Private Games

Thursday, 2 August 2012

AT TEN THE following evening Pope turned along Carlisle Street in Soho.

It had been an insanely aggravating and fruitless day. The reporter had called the war-crimes prosecutor ten times and had been assured each time by a saccharine, infuriatingly polite secretary that he would be returning her call soon.

Worse, she’d had to follow a story in the Mirror that described the intense global manhunt for Selena Farrell and James Daring. Worse still, she’d had to follow a story in The Times about initial autopsy and toxicology reports on the dead Chinese gymnastics coaches. Holes the size of bee stings had been found in both their necks. But they had not died of anaphylactic shock. They’d succumbed to a deadly neurotoxin called calciseptine derived and synthesised from the venom of a black mamba snake.

A black mamba? Pope thought for the hundredth time that day. Every paper in the world was going loony over that angle, and she’d missed it.

It only made her more determined when she went through the doors of the Candy Club, submitted to a security search of her bag by a very large Maori woman, and then entered the ground-floor bar. The club was surprisingly crowded for a Thursday night, and the reporter instantly felt uncomfortable when she noticed several glamorous women watching her, evaluating her.

But Pope walked right up to them, introduced herself, and showed them a photograph of Selena Farrell. The bar staff hadn’t seen her, nor had the next six women the reporter asked.

She went back to the bar then, spotting a pink matchbook that looked like the one described in the evidence list. One of the bartenders came over to her, and Pope asked what she’d recommend for a cocktail.

‘Candy Nipple?’ the bartender said. ‘Butterscotch schnapps and Baileys?’

The reporter wrinkled her nose. ‘Too sweet.’

‘Pimm’s, then,’ said a woman on the barstool next to Pope. Petite, blonde, late thirties, and extremely attractive, she held up a highball glass with a mint sprig sticking out from the top. ‘Always refreshing on a hot summer’s night.’

‘Perfect,’ Pope replied, smiling weakly at the woman.

Pope had meant to show the picture of Farrell to the bartender, but she’d already walked away to prepare her Pimm’s. Pope set the photo on the bar and turned to the woman who’d recommended the drink. She was studying the reporter in mild amusement.

‘First time at the Candy Club?’ the woman asked.

Pope flushed. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘To the trained eye,’ the woman said, a hint of lechery crossing her face as she held out a well-manicured hand. ‘I’m Nell.’

‘Karen Pope,’ she said. ‘I write for the Sun.’

Nell’s eyebrows rose. ‘I do so enjoy Page 3.’

Pope laughed nervously. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t.’

‘Pity,’ Nell said, her face falling. ‘Not even a wee bit?’

‘A pity, but no,’ Pope replied, and then showed Nell the photograph.

Nell sighed and leaned closer to Pope to study the picture of Farrell with no make-up, and wearing a matching peasant skirt and scarf.

‘No,’ Nell said, with a dismissive gesture. ‘I know I’ve never seen her here. She isn’t exactly the type. But you, I must say, most definitely fit in here.’

Pope laughed again before gesturing at the picture and saying, ‘Think of her in a tight cocktail dress from Liberty of London or Alice by Temperley, and her hair done by Hair by Fairy, and, well, you can’t see it from this angle, but she has this tiny mole on her jaw.’

‘A mole?’ Nell sniffed. ‘You mean with little hairs sticking out of it?’

‘More like a beauty spot. Like Elizabeth Taylor used to have?’

Nell looked confused, and then she studied the photograph again.

A moment later, she gasped, ‘My God – it’s Syren!’