The Vanity Game Read online

  TEN

  A fat, balding face on the CCTV screen scowling up at the camera. Huge bushy eyebrows that make him look a bit like an owl. I press the buzzer and watch Owl Face as he carries on staring at the screen, the scowl turning to this gormless look, and then he must notice the gates are opening because the eyebrows suddenly raise and he vanishes from the screen, obviously rushing back into his car. That would be kind of funny if he wasn't the Old Bill. Owl Face obviously ain't used to hanging out at gaffs with high security gate systems.

  I'm at the door before he's even driven down the drive, and open it to watch him pulling up in his plebby little detective car and get out. The eyebrows rise again when he sees me standing there. Awe-struck probably. His body is fat to match his face, well middle-aged, plump at any rate, and his face is flushed red, as if he's an alky. And he's wearing this crumpled shitty, grey suit that looks cheap as hell, with a maroon and cream tie that could have been nicked off a school kid.

  "Detective Inspector Dante," he says flatly, flashing me a police badge with a photo of his face on it, in the same scowling expression that I saw on the CCTV screen.

  "Beaumont Alexander," I say back.

  "Aye." He just nods, furrows the brows and gestures we should go inside.

  Great, he's northern, ninety per cent likely to be a Hater then.

  We don't speak as I lead him through to the lounge, passing the kitchen which makes me shiver a little and I pray to God he doesn't sense it.

  "I've come to ask you a few questions about your girlfriend's disappearance, Mr Alexander," he drawls as he settles himself into a cream leather arm chair.

  Makes me shudder to see a suit that cheap sitting on a chair that expensive and I hope it don't leave any marks on it.

  "You say it were about six o'clock when you noticed she were missing?"

  "Yeah, about that."

  I feel that it comes out a bit stand-offish, but I can't help be wary of this guy. He just nods though, as if he's expecting me to say something else.

  "Any idea why she might just take off like that?" he says, when he realises I ain't going to.

  I shake my head and try to look miffed. "Well…she was a bit messed up I guess."

  "Messed up?" he asks, narrowing his eyes, the eyebrows meeting. "She's a recovering drug addict, isn't she? You think she's still using, you know, on the quiet?"

  It's good he's thinking on that track.

  "Well yeah, I suppose it's possible."

  "Hmm…" he nods, "And you say 'was'?"

  "What?"

  He's cocking his head to one side, and I've got this weird feeling, like something is falling through me.

  "You said 'she was a bit messed up', as opposed to 'she is'. I mean, presumably she still is messed up, wouldn't you say?" One eyebrow, raised.

  "Oh yeah, well of course…I mean, she was a bit messed up, last time I saw her, when she was here. I went through this with the other police."

  "Right, yeah. So who was her dealer?"

  "Her dealer?"

  "Her drug dealer. Where was she getting the coke from?"

  He's speaking to me like I'm a kid, and I'm bricking it big time, hoping this mess inside ain't showing through on the outside. This guy is snidey, no question. And shit, what do I say now? I weigh up the likelihood of CJ, our dealer, taking a hit out on me if I grass him up, but figure that it's pretty unlikely.

  "Erm, a guy called CJ I think. He's pretty small time." Exclusive, CJ would say: A list only.

  Dante writes the name down, and sighs. What the fuck is this guy thinking?

  "And was there anything else that might have been troubling her? Messing her up, as you say."

  Thankfully, he seems to have forgotten the 'she was/ she is' thing. I pretend to be thinking for a while and then finally say:

  "Well, she did complain about the press attention and being in the public eye so much."

  Owl Face scribbles this down and nods, which is good.

  "Actually, only the night before she ended up in tears when we got back from a party. She was talking about how she couldn't take it any more and saying we should give all this up. I just thought she was drunk, but maybe there was more to it."

  He cocks his head, frowns and nods, which I take as a sign that he's buying it.

  Seems that I'm okay at this acting business. Maybe I should try my hand at a film part after this has blown over. Old Owl Face is still writing and nodding.

  "Mind if I have a look around?" he asks, looking up from his notebook.

  "Er, no, go for it mate."

