The Vanity Game Read online

  I turn the engine on and music fills the car …within a few seconds I realise it's I Want Your Sex which doesn't really seem appropriate in the circumstances. I scramble to turn it off, thinking that it might wake someone, or more like alert them. Who exactly, I don't know. The neighbours live over a mile away, but what's lurking in the woodland, waiting, between us and them is any fucker's guess…police, paps, vengeful spirits. I tell myself this is crazy thinking, but then this is a crazy situation, no lie.

  The void left by the music is filled with Serge sighing with relief, I guess he had the same idea.

  "Let's just go," he says quietly.

  As the garage door opens, revealing the night to us, I feel really exposed. I want to shut it down again, get out of the car and run to my bed, pretend this ain't happening. How can we possibly get to the docks and back with no-one seeing us? And what would be worse? Bumping into a police car on a late night prowl or some pissed-up members of the public who'd be sure to recognise me? Oh God, or worse, the paps with their cameras, snapping away at the future evidence. I can feel my chest getting tighter, and I'm finding it hard to breathe.

  "Beaumont, Beaumont!" Serge is pulling my arm. "Get a fucking grip of yourself and just start driving this thing."

  "But what if someone sees us?" I whisper, still panting, trying to ward off the panic attack.

  "It's a chance we gotta take. We can't keep this bloody corpse here!" he hisses back at me. He's right, there's nothing for it, besides I'm so tired that right now I'd do anything to get it over with, even if it ends in a life sentence. I pull my beanie hat down so it's just over my eyes and ease the Land Rover out of the garage.

  Soon we're driving through the deserted country roads. It's just nudging 3am and already the sun is showing signs of rising – the sky is turning a light grey on the horizon where the lights of the city glow like embers of a dying fire. But to the west it's still dark, and that's where we're heading. I just pray we make it in time.

  3am… The kind of time when one party is ending and people are milling around looking for somewhere else to go, and you're still too high on drugs or still hoping to score, or you're stone cold sober in a foreign airport lounge, waiting, exhausted but wired on another time zone. Both shitty situations, but both better than this one: driving through the night to dump the body of your dead girlfriend. I'm a murderer; it suddenly strikes me, a killer. I swallow hard and try to push it away, but mug-shots flash through my mind – Ian Brady, Hindly, Huntley, me, staring dead ahead, evil in my eyes. Ah fuck it, I ain't like them – I'm not some perv who goes round killing kids, but I've killed her … taken the life of another human being … thou shalt not kill … fuck it, God doesn't exist, hell doesn't exist … prison does though … what will they do to me in there? I wish Serge would say something to break up these thoughts but when I look over at him he's staring at the road ahead as if it's the only thing that exists in the world, and I can't think of anything to say to him. Why is he helping me? Why put himself at risk too? Surely assisting a murderer is a big crime but when I try to think further I find myself going round in circles, seeing myself cleaning the floor … all that blood … the feeling as the knife went in … her eyes. It seems like a lifetime ago now, as if it's just a dream. If only.

  Serge speaks – only to issue a direction, and we hit the motorway. It's quiet, which is a fucking relief, and the smooth drive under the bright lights makes me feel calmer.

  "Oh shit, Beaumont," Serge suddenly whispers. And I see what he's looking at. There in my rear-view mirror is the worst sight in the world: a fucking cop car speeding towards us with its lights flashing.

  "Oh Christ."

  "Just keep calm. Keep to the speed limit. Move into the slow lane."

  I'm shaking like hell but I do as he says. The cops get closer and the car fills with blue light and I stare dead ahead, just looking at the road…but then it's gone, zooming off ahead of us, round the bend before my heart has a chance to slow down again.

  We both exhale.

  "They've got some other fucker's scent tonight," Serge says quietly.

  "Yeah."

  Some other fucker … some other criminal. And what the hell does he mean? Does he really think one night it's going to be my scent they're onto?

