“Ten minutes, Ms. Sparkles,” said Bert from outside the door.

“I’ve got to warm up now,” Sadie said. “But you should stay for the show.”

I looked over at Annabel who was nodding her head with great enthusiasm. “We’d love to,” she gushed. “Can we watch you now?”

“Whatever.”

Annabel flung herself next to me on the daybed practically bouncing with excitement.

Sadie removed her robe. She flipped her head forward, ruffled her hair, and tossed it back. I had to admit, it looked authentically messy, as if she had just stepped out of prehistoric times—although the red acrylic nail tips added a twenty-first-century flair.

Annabel’s jaw dropped. “Are those hair extensions?”

“Yeah,” said Sadie. “But it’s real hair. Polly on the Barbican imports it from Mumbai.”

“I didn’t know there were blondes in India,” said Annabel.

“She dyes it,” I whispered.

Sadie started with a few stretches and lunges followed by a perfectly executed cartwheel. Her breasts did not move once. I studied Annabel out of the corner of my eye. She seemed utterly enthralled.

“Tell Bert to give you house seats,” Sadie said, as she finished her warm up routine with sideways splits. “See you out there.”

As Annabel and I settled into our seats three rows back from the stage, I reflected that the evening was going well.

Sadie had provided another piece of the puzzle. Fleming must have hired Neil Titley to do his dirty work. I was a little nervous about confronting Titley and would have to tread carefully. I didn’t want to frighten him off—or worse—give him reason to alert Fleming that I’d been here asking awkward questions.

I looked at my watch. “I have to slip away to meet this Go-Go Gothic chappy in a few moments,” I said to Annabel.

“I’ll save your seat,” she said. “The place is really filling up. There are a
lot
of sailors here tonight.”

I scanned the audience but there seemed to be no sign of Robin, thank God.

“Isn’t the set amazing!” gushed Annabel.

She was right. It was. Among fake palm trees festooned with thick green vines were a series of vertical poles set into the floor.

Mechanical parrots squawked and model monkeys chattered from the treetops. In front of a thatched hut, a large cauldron big enough to hold three people simmered over a fake fire. African drums began to beat.

“Compliments of Sadie Sparkles,” said a young waitress, handing us two plastic pineapples liberally adorned with paper umbrellas. “Banana Coolers. Enjoy!”

We both took tentative sips. It nearly blew my head off. “Jeez!” I cried, “It’s practically neat rum.”

“Omigod!” Annabel nudged me. “Over there! Isn’t that the farmer who was following us?” She squealed and ducked down. “Oh! He’s looking over!”

Fortified by rum, I waved. Annabel hid behind me giggling, “Don’t encourage him!”

Topaz stuck up her middle finger and turned her back on us just as the lights dimmed. The African drumbeat grew louder and the audience began to stir with restless anticipation. There were a few wolf whistles.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash of simulated thunder and lightning. People screamed. A statuesque black man dressed in a loincloth wheeled an animal cage onto the stage. Someone was inside.

“Oh! It’s Sadie!” Annabel grabbed my arm, trembling with excitement.

Sadie rattled the bars and pretended to be scared. The drumming became more frantic as the black Adonis did a series of leaps and jumps around the cage before letting her out. She began a seductive dance around him. Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay any longer to see who ended up in the pot as I realized it was nearly nine.

“I have to go,” I whispered in Annabel’s ear. “If I’m not back in half an hour, you’d better call the police.”

“Okay,” she said, mesmerized by the black Adonis who was spinning Sadie above his head on one hand. I got the feeling that if something did happen to me, Annabel wouldn’t notice until the club shut. By then it would be too late and my body would be discovered in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant in a Dumpster.

For a moment I hesitated about meeting Neil Titley alone but reminded myself that Christiane Amanpour must have interviewed far more dangerous people than I—African despots, Middle Eastern tyrants to name just a few.

Plymouth Hoe was a busy place at night. As long as we stayed firmly in the public eye, I felt sure I’d be safe.

25

I recognized Neil Titley and his flattened nose immediately. He was standing with a man with a shaved head under a Torbay palm in front of the main entrance. The two were dressed alike in the black-suited uniform of the nightclub bouncer. Both wore earpieces and looked very American Secret Service.