Undone (12 page)

Logically, I knew he couldn’t see me. From his point of view, he was seeing his reflection in one of the many mirrors in the bar. From my point of view, I was looking through a window and straight at him. And yet it felt as if my sneaky screen had been blown. Oh, he’d work out the trickery as soon as he used the Gents’ and saw similar for himself but until then I had the upper hand. I could enjoy watching him unseen. But the way he focused on the glass made me fear I’d been rumbled.

But that’s what my two-way glass was all about. It was a talking point and an object intended to unsettle, destabilise, amuse. I was in the position of a new customer, feeling observed and vulnerable. I thought I’d got used to that sensation, having been to the bathroom plenty of times while working, but Sol made it different. I felt caught out.

I saw him flip open his cigarette pack and stand, impatient. Damn, I wanted to continue watching but it was five and I needed to unlock.

I flushed the handle, waited several seconds, and returned to the bar.

‘Nipping downstairs to get the door,’ I said.

He nodded and I made my way down the ornate spiral staircase. My legs were wobbly, my head still reeling from Sol’s sudden presence and the way he’d fucked me without so much as a ‘Drop ’em, Blossom’. I clutched the metal banister, thinking of that phrase he’d used: ‘Gonna wet you up.’ Damn, he was so vulgar and nasty, so insanely hot.

I unlocked the street door, fastened it to the wall inside and put the A-board out onto the pavement. The afternoon was warm but cloudy, patches of blue sky peeping above the rooftops. Air breezed over my nakedness under my skirt. Funny how summer always progresses in fits and starts and yet every year I’m surprised when the temperature doesn’t increase day by day.

I glanced up and down the short street, painfully aware that at this hour only a week ago Misha would have been minutes away. I imagined him strolling along, anticipating his Long Island Iced Tea after slaving over a hot microscope, or whatever he did on a typical day at work. I’d learned a little more about him at the party. He is – no,
was
– an industry pharmacologist doing clinical trials for a healthcare company with premises behind the railway station in Saltbourne. He’d lived a short commute away but liked spending time in Old Town. The Blue Bar had become a regular mid-week haunt for him because he enjoyed the quiet and the cocktails. He also said he appreciated my reliable Wi-Fi connection, a feature I regard as standard but remains a novelty for many of Saltbourne’s pubs and bars. This town is somewhat backward.

The aluminium shutters were still in place over Katrina’s bookbinding workshop. I remembered then that she was away for the week, trading at a craft fair in Belgium. I wished everything were normal and all the usual people were around. I returned upstairs to find Sol still perched at the bar, his gaze pinned on me as I entered. Behind him, the blue LED counter glowed, its light slicking the dark wooden floor with an azure pool. He looked as if he were part of a trippy illusion, a rough, rugged man rising from ghostly waters.

He smiled. ‘Hey, barkeep, any chance of getting a drink? Service is kinda slow around here.’

I laughed as I crossed the room. ‘So this is a social call, is it? What are you having?’

He shrugged. ‘Surprise me.’

‘OK. What do you like? Gin-based? Tequila? Whisky?’

‘I like everything.’ He gave me a wolfish grin. ‘Go easy on the umbrellas though. Where can I smoke?’

I gestured to the casement windows in the barrel-vaulted alcove. ‘Balcony that way. You’ll need to unbolt the doors at the top. Here, take an ashtray.’

He took the ashtray I offered and strolled towards the alcove. Tiles of blue and green light rippled over him as he neared the stained-glass arch. I watched him reach up for the bolts, enjoying the chance to ogle how his worn jeans skimmed the strength of his arse. His broad shoulders flexed under his tatty T-shirt as he unlocked and pushed open both wings of the casement doors. I’m nervous of birds flying in so I don’t always open the doors when I’m alone. Daylight flooded the wood-domed alcove, and the murmur of noise from nearby streets filtered into the music I was playing. The bar felt suddenly different, lifted by fresh air.

I turned to scan the array of liqueurs, bitters and spirits, wondering what kind of cocktail to make for a cheeky, horndog labourer. Something American and bittersweet. Something with a kick. I scooped ice into a shaker and poured in a stream of Kentucky bourbon. I glanced his way, my desire swelling at the sight of him. He rested his broad forearms onto the ironwork balcony, presenting me with his taut, scruffy rear. It’s fair to say I’m an arse-woman. Opposite the bar is a bland, redbrick office block, its rooftop edged with pigeon spikes. Not pretty, but it means no one is ever gawping in at my customers. Sol gazed idly upstreet, smoke streaming from his lips. I noted his belt and my mind jumped back to us fucking in the woods, my arms trapped by leather. The countryside was a world away.