  So I'm shitting myself the rest of the way, expecting to see another flashing blue light in the mirror. None come though and soon we turn off the motorway and begin the approach to the docks.

  It's about 4am. when he tells me to pull the car in. It's almost light, but the dock seems deserted. Serge starts cursing as we climb out of the car though, because it's lighter than he wants.

  "Jesus, we might as well have got them to floodlight the place," he says as he goes to open the back of the car. It's pretty chilly and my breath leaves a trace of steam in the air, and it's totally silent. The old dock machinery looms above us. I imagine one of the cranes suddenly creaking into action and crashing down on the car.

  "You not gonna come and help then?" Serge says.

  Seeing the long, bulky package makes me feel so exhausted – it's become horribly familiar and it's hard to imagine the thing, my girlfriend's corpse, inside it was once alive.

  Getting the fucker out is easier than getting it in though and, taking an end each again, we stagger towards the water. The tide is low and we have to walk some way down the slope. Several metres of wall rises up either side of us by the time we reach the water's edge.

  "Right," Serge gasps, knackered by the walk, "after three… One…two…three—" and we swing Krystal forward as hard as we can. It doesn't exactly fly through the air, but owing to my strength it does rise up and then land in the water, with an almighty splash. My heart thuds as we watch it sink and I wait for the sound of a fleet of police cars screeching to a halt at the top of the dock. But the only sound is the gentle gurgling as the last bit of ghastly package sinks into the black water of the Thames. Serge chucks the dismantled components of her iPhone – including the stupid, glittery pink casing – in after her.

  Jesus. For a moment it feels like it's my own life sinking below the water and disappearing forever and I feel the overwhelming urge to fall to my knees and scream here by the side of the river but Serge is tugging on my arm, saying we should go. By the time we get back into the car I'm shaking so much I can hardly get the key in the ignition. No doubt about it, a part of me is slowly making its way to the filthy floor of the Thames right now.

  We bomb it back down the motorway. It's fully light, and as we near home the roads are beginning to get busy with Essex commuters heading into the city. I'm beyond giving a fuck if anyone sees us now though, my body craves sleep, my mind craves oblivion, cold has set into my bones.

  When we finally reach home Serge tells me to get a few hours kip. It won't do any good if I look like death warmed up when I report Krystal missing later this morning he says. I don't want to hear that, I don't want to think about how this nightmare has only just started. But I'm happy to get upstairs, pull my clothes off and crawl under my duvet. It's bliss as my body relaxes on the mattress for a second. But then I'm suffocating under the scent of her on the bedclothes, and I can't shut my mind down. I can hear her talking, her voice, like she's in the room with me. I can feel her. There's a photo of us on the bedside table, and the light seeping through a gap in the curtains falls on it. It's the two of us in Portugal, our first holiday together. We're laughing, I seem to remember, at something Krystal had just said. I turn it face down and I can't hold it in any longer, the tears sting my tired eyes as they come streaming out. And I don't even know what exactly it is I'm crying over – her or myself.

  SIX

  I wake with a start, awoken by an alarm I don't remember setting. My eyes feel swollen and my head throbs with a dull headache. It don't take long for the confusion of waking to settle into the nightmare of reality. She is dead, I killed her. I'm a murderer. It's 10am, I have to report her missing this morning. I feel sick, knackered after hardly any sleep, and a
bsolutely fucking starving.

  The door to the spare room is open and I look in as I pass. Serge is sprawled on the bed; the duvet twisted around what I hope is not his naked torso, revealing the blurry green mess of tattoos on his arms and chest. He's snoring slightly.

