The Verdict (34 page)

One glance at me and Adolf knew my case had gone to bits. Defeat was on my face, in my body language, pinned to my sleeve. She didn’t hide her glee. She cracked a big grin that mixed spite and cruelty with pure joy in one ultra-brite explosion of small, imperfect teeth.

To think, another lifetime ago – a parallel one where everything had worked out – I’d actually been looking forward to coming into the office today, all flushed with success and propelled by that pat on the back from Sid Kopf. I was going to go one better than last Tuesday, work on getting us another big win. For a brief instant it had seemed that this was going to stop being about VJ, and start being about me – doing a good job and getting that promotion.

Oh, well…

I sat down. My mind was blank. I didn’t know what to do or where to go from here. Did I stick to being a note-taker and bag carrier to Belmarsh? Strictly fetch ’n’ carry, while I got my CV together and started planning for life after KRP? Or did I work on somehow turning this nosedive around? The other question was – did I want to help out a double murderer?

On the way back Janet had talked about getting in an expert witness to testify that S&M practitioners rarely became killers, that it was all a bit of harmless fun, adult play-acting. It wouldn’t sway the jury at all. Never did. They always saw through mercenary mouthpieces. But the case was now purely about maintaining appearances; so we had to be seen to be mounting a defence, doing everything possible. She’d put me in charge of finding and recruiting a courtroom psychologist, someone who sounded good and didn’t cost the earth.

I dug out the witness directory from my bottom drawer, thumbed through it until I found the relevant section and started marking up potential names.

As I reached for the phone to make the first call, it rang right under my fingers.

‘Is that Mr Flynt?’

‘Speaking?’

‘This is Grenville Allen of Allen & Sons. We spoke about a Rolex a few weeks ago. The Three E?’

‘Yes, I remember. How are you?’

‘I have some very good news,’ he said. ‘The watch has turned up. A colleague of mine phoned this morning, to say someone brought it into his shop.’

I sat up.

‘Are you sure?’

‘It matches the watch you described in every way.’

‘What’s your colleague’s name and number?’

He told me. It wasn’t a London number.

‘Where’s he based exactly?’

Southend. Forty-five miles outside London, right on the coast. Sand, sea and sun, British style – so, grim beaches, freezing iron-coloured water and zero sun.

It was here that Cecil Norcross lived and worked. He owned a pawn shop, specialising in cheap and shiny bling, which was why he hadn’t shown up on my radar. But he also doubled up as a private Rolex collector. To those in the know, he was the go-to man for the rarest models – the one-offs, the recalls, the limited editions, which he’d either flip to collectors, or sell back to the company in Geneva, if it was on their wanted list.

When I’d spoken to him on the phone he’d told me this:

A French-sounding woman had brought the watch to his shop yesterday afternoon. He’d asked to see ID, as he always did with strangers. She’d shown him a passport and driving licence. He described her as tall, youngish, with short and spiky black hair. She’d left the watch with him overnight for authentication. She knew the drill. She also knew about the company reward.

Her name was Fabia Masson. And she was due back this afternoon at around 4 p.m. to hear his offer.

‘Mr Flynt?’ Norcross said when I walked in at 4.15, dishevelled, soaked and dripping on his parquet floor. It had been spitting rain when I was on the train, and the skies had opened up as soon as I came out of the station.

Norcross was a skeletal man in browline specs, a silk cravat and a double-breasted grey pinstriped suit. He was on his own. The shop was a glorified cupboard, most of the space taken up by an L-shaped glass counter with silver and gold chains, bracelets and rings displayed on upright red felt stands. There couldn’t have been room for more than two customers at a time.

‘Have I missed her?’ I asked.

‘Sort of, I’m afraid,’ he said, frowning. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’ve come all this way, but… I did try and tell you when we spoke.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘That I was going to call the police. I run a respectable business, and I have a reputation to maintain.’

He wasn’t the same jolly jovial old chap he’d been on the phone. The accent and manners were all there, but I saw the wheeler-dealer behind the façade, the type who drove a very hard bargain and prided himself on squeezing everyone down to the last penny.

‘Where is she now?’ I asked.

‘The police station, I suppose. They took her away about fifteen minutes ago.’

‘Where is the station?’

‘Victoria Avenue,’ he said, and gave me directions.