I added a splash of Kahlua to the bourbon and a dash of orange bitters. I screwed on the lid of the shaker and shook vigorously for a few seconds. Sol turned at the sound of clattering ice. I selected a martini glass, twirling it in the light to check it was pristine. He sauntered back indoors as I was straining his drink into the glass, bringing with him the grimy, sexy scent of cigarettes.

‘Looking good.’ He eyed his cocktail as he perched on a stool by the bar, resting a forearm on the counter. The LED glow cast a blue tint on the hair feathering his arm. I noted that the skin around his nails was ragged, and a crimson graze was scabbing one knuckle. He didn’t, however, have the calloused, work-roughened hands of someone who’d been in the construction industry for years. What was his story?

I sliced a disc of peel from an orange and lit a match, holding it inches from the glass. I brought the peel close to the flame and when oil beaded the pitted skin, I squeezed. The spurting oils ignited, fire exploding briefly by my fingertips.

‘Woah!’ said Sol, impressed.

I rubbed the peel around the rim of the glass and dropped it into the drink.

‘What’s that all about?’ he asked.

‘Releases the oils.’ I stood his drink on a black paper doily. ‘On the house.’

‘Why thank you, ma’am. So what have we got here?’ He lifted the drink, his big fingers pinching the delicate stem. The bar’s blue light gleamed in the coffee-spiked depths, contrasting with the bright coin of orange peel.

‘I created it especially for you,’ I lied. ‘I’m going to call it … Utter Bastard.’

Sol laughed, threatening to spill his drink. He cast an anxious glance at his glass, steadying his hand to bring the liquid to rest. ‘Thank you. I’m flattered.’

He brought the glass to his lips and took a long sip. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘You can’t even taste the poison.’

Now it was my turn to laugh.

‘You going to join me in one?’ he asked.

‘I don’t usually when I’m working. Not until later, at any rate.’

He looked around the empty bar. ‘This is working? Sign me up.’

‘Ah, you’re a bad influence.’ I tipped ice into a tumbler, gave it a swirl of chilled Dolin vermouth and glugged in a generous measure of Plymouth gin.

‘So how’ve you been?’ he asked as I stirred my ice and alcohol. ‘You heard anything from anyone?’

‘Not much, no.’ I took a martini glass from the freezer, checked it, and strained in my drink. ‘It’s weird. Friends have been phoning to ask what I know, who he was, who was his next of kin, and so on. But I can’t tell them much. He’d usually be in today. Wednesday, soon after five, week after week. And now, today, he’s not. Never will be again.’

I pared off a twist of lemon and dropped it into my drink.

‘Yeah, I remembered you saying,’ he said. ‘That’s partly why I’m here. I’m working on site at the mall. New job this week. Thought I could stop by and help take your mind off things.’

‘Well, you did that all right.’ I raised my glass. ‘Cheers. If that’s not horribly inappropriate.’

Sol lifted his glass and we clinked rims. ‘It’s what he would have wanted. To the memory of our Russian friend.’

I took a sip of martini. My cheeks tingled at the taste, as cool and clean as Arctic moonlight.

‘You haven’t told anyone about…’ he began.

‘The three— No, not a soul. I never will.’

He nodded in approval.

‘I still can’t quite believe all this,’ I went on. ‘It made the local papers, did you see? Initial post-mortem results said he probably drowned.’

‘Yeah, I think we’d figured that one out. Looks to be a late-night dip gone wrong. Never a good idea to go swimming when you’re drunk.’

‘Do you think he was alone?’ I asked.

‘Must have been.’ He looked me dead in the eye. ‘Or someone’s lying to the police.’

I held his gaze, thinking of the damp towel in my en suite. I drank, the chill of gin turning to heat as it slid inside me.

‘I think we did the right thing.’

Sol nodded. ‘We did. But I’ve been thinking … Well, call it a hunch but I don’t think this is as straightforward as it seems.’

My heart speeded up. ‘Oh? How so?’

‘Just a feeling I have, a bad feeling. There was something not quite right about Misha. You know what I mean? Hardly anyone at the party seemed to know who he was.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘Remind me again? You met, what was she called, Lou, through online dating? And she was a friend of Rose’s? And that was your main connection?’