  I make myself an espresso and knock back a couple of Xanax. If I've ever needed these, it's today, no doubt about that. I'm going to call round her friends first, ask if they've seen her, and then build up to calling the Fuzz. I wonder how good I actually am at lying. Serge said to tell the police that she told me she was going round to her agents. That might put the idea in their heads that she was either having an affair with the greasy little jerk, Michael, or was back on the drugs and something's gone wrong on a late-night scoring mission. Is this believable? Fuck knows. I find her little pink address book on the coffee table and flick through it. Stylists, producers, girls she knew through modelling, nightclub owners, a couple of American rappers, a few drug dealers (I could do with calling them now), lots of journalists (who I definitely could not do with calling right now), Jon Donald – why did she have his number? There's a few other guys listed just by their first names. I go back to Jon's number … hadn't they always been a bit flirty around each other?

  "Morning."

  I spin round to find Serge standing at the entrance to the dining room. He's naked except for a towel round his waist, and I'm repulsed by his beer belly and how hairy it is. He's like a half-gorilla, half-man monster.

  "You started making the calls yet?"

  I shake my head.

  "Well you better get bleeding started, it's almost lunchtime," he snaps at me, and disappears again. After he's gone I tell him to 'fuck off' under my breath. I wish he would, I want to be alone right now. And the word 'lunchtime' reminds me how hungry I am, but no food appeals. A vodka and cranberry juice and a nice line of charlie would be the ideal thing right now, but I head back to the kitchen, make myself another espresso and shove some cracked rye and honey bread into the toaster. I eat the first piece dry and when that goes down okay, spread a little low-fat marg on the other piece. Who would I genuinely call if I was worried about her whereabouts? She has no family, apart from a dotty old grandma in a nursing home and a step brother she never sees. There's the slimy Michael, obviously, then there's her friend Shona, another ex-glamour model, and Julio the hair stylist. There's Kelly, Jon's fiancée, who I feel well bad about having that drunken fumble with now, but hell, maybe Krystal did shag Jon. Maybe.

  I dial Michael's number with my shaking finger, and feel the rye bread swirling around my stomach. He picks up just as I'm beginning to believe it's going to go to voicemail.

  "MC talent agents."

  Cunt, I think to myself, and I know I'll find it pretty easy to lie to him. Did he see Krystal last night, I ask. No, he says, he didn't, was everything okay? He sounds concerned.

  "Yeah, I think so, I just thought she was meeting you."

  "Oh no, we hadn't planned anything…well I'll let you know if she calls me."

  Why would she call you? I want to shout down the phone.

  Shona sounds high or drunk, and mutters something about how it's so beautiful to hear my voice. I don't know if she fully understands what I'm asking her, but no matter. Julio sounds like he's too busy to talk, Kelly just sounds pissed off. None of them saw Krystal last night or know where she is today. No surprises there.

  Then I call Di Cotto's office. Natalia, his gorgeous secretary, answers as normal. I fancy the arse off her and usually I'm super-flirty and jokey, but not today. Today I try to put on a worried, emotional voice and she sounds genuinely concerned and says she'll pass the message onto Di Cotto straight away. This pisses me off a little because I want to hear a little envy in her voice, envy that here was the gorgeous, famous footballer calling about his girlfriend, but there was none, just the "Oh no, Beaumont, zat is ter-ri-ble". Right now I wish more than anything I'm there in Di Cotto's office fucking Natalia over the desk rather than here, about to call the police and watch the whole thing blow up.

  I can feel a panic attack coming on as I run through what I'm going to say. Any way that I put it, it sounds ridiculous. I look round for the bottle of Xanax but then remember I've taken two this morning already. Maybe I will have a vodka and cranberry after all. Just to steady the nerves.

  I'm at the bar in the corner of the lounge when Serge appears, thankfully now fully dressed.

  "Pour me one while you're at it," he says, settling himself down on one the cream leather sofas. I oblige, grudgingly, thinking how I could drink the whole bottle myself, and slowly obliterate the day.

  "I've called her friends, it went okay," I say, taking a large gulp of vod and cran and almost retching as it hits the back of my throat. I've made it a little too strong.

  "So the Old Bill, eh?" Serge says.

  I down the rest of the drink and pick up my mobile. The alcohol hasn't had the calming affect I hoped it would and now I'm shaking even more and feel like I'm going to shit myself. How will they react when I have to say that it's Beaumont Alexander calling, then tell them yes, it is that Beaumont Alexander?