  The last thing I want is this guy snooping around. These police fuckers have eyes for any kind of evidence, I've seen it on those cop shows, where all the eagle-eyed bastards have to do is spot a tiny fleck of blood from a mile off and then the game's up for the suspect. Am I the suspect yet though? It's hard to tell.

  He hauls his fat ass out of the chair, and where's the first place he heads? The kitchen. Perhaps he can smell blood. I feel my legs getting weaker as I follow him and when we get there, I have to lean on the worktop to steady myself. He just glances round though, and I hold my breath as I watch his eyes scan over the place where she died, between the fridge and the breakfast bar. Nothing. No comment. We leave the kitchen and walk through the dining room, and then to my games room, the utility room, the pool area (no floating bodies, much to my relief), and then upstairs. He sticks his head into every guest room and I'm starting to think the guy just wants a nosy round my gaff to see how bling it is.

  "This the master bedroom then?" he asks when he gets to our room. He goes in and starts looking through the cupboards, like he's maybe expecting a corpse to fall out of one or something. I almost say this, but hold my tongue as the Old Bill ain't ones for jokes.

  Finally he gets to Krystal's underwear drawer, and the sleazy bastard starts lifting out lacy bras and kinky thongs, admittedly with this complete look of total boredom on his face. Then he pulls out something else – a square thing tied with a ribbon, a book. I've never seen it before.

  "This her diary, then?" he asks, tugging at the ribbon.

  I have to clear my throat to speak because my mouth has gone so dry.

  "Er, yeah, I guess so. I didn't know she kept one."

  I watch in silence as he flicks through the pages, frowning.

  "They always keep 'em with the knickers."

  "They?" I ask, trying to laugh, but it comes out more as a cough.

  "Aye. Missing girls, what else?" He doesn't lift his eyes from whatever gripping content the bitch wrote in that book.

  Then he snaps the book shut and pulls a clear plastic bag from his pocket.

  "I'll take this back to the station if you don't mind. It might give us some clues about where your lass has gone."

  Are they allowed to just take things like that? I'm sure they need a warrant or something? But what can I do? If I question him he's likely to get suspicious, so I just keep schtum and hope that it's just a load of girly crap about shoes and food in there. Christ, I feel I've said enough already.

  We go back downstairs, and just as I'm thinking the worst is over and beginning to relax a bit, he asks:

  "You got a garage here? Mind if I have a look in that?"

  Fuck. I'd forgotten about the Land Rover. What if it's still there? And what if it's not? Will he notice?

  "Yeah, course you can."

  I lead him down the passage towards the garage and hope he doesn't notice that my hands are shaking as I turn the key to unlock the door.

  I flick the lights, illuminating my gorgeous collection of beauties: the black Brabus Merc, the blood-red Invicta, a silver Aston Martin, a Harley Davidson motorcycle and a large space where the Land Rover was. So they've taken it. Dante the Owl raises his eyebrows.

  "Nice cars you've got here, mate," he says, stroking the Invicta as if it had fur. So that was it. He's a car man and he knew I'd have some classy machines. Damn it, why did they have to send a car man? Another detective wouldn't h
ave wanted to see the garage. He makes a kind of whistling noise as he goes over to the bike. For fuck's sake, what does he want? A test drive?

  "Ah, a Harley. I used to ride myself, when I was a lad…not a Harley of course."

  Great, big whiz, just get the fuck out of here.

  "Did she drive then?" he asks suddenly, looking up, fixing his eyes on me, eyebrow raised.

  "Yeah, she did sometimes."

  "So, there's no cars missing then?"

  I take a deep breath, and try to think, think, think. Obviously, the house is in the middle of the Essex countryside. You couldn't even walk to the nearest commuter village, and Krystal wasn't one for walking anyway, not with those heels she'd wear. How the hell would she have got to wherever she's supposedly disappeared to? Beads of sweat form on my neck and back. I'm going to have to put on a damn good act to pull this off.

  "Shit, well now we're in here, yeah, the Land Rover's missing," I say, and then put my hand over my mouth as if I'm shocked, "it was there, parked in that space. I'm sorry, I hadn't noticed before, I guess I'm not thinking straight at the moment."