‘Yeah, OK. But there’s a reason for that.’ He brought his drink to his lips, making me wait for his reason. The bar’s glow, weakened by daylight, cast a blue star on the circular base of his glass. His Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed. He set down his drink.

‘I’m new to the south-east,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a long-standing network of friends down here. Me and Lou, we wanted different things from a relationship. We stayed friends, I met friends of hers, I got invited to the party. That’s about the size of it.’

‘You’re quite guarded about your past.’

‘Am I?’ He looked genuinely perplexed and a touch wounded. ‘I don’t mean to be. Well, OK, perhaps I am. But it’s not a pleasant story. Hell, and certainly not one I’d want to regale folks with at a party.’

‘The party’s over,’ I said. ‘Big time. And I’m all ears.’

He shook his head and gazed into his drink, fingers toying with the stem of the glass. ‘I had a messy break-up with a woman, that’s all. I needed to get far, far away. Start afresh. You mind if we hold off on this for a while? Things are dismal enough as it is.’

‘No pressure,’ I said. ‘I was just curious. Sounds similar to my situation so I can sympathise. Anyway, go on. Tell me about Misha and this hunch of yours.’

‘Ah, it’s just … I think he did have strong connections at the party but nobody wants to own up to it.’ He swirled his drink in his glass before raising his tired, dark eyes to mine. ‘I think it’s about sex. I think some people at that party are involved in something dubious, some weird kink, and he was part of it too.’

‘Weird how? Illegal stuff? Oh Christ, he wasn’t part of some paedo ring, was he? Please tell me he wasn’t.’

‘No, not kids. I’m not sure what. But I got the sense … it’s hard to nail but a sense there was something
underground
about some of the people at Dravendene.’

‘Underground?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘Secretive, dodgy. Not to be messed with.’

‘You sure you’re not misreading things?’ I said. ‘Some of Rose’s friends were sort of alternative and sub-cultural but I didn’t see anything sinister going on.’

He shook his head. ‘No, not that. Darker than that. I felt people had connections that weren’t being declared. Every now and then, I’d get this weird discomfort. A tension. As if people were afraid. You didn’t get that?’

‘No, not at all. What are you saying? You think Misha was bumped off?’

‘Not sure. I just think there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

I wondered whether to tell him about the damp towel. I’d been assuming Sol had dumped it in the en suite and was implicated in Misha’s death. Or had at least been swimming with Misha. But maybe it was more complicated. Had a stranger entered my room to plant the towel when we were sleeping? Were they trying to set Sol up? Or was Sol now trying to throw me off the scent after realising I’d removed the towel without a word? I’d brought the towel home with me but it was of no use as evidence. I’d bundled it into the washing machine as soon as I could, eager to erase all traces of our lie. I’d washed and polished my items of kit too, ensuring no fingerprints remained. The threesome never happened. That was the story and that’s what I had to tell myself.

‘Will you do me a favour?’ asked Sol.

‘Try me.’

‘Weekend after next, there’s a big fetish night in Brighton. Will you come with me?’

I gave a half-laugh of surprise. ‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Bit of both. I reckon it’s the kind of event Misha would have attended. I just want to snoop around a little, see if anyone knew him, that kind of thing.’

I shook my head. ‘Why, Sol? He’s dead. Can’t we just leave him in peace?’

‘Maybe it’s guilt, I don’t know. But I feel we owe it to him. If something’s amiss about his death, it needs to be exposed.’

‘If you suspect something, you should go to the police.’

‘But I don’t have anything, just this bad feeling. Plus, we’ve already lied to them. I’d rather leave it there and keep my distance. If I get something more concrete then, yeah, I’ll need to reconsider. But until then…’ He arched his brows in question.

‘A fetish night?’

‘Uh huh. Called Club Sybaris.’

‘In Brighton?’

He nodded. ‘We could stay at my place but it’s kinda poky so I’ll book us a hotel. I figured we could go along as experienced players. We’re new in town, we’ve been living in New Jersey up until recently and—’

‘But I don’t know the first thing about New Jersey!’

‘I do. And you’d be playing the role of my submissive so maybe you only speak when I give you permission.’

I laughed, finding the notion absurd. ‘Jeez, Sol. If you want to walk me around on a leash, just ask. No need to cook up these convoluted amateur-detective scenarios.’