Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

Sally always knew there was no such thing as a free lunch, and she’d had to work hard as a waitress in the on-deck bar and in the industrial-sized dining room. But they let her sing sometimes at night, between the professionals. And the weather was wonderful, food was free and drinks were cheap.

“How about Monica?” asked Peggy lightly, wanting to get back to the subject.

“Oh, she was a waitress too. At least at the beginning. Then they made her hostess for the restaurant,” she said, with a hint of pride.

The first season had passed without a hitch, and the girls had got back to London with money in their pockets. The second year was almost as good—for Sally at any rate. Monica had got in trouble just before Christmas, for fraternising with one of the paying guests, a retired policeman from Miami.

Sally looked at Peggy knowingly. “Of course we were paid to be friendly, but the company had strict limits and Monica was a bit too friendly.”

They gave her a formal warning, but it didn’t seem to worry her much. “Who cares?” she’d said to Sally, showing her a gold choker that the former cop had bought her in St. Lucia.

Then at Easter it happened again, and this time the company gave Monica her cards. Sally had expected her to be very upset, but she just said, “Good riddance.”

It turned out that the offending passenger was offering her five grand to go with him on a cruise through the Greek islands.

After that, Sally had watched with a mixture of admiration and concern as her friend started a new, altogether different career. She was still working on cruise ships, but not for any company—Monica had gone into business on her own.

“Didn’t the cruise companies object?” asked Peggy, doubting they’d be eager to have a reputation as a floating brothel.

“She was very careful. She’d buy a ticket like anybody else, then mix with the other passengers during the cruise. She’d single out one bloke—usually a widower, they seem to have a thing about cruises once the wife’s dead. And what could the company say about that?” She raised an eyebrow. “You can’t forbid ‘love’ can you? The cruises are meant to be romantic.”

A tabby cat came out of the kitchen, slinking towards the window. Ignoring him, Sally went on, “After that, I didn’t see Monica so much.” Occasionally they would coincide in a harbour; and back in England during the summer they always got together. Interestingly Monica never plied her new trade in her home country: “I think she was still hoping she might meet Mr. Right, and she didn’t want a reputation—not here anyway.” By then, of course, Monica was in a different league financially from Sally, but she was always generous with her old mate. Once she even paid for Sally to join her on a cruise as a passenger.

“Did she expect you to join her”—Peggy hesitated, unsure of how to phrase this—“professionally?”

“No,” said Sally, and gave a sad smile. Then she put her fingers against the ragged ribbon of pink on her face. “This kind of disqualifies me, don’t you think?” She didn’t seem to expect an answer. “Actually, Monica didn’t work on that trip. It was just two girlfriends on a treat together. We had a lovely time.”

But then why aren’t they still friends? wondered Peggy, watching as the cat hopped up on to a pine table, littered with toast crumbs and a folded copy of the Mirror . “When did Monica stop working the cruises?” she asked.

“Three years ago. I came home in the summer and rang her up, like I always did. She was nice, but she said she was very busy—she was living in Beirut or somewhere like that. She’d got some Middle Eastern guy in tow, very well heeled, she said, only she didn’t think he’d be crazy about what she used to do for a living. Then I saw her picture a couple of months ago in Hello! with a Russian guy. It said he had more money than the queen.”

“And you haven’t heard from her since?”

“No. I gave up trying. I know when I’m not wanted,” she said fiercely. Behind this show of pride, Peggy sensed, was a festering hurt. About the disloyalty of her old friend; perhaps about the way things had turned out for her; possibly about the shocking blazoned stripe nature had deposited across her face like paint. “You know,” she said, “Monica was wonderful to be with when things were going her way. I worshipped her, I did really—but underneath she was as hard as nails. I thought—yes—I thought she’d kill you to get what she wanted.”

Suddenly a tear formed in the corner of her eye. She dabbed at it with a tissue. It was time to go. “Thank you very much for talking to me,” said Peggy as she rose from her chair.

“Don’t you want to take my picture then?” Sally was almost defiant.

Peggy looked at the dismal room: the cat was cleaning himself on the floor now, beside a grease stain that ran up to the kitchen door. “I’ll ask my editor,” she said.

“Whoever he is, he can’t be very nice,” said Sally, making no effort to get up. She sloshed another inch of whisky into her empty mug.

“Who?” asked Peggy, puzzled.

“This Russian bloke.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Before she started picking them for their money, Monica never liked nice men. She always went for the rough ones—you know, the kind who’d rather belt you than talk things over. I know she’s very grand now, but I bet that hasn’t changed.”

“Do you still work on the cruise ships?” asked Peggy, turning at the door, wanting to be polite.

Sally nodded, but there was nothing happy in her face. “I’ll be back there in autumn.” She paused, and a summary bleakness settled in her eyes. “But they don’t let me sing any more.”

This was the third time Detective Constable Denniston had tried the flat without finding anyone in. Only three months into his posting to the Art Squad, he did things strictly by the book, but he was starting to think that continuing to ring the bell of Mr. Marco Tutti was a major waste of time. On this occasion, however, he tried the neighbours as well and was surprised to find himself rewarded right away.

“Who is it?” demanded a woman’s voice over the intercom, and when he explained she buzzed him in.

Getting out of the lift on the third floor, he found himself face-to-face with an exotic figure. The thin, pale young woman wore a purple minidress over black leggings. Her bright red hair was tied back in a ponytail and in her arms she held a meowing Siamese cat with a rhinestone-studded collar.

“You looking for Marco?”

“Yes, madam. Have you seen him?”

She shook her head and scratched the cat’s ears. “Not for a couple of days.”

“Do you know anything about his movements? Could he be away?”

“No, I don’t think so. He does travel a bit, but I always know about it because then I look after Gobbolino.”

“Who’s that?”

“His cat, of course.”

As if I should know, thought DC Denniston. Just what I need—a dodgy neighbour. He sighed. This Marco bloke was going to stay on his list until he’d either found him or discovered where he’d gone. He was about to go back down the stairs when the woman said, “Come to think of it, Officer, now that you mention it, it’s a bit odd.”

He looked at her enquiringly and she explained. “When Marco goes away he always tells me so I can feed his cat. But I haven’t heard him around since the day before yesterday. And I’ve been at home a lot because I’m between jobs. I’m a dancer with Cupid’s Children but we haven’t got any bookings till June. Do you think something’s wrong with Marco?”

“I don’t know, madam,” said Denniston, though for the first time he wondered if something was. This could be a real nuisance, he thought, wondering how much trouble this enquiry was going to cause him. I’ll have to get into the flat first, he supposed, just to confirm the man had done a runner. The guvnor isn’t going to like that one bit; they’d need a warrant, which meant paperwork and time and no guarantee of getting one at the end of it all.