Untouchable (16 page)

‘She was gay, but she made a career out of screwing men?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be so sure? That she wasn’t bisexual, I mean.’

‘We worked together. But only on appointments where the client didn’t want the usual show.’

‘The usual show?’

‘You know, the girl-on-girl stuff. The whole lesbian routine turns a lot of men on.’

Another smile. ‘Maybe she just didn’t fancy you?’

I grit my teeth. ‘I doubt she fancied her clients much either.’ I rub my hands against my jeans. They feel sticky, like they need a good wash. ‘No. Amanda was always strict about the lesbian stuff – with everyone, not just me. It was a no-go area with her because she loved Kristen. That was their deal – Amanda could fuck men because her girlfriend knew she didn’t enjoy it.’

‘You’re making a big assumption here.’

I look at her. ‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re assuming her attacker was male.’

‘But …’ I stop. She’s right. I’ve been assuming exactly that. ‘Would a woman have the strength? To strangle somebody, I mean.’

DI Shaw shrugs. ‘It’s possible. Though there would probably be more signs of a struggle.’

‘She wasn’t drugged? Or drunk?’

The detective shakes her head.

I drop my gaze. Study the pattern of stains on the carpet under the table. Looks almost like blood, after someone had tried to clean it away, but is more likely just coffee or tea. ‘But Kristen said there was evidence Amanda had sex right before she died.’

Shaw nods.

‘Though no semen, right? No DNA?’

She nods again.

‘That’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, surely if you fuck someone, you leave your DNA in hair or skin or something. But all you found was traces of somebody using a condom?’

No reply.

‘And you don’t believe her killer was a woman?’ I persist.

‘We haven’t entirely ruled it out. But no, probably not.’

I run my teeth over my bottom lip. Consider this some more. ‘All right, so if this man were her lover, how did they arrange to meet? Even if afterwards he wiped the call log on her mobile – I’m assuming you can access her records with the phone company.’

Annette Shaw doesn’t confirm or deny this. I exhale slowly. ‘So let me guess, there’s nothing linking her with the hotel?’

‘All I can say is we’re looking into it.’

‘It wasn’t a client. It doesn’t make any sense. And I really don’t believe she had a lover – man or woman.’

‘So who then?’ she asks. ‘You sound like you’ve given this an awful lot of thought, Stella. What’s your theory? Who
do
you think killed Amanda Mansfield?’

I gaze at her, uncertain. Realize I have absolutely no idea.

DI Shaw picks up a pen and makes a note on the little pad resting on her lap. There’s a minute or so where neither of us speak, then she leans forward and rests her elbows on the table, splaying her fingers and steepling the tips together.

‘What I don’t get, Stella, is exactly why you’re here. You say you knew Amanda, but you also told me you only worked with her half a dozen times. You said you didn’t socialize with her. That you’d never met Kristen before Amanda died. So I guess what interests me right now is why this interests you so much?’

‘Kristen is very distressed,’ I swallow. ‘I can’t turn my back on her. And—’

I stop.

‘And what?’

‘I just want to find out what happened to Amanda.’

‘Yes, Stella, I understand that. That much is clear. But what I want to understand is why this is so important to you?’

My mind flashes back to Michael’s girlfriend, the disgust on her face after I’d given my testimony. The certain knowledge that I’d blown everything. Let someone off the hook who most definitely should have been on it.

Never again. I can’t ever let anything like that happen again.

Not if there’s any way I can stop it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and stare at the detective. Come to a decision. ‘There’s something else. Something I can’t formulate. It’s … more of a feeling.’

‘Tell me.’

‘We did a party, Amanda and I and another girl. A few weeks before she died. There were four men. I’d never met any of them before and neither had Amanda. This guy, a banker, it was his fiftieth – the other girl arranged it all because he was a regular client.’

I clear my throat again. ‘Nothing happened. I mean, apart from the usual sort of thing – lots of sex, booze, a bit of coke. But afterwards one man, the banker, started talking, implying they’d pulled off some deal. Made a lot of money.’

‘What kind of deal?’

‘I’m not sure, but whatever it was, it was big. And then I saw one of them on TV the other night and …’ Fuck, I’m beginning to sound incoherent. I swallow. Try to muster my thoughts into something intelligible.