  I run my hand through my hair and wait for his reaction. He stares between the empty space between the garage wall and the Invicta and back to me.

  "You never noticed 'til now? But you drove to your mother's in that Merc after you reported her missing."

  How the fuck does he know that? And then, as if he could read my fucking mind: "I saw the pictures on the web."

  I'm floored, don't know what to say. Damn the paparazzi bastards – are they in league together, them and the pigs? It wouldn't surprise me. I'm standing here like a mug, might as well paint 'murderer' across my forehead, and I can't think of anything but the flash bulbs going off and the thugs pressed against the car windows.

  "I just didn't notice… I often lend my cars to friends, so I guess I just forgot, it's, erm, it's hard to keep track sometimes."

  The words just come out. Bollocks, it's a stupid lie because if they do any research they'll find out that I never, ever let any of my mates use my cars. I can feel Dante's owl eyes burning my skin, scanning my face, my body language, looking for signs of betrayal. A dog fixing on a scent, I imagine the saliva forming behind his heavy cheeks. He's pulling out his notebook again.

  "Registration number?" is all he says. I give him a number, I don't know if it's the right one. It feels like the whole thing has spiralled out of control. It seems ridiculous now that I ever thought I could get away with it. Someone will report seeing us driving the Land Rover to the docks that night, and then seeing it today, someone driving it away from this house. CCTV pictures will surface in the papers. What were we thinking? What the fuck was I thinking? I should have called the ambulance. In my mind I see her eyes looking up at me. Oh Krystal, what have you gone and made me do?

  "Mr. Alexander, would you mind coming down to the station to give an official statement? Routine procedure, you understand."

  A roaring sound fills my ears, but above it I hear myself telling him that no, of course I didn't mind going down to the station.

  ELEVEN

  "Bleeding hell, Beaumont, what the fuck did you tell them that for?"

  We're at Serge's office in Soho cradling tumblers of whisky and ice, my third and it's only 7pm. Dante had taken me back to the station, driving through the crowds of press hanging around outside the house. There'll be photos and rumours galore in the morning, guaranteed. I'd sat in a small room and a woman – I didn't even notice if she was cute or not – asked me to write down everything, asked more questions, got me to sign it. I haven't got a fucking clue about half of what I wrote now. But from what I've told him Serge seems pretty satisfied by most of it, muttering 'good', or 'nice one'. Had I broken down in tears at one point? Yes I had, from exhaustion mainly, but still, it was a reasonable piece of acting, I think.

  It was the Land Rover that was the sticking point. Serge says I made a mistake when I told them that I hadn't realised it was missing. He's had a bit of trouble from the Old Bill himself over the years and knows how they operate. One little thing that doesn't add up and they're onto you, which is just what I want to hear.

  Somehow Serge has managed to find out that this Dante guy is an ex-murder cop. Apparently he's got a few mates in Manchester who remember the name from years back. He tells me how up there Dante is credited with solving one of the most grisly gangland murders for years, breaking down the wall of silence in the community to catch the killers. Like I give a fuck. He starts going on about how that was back in the old days though when it was proper gangsters, 'decent men' as he describes them, like himself, who at least kept the violence amongst themselves.

  "Different ball game these days. Young black kids from Peckham shooting each other in kebab shops and all that. Most of my old gang are on the straight and narrow now, or at least sufficiently small time to lie under the radar."

  I don't need this, a fucking history lesson about the glory days of the East End from the geezer who was there. I down my whisky and stare at the blank walls of his office, imagining it's a prison cell. I'm a criminal too now and I don't want to be reminded of the fact. I wonder if Serge has ever actually killed anyone and if not, whether this makes me harder than him.

  "Weird thing is," he says at last, "they sent this Dante guy round to see you. My guess is that he must have fucked up on a murder case and they've demoted him as it were, put him on the cushy 'celebrity and VIP cases' desk. I bet he hates it. It's not good though, a cop with something to prove is the worst kind. And when he finds the Land Rover burnt out in Hackney…Jesus, he probably has wet dreams about burnt-out cars on council estates."