‘And the watch?’ I asked him.

‘The police took it,’ he said. ‘You know it’s worthless, don’t you?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I also tried to tell you that on the phone. It’s a fake.’

‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen the case, the paperwork… That watch is older than I am.’

‘Maybe it is. But that only makes it an old fake,’ he said. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, in this circle of ours. For every rare and sought-after item, there are always twenty counterfeits. The Three E is no exception. Your client’s is one of the best I’ve ever seen, admittedly, but a fake’s a fake. The more serious counterfeiters will go to some length to pass their goods off as genuine. It’s easy to get real cases and easier to falsify paperwork.’

Had Rodney James known his Rolex was fake?

As I ran out of the shop, I allowed myself a smile. I wondered if VJ would see the funny side too.

The custody suite was in an annexe around the side of the main building, across a parking lot scattered with police vehicles.

I rang the intercom. It was answered as soon as I took my finger off the button. I asked if they still had Fabia Masson in custody.

I was buzzed in.

The only people at reception were police, working behind the big desk at the back, tapping at computers. No surprise to find it so quiet. It was early in the week, still daytime and pissing down with rain.

‘You got here quick,’ the desk sergeant said. He was a big bloke with all his white hair. Boxer’s nose, faded forearm tattoos, still in good shape, but only five years from his pension and war stories.

As I reached the desk, the penny suddenly dropped. He thought I was a duty solicitor, the state-paid lawyer.

My gut told me to walk away.

My balls told me to stay.

My brain abstained.

‘What are the charges again?’ I asked.

‘Trying to sell counterfeit goods, possession of a fake driver’s licence and possession of stolen credit cards,’ he said. ‘Sign in and come through.’

The interview room was warm and poky and smelled of burned plastic and spilled coffee. There were no windows or any kind of ventilation, just the white walls, bolted-down furniture and strip lighting.

As I’d rushed over from London, I’d brought no pen and paper, or a tape recorder with me. And I’d had to leave my phone with keys at reception.

A young officer poked his head round the door.

‘Mason?’ he asked.

I nodded.

She came in. The door was shut behind her. We were alone.

Dressed in black jeans and a V-neck jumper over a white T-shirt, she could have passed for a catwalk model in her downtime. Her hair was a mess – too short for her long face, and dyed too dark for her complexion – but that didn’t make much difference. She was stunning. I knew exactly what VJ had seen in her.

She sat opposite me.

Up close, she was even more beautiful. High cheeks, bright hazel eyes, long lashes, naturally pouting lips.

Right then, looking at her, my brain froze. I lost the power of thought and speech. She saw it too. Smiled, very slightly.

Reset. Focus. Concentrate.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Fabia Masson. Not
Mason
. Or Mass
oo
n,’ she replied.

‘That’s not your real name, though, is it?’

She shrugged.

‘French?’

‘Swiss,’ she said.

‘Now I want you to listen to me very carefully. We don’t have a lot of time. My name’s Terry Flynt. I’m not your lawyer. But I am here to help you,’ I said.

No reaction.

‘I work for the law firm that’s defending Vernon James.’

That got her attention. First surprise, then anxiety. Her eyes darted left and right, past my shoulder, where the panic button was, then over to the door.

‘How did you find me?’

‘The watch,’ I said.

‘It is a fucking fake. I thought I was going to sell it and get out of here.’

‘On a fake passport too?’

‘What do you want,
Monsieur
Flynt?’

Her aggression was masking fear.

‘I want to know exactly what happened between you and Vernon James in the Blenheim-Strand that night. Everything. All of it.’

‘I’m not talking to you.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just want to get out of here. Forget everything that happened.’

She spoke perfect, precise English, her voice on the deep side.

‘Vernon James is in prison,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘So?’

She’d been following the case.

‘Who are you running from?’ I asked.

‘Who said I was running?’

‘You’ve changed your hair.’

‘Women do it all the time. Men too.’

‘It doesn’t suit you,’ I said. ‘You did it in a hurry.’

‘Are you a hairdresser too?’

If we’d been together in a pub or a café, I would have laughed.

‘I know you’re in trouble,’ I said. ‘You came here to sell the watch and catch a plane to Europe.’ Southend had a small airport, with regular flights to Holland, Spain and Ireland.