The detective eyes me thoughtfully. Inhales and screws up the tip of her nose. ‘Can you give me more details? Their names, that kind of thing?’

I shake my head. ‘Only one for definite. The others went by Christian names, and they may not be their own.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Harry, he was the banker, and Rob – I think he worked with him.’ I hesitate, pressing my lips together. ‘The other one was called Alex.’

She writes them down. ‘And the one you’re sure about?’

‘I saw him on the news the other night. I recognized him at once. He said his name was James, but it was Edward Hardy.’

‘Edward Hardy?’ Her expression a question mark.

‘He’s the …’ I strain to remember his exact title, ‘… the parliamentary under-secretary of state for defence.’

A ripple passes across the detective’s impenetrably calm exterior. Finally I have made some kind of impression.

‘Are you certain of this, Stella? You’re confident it was him?’

I nod.

‘So how do you think this is connected with Amanda’s death?’

‘I don’t … not exactly. It’s more of a hunch.’ Christ, what on earth am I saying? But I may as well get it all out now. I take a deep breath. ‘At the funeral … I mean the memorial service, there was somebody outside. I don’t know, I just had a sense that he was nothing to do with the mourners. He looked … like he was watching the place.’

‘Watching? For what?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I admit.

DI Shaw sighs. I’m losing credibility by the minute, I realize, and wonder if it might help if I told her what I used to do. Decide it would probably make things worse.

‘The burglary,’ I say suddenly. ‘You checked it out?’

She nods as she scribbles a note on her pad. ‘Briefly.’

‘Any idea how they got in?’

She raises her head quickly, her look sharp. ‘We’re not sure. Why?’

‘It’s just that it didn’t seem like something a bunch of addicts would do.’

‘Is that what you think?’ The detective purses her lips. ‘What about this other girl you did the party with? She’d have the details and numbers of these men, I assume?’

‘I’m not sure. I guess so.’

‘Can you tell me how I might contact her?’

‘Her number’s on her website. It’s Janine – google her under London escorts.’ I pause. ‘So you’ll look into this, right?’

The detective thinks for a minute, her index finger tapping the end of her pen. ‘Let me recap. You’re saying this politician, this Edward Hardy, may have something to do with Amanda’s murder? That’s quite a leap, Stella.’

I bite my lip. ‘I don’t know, but …’ I stop. Hear how ridiculous I sound. Textbook inflation and paranoia. Jesus, I hadn’t realized quite how much all this has rattled me.

Her eyes consider me carefully. Then her features soften as she voices my own thoughts. ‘I think you’re scared, Stella. You’re frightened. Someone in the business gets killed like this and it’s going to make a lot of people feel vulnerable.’

‘But you’ll look into it?’

‘We check out every lead we’re given.’ She closes her pad.

‘And you’ll let me know?’ I give her one of my cards with my number on it.

‘I’m guessing this isn’t your real name either,’ she says, glancing at it.

I shake my head.

‘Are you willing to tell me what it is?’

I hesitate. Realize I have no choice if I want her to take me seriously. ‘Grace. Grace Thomas.’

She looks at me. ‘Thank you. I can’t promise anything, but if there proves to be any substance to this, rest assured I’ll be in touch.’

Leading me back to the entrance, she offers her hand. ‘In the meantime, take care of yourself, OK?’

Her grip on me lingers, and there’s a warning in her eyes. ‘I mean it, Grace. Be careful.’

24

Friday, 20 March

He’s standing outside the entrance when I emerge from Shepherd’s Bush tube station into the pale sunlight. I don’t spot him at first. I’m too busy wondering which hotel we’re heading to; nowhere decent near here that I can think of.

‘Stella.’ I spin round at the sound of his voice, so firm, so self-assured. Like nothing in the world could ever touch him.

‘Alex.’

He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. I expect us to head to Holland Park. Instead he marches towards the giant monolith of the Westfield Shopping Centre, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his black coat.

‘Really?’ I ask as we pass House of Fraser and into the mall proper.

Alex just smiles.

I try again. ‘Why the hell are we going here?’

‘What can I say?’ he says. ‘I like to shop.’

I frown. ‘You do?’ Somehow I doubt it. Clearly he gets a kick out of stringing me along.