  It's ringing. Deep breaths, stay focused.

  "Hi, erm, I need to report my girlfriend missing, well I think she's gone missing," I blurt out; too aware of my own voice and how fake it sounds.

  "Right, okay…" the woman at the end of the phone sounds doubtful already. It feels like my bowels might explode any second now. She asks what her name is, and then what my name is.

  "Right," she says again, in a kind of way that suggests people ring up and tell her this all the time. I wonder if they do.

  "So, what exactly happened then?" she says with a sigh.

  I run through the details, like we'd agreed.

  "And your address is?"

  "The address is…The Love Palace, Meadow Lane, near Woodfood."

  "The Love Palace?"

  I can tell she's trying not to laugh.

  "Yeah, it's got gold gates outside, can't miss it," I say, trying to sound as comfortable as I can about this.

  "Okay then Mr Alexander, we'll send someone round in the next half hour," she says and then puts the phone down. I keep it held to my ear, listening to the dull tone for a few seconds. I feel like a tidal wave has passed over me and now I'm standing on the beach, drenched but still standing.

  "Nice one, son, now you just gotta lie to their faces," says Serge, with a freakish grin on his face. This half hour is going to be long.

  SEVEN

  The voices are faint but I can hear them, moving through the building towards me. They're almost outside the living room when I hear Serge exclaim: "He's been fraught with worry, poor boy."

  Fucking hell, what does he think this is – an episode of EastEnders?

  I look up as they enter the room, tramping behind Serge. There's two of them: a young guy that looks like a rookie and an older, more weary-looking one with a long, thin face. Even though it's a big room, in their bulky uniforms they make it seem smaller suddenly. They're too busy looking around at the décor of the house to look at me. They both do a second take at the painting above the fireplace and seem to stifle laughs. I feel myself starting to blush, but the colour drains away when I remember why they're here. They both settle into the sofa opposite me, their uniforms rustling.

  Thin Face introduces them both with names I instantly forget and pulls a notebook out of his pocket whilst Rookie continues to stare up at the fucking painting with eyes so wide they might fall out of his head. Not very professional. I imagine him in the pub later, telling his loser mates how he'd been to Beaumont Alexander's gaff, seen the swimming pool through a window as they walked through the house, seen the chandeliers, seen that picture. Of course no doubt the story of Krystal's disappearance will have broken by then. What will I be doing when it does?

  "So Mr Alexander," Thin Face says, "you better tell us what's happened."

  "Well, like I said, I came home yesterday, about 4pm." My mouth is so dry
I'm not sure I can go on speaking. Thin Face scribbles in his notebook.

  "Krystal was here, on the phone to her agent. She was arranging a photo-shoot for next week, you know, with Chic! magazine."

  Thin Face kind of frowns and nods at the same time, whilst the Rookie smirks. I want to leap across the room and punch him.

  "I went into my games room – it's the other side of the house, and when I came out a couple of hours later she'd gone.

  "I didn't think much of it at first. But it got to about eleven o'clock and she hadn't come back. I started to get worried because it's not really like her to just go out for that long without saying anything. I tried calling her mobile and it was dead – that's when I started thinking maybe something was wrong, although, you know, it seemed a bit ridiculous to raise the alarm then because maybe she had just gone to a friend and they'd decided to go out…so I went to bed, expecting her to be there when I woke up," I try to make my eyes water, "but she wasn't."

  My eyes are blurry with tears, but there's not enough liquid to roll down my face.

  "Right," says Thin Face briskly, "so you've not seen her since four o'clock yesterday." I shake my head.

  "And can you describe her to us?"

  They can barely contain their laughter as they both shoot a glance at the hideous painting. Fucking police scum. How dare they come into my house and mock me? At a time like this, when my girlfriend had gone missing. Yes, I can make myself believe it if I try.