She looked at her nails.

‘Who are you running from?’

Still no answer.

‘I’ll tell you what’ll happen if I leave here right now,’ I said. ‘You’ll be charged with trying to sell counterfeit goods, possession of fake ID and stolen credit cards. That’s two years in prison,’ I said, bluffing it.

That got her attention again.

‘What are you offering?’ she asked.

‘A way out,’ I said. ‘But I need to know what happened with Vernon James first.’

‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

‘You don’t. You’re just going to have to trust me.’

She laughed.

‘I trust no one.’

‘Me neither. That’s why I work in law not hairdressing.’

Another laugh.

She weighed me up. Same socio-economic biopsy as Breeze, the stripper. She focused on my wedding ring, then my eyes, then my mouth. She was too scared to trust me. Luckily for me, she hadn’t worked out that I wasn’t supposed to be here; that I’d blagged my way in.

‘Who are you running from?’ I asked again.

Outside I heard people coming down the corridor. They stopped right by the door, talking. The words were muffled. Then they moved on.

‘If I tell you everything, will you get me out of here?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said.

She scanned my face up and down, looking for lies and agendas. I passed.

‘I was paid to seduce Vernon James in the hotel, the Blenheim-Strand,’ she said.

Time stopped and my brain froze.

I told myself to keep calm, get the story, get it now, get it fast.

‘Who by?’

‘I don’t know. I never met anyone in person. It was just a voice on the phone. Always the same man. English.’

‘Did he give a name?’

‘Yes. Bill.’

‘What do you do for a living?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘Tell me anyway,’ I said.

‘I’m an escort.’

‘How long have you been doing that?’

‘What is this, career guidance?’

‘Background,’ I said.

‘Four years, in London. I work through an agency for new clients. But I also have regulars I deal with directly. Some recommend me to their friends also. I have a separate phone for them. On March 1st I got a call from Bill. He said he wanted to book me on March 16th. He needed a date for a black-tie event at the Blenheim-Strand.’

‘He called you directly?’

‘Yes. On my private clients line.’

‘Did he say who’d recommended you?’

‘No.’

‘Didn’t you get suspicious?’

‘I always get suspicious. But not anyone has that number, and I’ve been recommended in the past. I assumed he was a high roller, big bucks.’

‘Go on.’

‘I asked to be paid in cash, as usual. My outcall rate is £4000 for an evening. I always ask for half upfront, the rest when I meet the client.

‘He asked where I wanted the money delivered. I said a café in Knightsbridge. I thought he would come in person, but a courier delivered it in an envelope. I signed for it. It was my full fee, not half. I thought he’d made a mistake, or misunderstood me.

‘Two days before we were due to meet, Bill called again. He told me to wear a dress that would “stand out”.’

I nodded.

‘I had just the thing, but it was emerald green. I asked him if that was OK. He said he wanted me to make an impression. I thought, Typical older rich man – wearing women like a wristwatch. Showing off.

‘On March 16th, I went to the hotel. We had arranged to meet at the cocktail bar in the lobby at eight o’clock. I ordered a drink. A waiter came over to me and handed me something – lipstick, it looked like. He said, “This is for you,” and went away before I had a chance to say anything.

‘Then my telephone rang. It was Bill. He told me he was watching me and I had to do exactly as he said. Open the lipstick. I did. Instead of lipstick, there was a small glass ampoule inside, about the size of my little finger. It was filled with clear liquid.

‘Then he told me what I
really
had to do: go to the ballroom and pick up Vernon James. Then I had to get him alone, go up to his room with him, and put the liquid in his drink. The man said the liquid would knock him out. Once he was unconscious, I had to call room service and order champagne.’

‘Champagne?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After I made the call, I was to wait in the room until someone came. They would take pictures of Vernon James and me in “compromising positions”. Then I’d be paid again. My full fee
again
.’

‘So they wanted you to pose for blackmail pictures?’

She nodded.

‘I told the man no. I wouldn’t do it.’

She took a deep breath, looked off to the side.

‘And?’ I prompted.

‘He said, “You will do as you’re told. You try and walk out of here, you’ll never walk again. You try and warn Vernon James or anyone, you’ll be sorry.” I got scared. Then he called me by my real name. Not Fabia – my
real
name. He also told me other things too – very personal things, private matters. He made me understand that…’

She closed her eyes. Two tears ran down her face.