  Great, a northern Hater who fantasises about burnt-out cars in Hackney. What the fuck's going on? Before Serge was saying they'd never find the Land Rover, now it's 'when' they find it. I imagine my powerful, sexy machine burning on a wasteland in east London, the flames licking the sleek black body making the metal crack and buckle. Then I see Dante, hunched over his desk turning the pages of that fucking little pink book under a spot-light. I try to imagine what he's reading, but I can't. It's weird to think of Krystal keeping a diary. Seems now like I hardly knew her at all. But she was in love with me, wasn't she, despite those things she said? Surely nothing in that diary could betray me. But still, it's pretty scary not knowing, no lie.

  We drink more whisky and I'm grateful for the numbness it brings. It'd be so easy to carry on drinking, head out into the night, to the Biscuit Factory or the Social, see if Jon is out, or Mr. Wu, who runs high class escort girls. The thought of getting an escort girl makes me realise how much I crave some human affection, even if it is paid for. That's the best kind sometimes – a shot of affection without any obligations, the efficiency of the business transaction. Yeah, that's what I want – a girl, a hotel room, some good charlie. Mr. Wu would take care of the girl and the hotel room, someone at the Social could get me the coke.

  Why am I wasting the evening sitting here with Serge, a middle-aged, ex-small time crim? He's just finishing telling some story about a guy called O'Brian, a crazy IRA geezer who he'd shared a cell with back in the '80s in Wormwood Scrubs and I seize the opportunity.

  "Listen, mate, I'm gonna make a move, I'm whacked," I tell him, standing up, steadying myself as the room tilts a little. Serge makes no objection, saying he's going to stay on for a bit, sorting out 'paperwork' and so I leave him there with the near-empty bottle of whisky.

  The corridor outside the office is empty but fully lit. It's a semi-plush office block where Serge rents one small room. Sometimes you see media-looking types hanging around, poofs with longish hair wearing cardigans and posh birds in crazy clothes, that sort or thing, but I don't know what they all do. Never bothered to ask. They never show any recognition when they see me, but then they don't look like the types that would be into football. None of them are around now anyway, it feels like the whole building is deserted except for Serge pickling himself up there in his office and the old black d
ude on security at the front reception. He nods at me as I walk through the lobby to the door. I know he recognises me. He's probably been dying to ask me for an autograph for his grandkid ever since he started working here, and I must be a bit sloshed because when I'm at the door I almost feel like turning back and offering him one, but then I figure it's best not to talk to strangers right now, plus I'm gagging for another drink and he'll probably try to start a conversation with me which is not what I want to get into.

  Out on the street it's quiet too. I stand there for a while and think about where to go. The Biscuit Factory is closer, but the Social is more likely to have drugs and girls and that's what I need right now. Just as I've made up my mind I see a black cab with its light on heading towards me. Beautiful. I hail it down and climb in, ignoring the cabbie's gaping face. Beaumont Alexander is in your cab, deal with it.

  I can't risk bumping into the paps, or any weirdo plebs when I'm this pissed so I get the cabbie to take me to the back entrance of the club. I can tell he's getting off on this, having a superstar direct him to the back entrance. I imagine him sitting there in a greasy spoon café, or wherever cabbies hang out, telling his mates about it.

  Soon enough I'm there, in the Social, asking the hostess of the VIP area to bring me a strong Mojito. She's hottish in a weird kind of way, slightly gothy, and probably a lesbian, but I half consider making a pass at her. The place is dead, no sign of any fucker I know. But then I catch sight of Mr. Wu sitting in a dark corner with a load of other guys. They look like they're playing a card game, so I hang around the bar trying to catch his eye. I'm onto my second Mojito (or is it my third?), when the fucker finally gets up and comes over to me.

  Sure he could sort out a girl, or even a couple of girls, and a room at the nearest Hilton, he tells me, it's been a while and all that. Yeah, it has been a while, so fuck it, why not a couple of girls? He shuffles off to make the calls, and I order another drink. I'm wasted now, and I hope the girls come soon otherwise I'll be too bladdered to perform.