The Babylon rite

13

Interview Room D, New Scotland Yard, London

The girl really was exquisitely beautiful. Detective Sergeant Larkham had told him so on the phone, almost warned him — she’s a real looker, sir — but nothing had quite prepared him for the reality. She was like an artist’s idea of an English beauty. Golden waterfalls of hair, misted blue eyes, a pure and rose-dawn complexion. And she had been crying for about seven minutes.

The girl stared at him. Ibsen snapped himself out of his reverie, and went over his notes. Her name was Amelia Hawthorne. She was twenty-three, an aspiring actress, privately educated, a graduate of RADA. And she had been Kerensky’s girlfriend for the last two years.

He repeated the question. Were you in love with him?

Amelia Hawthorne sniffled, tearfully, in the quietness. ‘I’m sorry. I am. I know. It’s just the way Nik died — I… I still… I still…’

Larkham leaned in. ‘We understand, Amelia. It’s a total shocker. Horrible.’

‘But that’s exactly why we need to know,’ Ibsen repeated the point. ‘Your boyfriend cut off his own feet, and his hand. It’s an appalling suicide. So we need to know all the facts. All of them.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know. I get it.’ Slowly, the girl seemed to source some resolve, she sat a little taller, visibly preparing herself. ‘OK. Go on, then. Ask me.’

‘You say you met him two years ago?’

‘Yes.’

‘At a nightclub.’

‘Yes. Anushka’s.’

Ibsen flicked a glance at his notes. ‘And that is…’

‘A club in Mayfair. It’s down near Nobu. Everyone went there… back then… I mean, you know, two years ago…’

Ibsen had never heard of the place. He had also never heard of several other places the girl had already mentioned. In truth, he felt a little at sea in this world of beautiful young actresses and billionaire Russian playboys.

Larkham interrupted.

‘It’s a nightclub just off Berkeley Square, sir. Well pricey. Two hundred quid for a bottle of bubbly.’

‘Really? Prefer something more upmarket myself.’

The DS smiled; Ibsen turned to the girl. ‘So you met him at this high-class night club — and you started dating?

She scoffed. ‘Dating?’

‘I mean, you started a relationship. You were stepping out?’

‘Please. We started fucking. ’

Ibsen leaned nearer. ‘OK, then. You began a sexual relationship.’

‘That first night. Yes.’ She stared at her exquisitely manicured nails. ‘Because I liked him. I liked Nik from the start, liked him a lot… Y’know, everyone said he was probably just another… Eurotrash wanker, like all the Russians, with their hookers in furs, all that awful crap. But he wasn’t.’

‘No?’

‘He was witty and smart. As well as fit.’

‘And extremely rich?’

‘Yeah, sure. He was rich. But, you know, everyone was rich.’

She gazed at Ibsen with those slightly contemptuous blue eyes and he wished, for a second, he had worn his better suit. The one from Hugo Boss.

‘Why else was he different? Explain.’

‘He was clever and really…’ She sighed. ‘ Adventurous, really interesting. Not, like, totally desiccated like some of them, all those boring Chelsea boys banging on about their stupid fucking Ferraris. He used to go places, Asia, Africa… He read books, he would read to me, talk to me… and he went to the theatre, he loved London, art, everything, but he also liked fun, partying.’

‘Drugs?’

She halted.

Ibsen pressed the point. ‘Did you do drugs?’

No reply.

DCI Ibsen briskly reached pulled some folders out of his briefcase and laid them on the table. The folders contained the serology and toxicology reports on Kerensky, N, white male, 27. Instinct had told him the latter report would come up trumps, but it hadn’t. The hair tests showed just a trace of cocaine usage, probably from days before the death. Serology showed a small amount of alcohol in Kerensky’s blood, but he hadn’t been blind drunk when he killed himself. How then had he summoned the courage to do his self-mutilations? How had he managed the pain? Gastric examination showed he had eaten nothing more than bar snacks that night: nuts and crisps.

‘We have a hair test, Miss Hawthorne. We know he used cocaine. Did you do drugs with him?’

Total silence.

Larkham was leaning against the window. ‘You’re not under arrest, Amelia. We’re not going to arrest you if you confess to doing a little gak? Some charlie?’

The girl looked at her fingernails again. Then gazed up and said, ‘All right. All right, yes. He liked drugs sometimes. He liked sex too. And vodka. Taittinger. Everything. Caviar. Fucking sevruga. I told you, he was a party animal, and yet it wasn’t, like, frivolous, it wasn’t just for the sake of it…’

‘What-’

‘He knew he was going to take over his father’s business and I reckon he just wanted to get it all out of his system… see the world and do it all, do the lot, have his fun, and then he would sober up.’

‘Tell me more about the drugs.’