‘They’d looked into you?’ I said.

She nodded.

And I got the chills.

‘They knew everything. I knew I’d been
picked
for this. I had to do it. I had no choice.’

‘So you went to the ballroom?’

‘Yes. The event had started. I just walked in. There was one security guy at the door, but he didn’t stop me.

‘Vernon James made his speech. I sat in the light, directly in front of him. He noticed me as soon as he started talking. He couldn’t stop looking at me. I tried to meet him after he had finished, but there were too many people around. One of the men on the table near where I’d been sitting asked if I was going to the afterparty. I asked him where it was, and he told me. So I decided that was where I’d approach Vernon James.

‘I didn’t go there immediately. I was very nervous. I was shaking inside. I had a drink in one of the bars. I stopped in the bathroom to freshen up and get myself together.

‘While I was there, another woman came in. She was wearing a green dress too – bright green, like leaves. One of the straps was torn, she was holding the dress up, crying. She kept trying to tie it together, but she could not. There was an attendant in the toilet. She said she could fix the dress for her.’

‘You saw Evelyn Bates?’

‘Who?’

‘That was the woman they found in Vernon’s suite.’

She looked confused.

‘What time did you see her?’

‘I don’t know exactly. But that was not the only time I saw her,’ she said. ‘When I came out of the bathroom, I went to find the club, but I went the wrong way. I turned round and retraced my steps. That’s when I saw him, Vernon James.

‘He was coming down the corridor. His suit was dirty. He seemed drunk. We talked a little. As we were talking, the girl – Evelyn – passed me. She was going in the direction of the club. I saw her talking to a man.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I think he was hotel security. He was a bodybuilder type in a black suit with a name-badge, a shaved head, and a plastic earpiece.’

‘Did you hear what she was saying?’

‘No. Too far away. There were other people in the corridor.’

‘What about you and Vernon James?’ I asked.

‘We went to a bar on the eleventh floor. He bought drinks. He had vodka straight. I noticed his watch. The Rolex. I asked to see it, so I could distract him. He had problems taking it off. That was when I put the liquid in his glass. He drank it all. Didn’t notice. A little later we went upstairs.

‘We got inside his room. We talked for a bit. Then he started kissing me. I went along with it, but I was confused. He was supposed to pass out. But he wasn’t showing any signs of being more than just drunk. In the back of my mind I was really scared. Paranoid. I didn’t know what was going on. Was I being set up instead of him? Was this a cop sting? Or one of my ex-clients playing a trick, I didn’t know.

‘He started getting rough. He pinched my nipple, twisted it hard. I bit his lip. He was bleeding. That’s when he went crazy. He touched his mouth, saw the blood and smiled at me. Not a nice smile. This cruel smile. Then like
that
he slapped my face.
BAFF!
I screamed. He hit me again. And then he jumped on me.

‘I lost my balance and fell on the drinks counter. I knocked all these glasses over. Everything was smashed, there was broken glass everywhere. He tried to pull me on to the couch. I held on to this piece of furniture. I thought it was fixed to the wall, but it moved. It was on wheels.

‘He flipped me around and pinned me down with his body so I couldn’t move. He put his belt around my neck, like a noose, and started pulling it tight. It was hard to breathe. He pushed my dress up over my arse. He forced my legs apart. I thought he was going to rape and kill me.

‘I was trying to fight, trying to breathe. But I couldn’t. I was trapped by his body. My head was getting light. I was seeing stars.

‘And then, suddenly it just stopped. He backed off. I turned round and I saw him standing there, with his trousers down around his ankles and his erection in his hand, but he was dizzy, stumbling. He looked like he didn’t know where he was, what was happening.

‘I got the belt off my neck. And then I just freaked. I wanted to kill him. I kicked him in the stomach. He fell over on his back, straight on to the glass. I tried to push the big minibar on him. It went halfway over and everything fell out, all over him. Everything in there was broken. All the bottles. Then I ran out of the room.’

‘So you never made the call – for champagne?’

‘Of course not. I didn’t even think of that.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I left the hotel. I was scared. I did not go home,’ she said.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘When you ran out of the room, did you take the lift down?’

‘No. It needed a special card. I used the stairs.’