We glide past Valentino and Ted Baker, then he turns abruptly into Prada, grabbing my elbow to steer me through the plate-glass doors. I stand there, feeling awkward. I always hate the cultish atmosphere of these places, the rarefied air of high fashion taking itself way too seriously. Though Anna would be right at home.

As Alex seems to be. Ignoring the shop assistant beelining towards us, he flicks through a rail of garments and holds up a knee-length silk skirt in front of me. It’s about my size. And my style, a beautiful tartan check etched in black and muted shades of brown.

I can’t see the price tag, but it has to be a couple of appointments’ worth.

‘Suits you,’ he says. ‘Try it on.’

I shake my head.

Alex shrugs, glances round. ‘Well, pick something you like.’

I purse my lips and inadvertently catch the shop assistant’s eye. She’s openly regarding me, an unreadable expression on her flawlessly made-up face.

I have a feeling she’s got me sussed.

‘What are we doing here?’ I ask plainly.

Alex grins. ‘Living up to all the clichés?’

I let myself smile. ‘No chance. You don’t look anything like Richard Gere.’

He crosses to another railing, starts fingering a lilac silk blouse. I follow him. Decide to be blunt.

‘Alex, what’s this about?’

He releases the blouse. Faces me. ‘OK, what would you rather do?’

I glare at him. ‘I don’t know. You booked the bloody appointment.’

Alex glances over at the assistant, then steers me out the shop into the main concourse. I stare up at the roof of this great glass palace, at the light bouncing off the myriad shopfronts in a dizzying display of brightness and colour.

‘This place is insane,’ I mutter. ‘A fucking cathedral to consumption.’

Alex eyes me with amusement. ‘You sound as if you could do with a drink.’ He leads me up the escalator to the next level and finds us a seat in an Italian restaurant. I feel slightly deflated; evidently this isn’t going to be a standard appointment. So what is it? Some kind of test? Or does he enjoy spending several hundred quid an hour simply to wind me up?

‘Wine?’ asks Alex.

I nod.

He orders a couple of glasses of Rioja and glances at the menu. The usual pasta and pizza.

‘You hungry?’

I shake my head. ‘Some olives would be nice.’ I stare around me at the swarm of shoppers, most clutching carrier bags splashed with logos. ‘Honestly?’ I say. ‘I’d never have imagined this was your style.’

‘No?’

‘More Bond Street or Faubourg Saint-Honoré, I’d have said.’

Alex inhales, wrinkles his nose. ‘I enjoy the anonymity.’

Yes, I realize, looking back at all the people cruising the walkways. It’s much easier to get lost in a crowd. But why not meet in a hotel room, I wonder, if he doesn’t want us seen together?

Unless, of course, he doesn’t want
anyone
knowing where he is.

I force the thought from my mind. Decide he’s not the only one who can play games. ‘Actually, I was somewhat surprised to hear from you.’

‘Why?’ Alex raises an eyebrow and settles back in his seat.

I shrug. Answer with another question. ‘I’m assuming you heard about Amanda?’

His face twitches minutely. But he doesn’t speak.

‘Amanda Mansfield,’ I say, ‘but you knew her as Elisa. The girl from the party.’

His eyes linger on my face. ‘I know who you’re talking about, Stella. I read the reports in the papers.’

I wait for him to expand. Nothing follows.

‘Well?’ I nudge, as the olives arrive, along with the wine. I take a gulp. Let my eyes close for a second or two.

How should I play this?

‘What do you want me to say, Stella?’ His tone abrupt. ‘It’s unfortunate. I was very sorry to hear it.’

Unfortunate
. I savour the word. It tastes sour in my mouth.

‘Very unfortunate,’ he repeats. ‘She was quite a girl.’

I exhale slowly. ‘So you know nothing about what happened to her?’

No tells this time. Alex’s features remain immobile. ‘Like I said, only what I read in the papers.’

I study him. His expression is unreadable. I have no idea whether he’s lying or not. I wonder how far I can push this.

‘Do you?’ he asks, before I can decide what tack to take.

‘Do I what?’

‘Have any idea what happened to her?’

I think carefully before I reply. Suspecting I’m close to some sort of brink. ‘I saw him on TV.’

‘Saw who?’

‘Your friend Hardy. Edward Hardy.’

No reaction.

‘Something to do with a select committee investigation,’ I add, observing his reaction, but there’s nothing. It’s like talking to one of the mannequins downstairs.