‘It wasn’t heavy. Really. No smack. Maybe a little toot. Before dinner. That’s all. You know? Maybe he dropped some E or mcat with his friends. But nothing heroiny, not with me. He was into new shit, new experiences, but not necessarily drugs… ’ She looked straight at Ibsen.

He sensed the direction of her thoughts. ‘Did you know he was bisexual?’

The actress pushed her ringlets from her eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t mind?’

‘He was basically, like, straight. But… but that was another of his… things. Try everything twice, that was Nik’s motto. So. Yeah. I knew. We had a few threesomes. It was funny… just fun. We are young.’

Ibsen waited. Her frown darkened.

‘But then it kinda changed. Towards the end. The last few weeks. He got… out of control.’

The moment intensified. Larkham stared at the girl. Ibsen said, ‘How?’

‘He wanted… things. Y’know, in bed.’

‘Things?’

‘Kinkier sex.’

‘In what way, precisely?’

Her lips were trembling. ‘He wanted anal sex. He wanted it… that way… all the time. I didn’t mind for a while, though it’s not my… not my scene — but then it was bondage. Heavy stuff. Ropes. Candle wax. Jesus. Every night, night after night. And he wanted me to go with other men, groups of men, in front of him. It was too much, it got way too much. That’s why we split, just before…’

‘Were you doing drugs at this point? Together?’

‘No! That was it. There were no drugs, it was like he had changed inside… he’d met new people. It changed him. Like someone converted him. Changed him.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you mentioned new people. Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Think.’

‘OK. OK, there was… there was an American, maybe.’

‘Sorry?’

She took a long breath. ‘It was the very last time I went to Soho House, two weeks ago, to meet Nik, talk about our… about the problems. In our relationship. But there was an American there. Older. Thirties. Maybe even forties, this really fucking eerie guy, tattoos, vulgar, aggressive, clever but… aggressive. Not Nik’s style at all. But Nik seemed to be in love with him, worshipping him like he was some… deity. This hero. Yet he was just a fucking villain, as far as I could tell.’

‘You know his name?’

‘No.’

‘Was he Nik’s lover?’

‘Jesus, I hope not.’

‘Did you ever see him again?’

‘Who?’

‘This American.’

She stared straight at Ibsen. ‘I never saw Nik again. That’s what I’m telling you. The last time I saw Nikolai alive was then: Soho House, two weeks ago. That was it. I’m telling the fucking truth.’

Ibsen sat back. He believed her. So they needed to find this American. But how? He felt the irritation inside himself, as something just out of reach.

‘Tatts,’ said Larkham, from the sill where he was perched. ‘You said he had tattoos?’

The girl turned, the light from the window gentle on her face. Ibsen could imagine her on stage. Spotlit.

‘Yeah. Serious tattoos. He had a skull tattooed on his hand. Both hands maybe…’

Larkham and Ibsen immediately swapped glances. Ibsen reached for another document, a print from Kerensky’s laptop. The skull screensaver.

‘Skulls like this?’

The girl took the barest moment to look at the print-out, and she shuddered visibly.

‘Skulls just like that.’

They concluded the interview ten minutes later. Two hours after that, Ibsen was back home, in the chaos of domesticity, talking football with his son, trying to use his wife’s intelligence.

Jenny was good at this stuff. She worked as a nurse, but she had a first-class degree in psychology from Bristol. The nursing was a choice. The psychology was a talent.

Ibsen cooked the dinner — rib-eye steaks and rocket salad — while Jenny stood at the kitchen door, a big glass of Merlot in a cradling hand. And while he cooked he told her about the case.

Her wise grey eyes narrowed as she listened to the details. ‘Jesus. His own hands and feet?’

‘One hand, both feet, yup.’

‘… That’s just ghastly.’

‘Yes. And all the sexual stuff. Any idea? How could anyone do that? What’s the psychology?’

‘Let me think…’

He knew her well enough to see this as a good sign. She was engaged and intrigued. But she needed time to ponder.

They ate the dinner, and Jenny walked the dog because she wanted the fresh air. When they went to bed, Ibsen tried to read an entire page of an Ian McEwan novel, but failed. Yet again.

He was woken at six a.m. He thought in his half-dreaming sleepiness that it was a fire alarm, then realized it was his phone, ringing merrily.

Jenny was breathing in deep sleep, beside him. He picked up, his hushed voice was sodden with tiredness. ‘Hello?’

‘Sorry, sir.’

It was Jonson: the SOC officer from Bishops Avenue.

‘DS. Ffff… What time is it?’

‘Far too early, sir. Sorry to disturb you. But we have another suicide, and we think it may be linked.’

‘Linked?’ Ibsen’s weary brain tried to engage the gears. ‘How can they be linked, I mean, how do you know?’

‘This one also tried to cut his own head off, sir.’

‘What?’

‘And this one succeeded.’