Murder on the Hill (12 page)

“What’s the beef with him and his daughter?” I asked.

“L-l-long story,” he said. “I don’t know the full details. You b-b-best speak to her.”

“You have her contact details?” Cordi asked.

He nodded and pulled a pen and notepaper from a drawer in his desk. He scribbled down some details and handed it to Cordi.

“That’s a nice tie pin,” I said, seeing an opportunity. “What is it?”

“Oh, th-th-this,” he said, looking down at it as though he’d never seen it before. “Just a b-b-business networking club thing.”

He shrugged it off, but I pressed him further.

“It looks familiar. What kind of business club does it represent?”

Cordi was looking at me as though I were going mad.

“J-j-just local business p-p-people,” he said.

A rosy colour had broken out on his fat cheeks, and he looked away from me and focused on a large, round clock on the wall.

Realising he was going to make his excuses and get rid of us, I quickly asked, “I don’t mean any disrespect, but where were you on the night of the break-in? I’m sorry to ask, but we did promise Mr. Bellman we would be thorough in our investigation.”

“N-n-no, it’s fine, totally understandable. I was at a b-b-business networking event.”

“The one your pin represents?” I asked.

He nodded and checked his watch. He opened his mouth, about to tell us our time was up when I asked one more question before he could get his words out. “What’s the name of this club? Ms. Silvers here is relaunching her business and would be interested in joining a networking group. Could you perhaps give us their contact details?” I gave him my friendliest smile.

He stammered and stuttered, reaching for a pen and paper. His hand shook as he scribbled out something before handing me the scrap of paper.

“P-p-please,” he said, stepping around the desk. “I-I-I have a very important m-m-meeting. I’m afraid you’ll need to go. Thanks for c-c-coming.”

With that he opened the door and gestured with an outstretched arm for us to leave.

I thought about shaking his hand and thanking him, but seeing how much sweat glistened his face, I didn’t want to touch him.

“Thank you, Mr. Smythe-Johnson, you’ve been a big help,” Cordi said.

The door slammed as soon as we were in the hallway.

“Well,” I said with a hushed voice, “that was interesting.”

“Indeed. What was all that about the tie pin?” Cordi asked as we headed for the lift and descended to the ground floor.

“I noticed Leadbetter, the carer back at the home, wore one exactly the same. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think, that two people involved with the Bellmans are part of the same business networking group?”

“If it is a business networking group.”

“Yeah, he looked a bit shifty about all that,” I said, pulling the paper from my pocket. “I can’t even make this out. Is Abigail’s contact details as badly scrawled as this?”

Cordi checked the paper and showed it to me. Although the writing wasn’t great, it was perfectly legible. It seemed Smythe-Johnson had something to hide after all.

“That seals it for me,” I said. “We’re definitely checking out what Foswinkle told us about. This has all got to be connected.”

“I make you right,” Cordi said.

We exited the lift and the building and got into Cordi’s car.

Thankfully, the weather was much cooler this morning, so I didn’t need to lament the lack of AC and have the windows wide open, letting in the grim smoke-filled London air. “So whereabouts is this daughter’s place?” I asked.

“Some posh part of Chelsea. There’s an A to Z book in the glovebox,” Cordi said.

“Righto, let’s go see what she’s got to say.”

Cordi pulled out into traffic as I looked up Abigail’s address in the A to Z. It really felt like we were making progress, and I was now really looking forward to breaking into a care home’s chapel in the middle of the night.

Not that that was something I ever expected to be doing. But hey, a girl has to be open to new hobbies.

CHAPTER 13

It was early afternoon by the time we found Abigail’s place. It was in a row of posh town houses in the heart of Chelsea. The place must have cost even more than Cordi’s place in Notting Hill. The road was full of Porsches, Ferraris and even a Bugatti.

Cordi’s old Mercedes looked quite out of place as she parked it between two 911 Carreras. I wondered if one of those belonged to Abigail.

“Doesn’t it strike you as odd,” I said, “that Mr. Bellman’s daughter lives here and yet needed her father to pay for her trip?”

“Perhaps,” Cordi said. “Maybe she overstretched herself. I guess we’ll find out. Here’s number twenty-three. Let’s go see what she’s got to say.”

I had called Abigail on the way over to make sure it wasn’t a wasted trip. She had said that she was working from home, but as long as we didn’t mind, she would be happy to answer our questions, despite sounding entirely unconcerned about her mother’s death and apparently none the wiser about her father’s.

Looking at all the wealth on display in this part of town, I imagined she must be a banker or some kind of top executive. We located her house and climbed the steps to the front door. Although the architecture was similar to the Notting Hill town houses, this one was in immaculate condition.

The door was freshly painted, bright red, and an untarnished gold knocker hung from the surface beneath the gold number twenty-three. I knocked twice and waited. I heard voices from inside and the unlatching of locks.

The door swung open.

A waft of Chanel No.5 blew out, and the figure that stood in the doorway made me pause for a moment. Cordi sucked in her breath.

“Ms. Silvers and Ms. Hill?” the woman asked, her tone blunt and to the point but not unfriendly. She was absolutely stunning, and from me that’s saying something. I’m not one of these women who always recognises beauty in other women.

“Yes,” I said after a moment. “Abigail?”

“Indeed,” she said curtly. “We spoke on the phone.” It was a blank statement.

The thing that had surprised both Cordi and I was her outfit.

She wore knee-high, black patent leather stiletto boots, a latex catsuit so glossy I could see my reflection in her thighs, and a deep wine-red leather corset cinched tightly so her ample bust created an impressive amount of cleavage.

A black studded collar surrounded her long, elegant neck. On her forearms she wore leather gauntlets, and her nails must have been a couple of inches long and were painted bright red.

They mirrored the deep red of her full lips.

She wore jet-black hair to her shoulders. It was dead straight and shimmered in the afternoon light. Deep kohl eyeshadow gave her a strong, smoky look.

“Come in. I have a client,” she ordered as she stepped back to allow us in.

It was then, as we entered this dominatrix’s house, that I noticed she was holding a bullwhip in her right hand. I looked back nervously, expecting to get a crack against my backside.

But she just smiled and said, “Follow me. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask your questions while I deal with my client. I’ve a busy schedule, and they need to get full value from their appointments. Mind the steps.”

Her attitude bothered me. She seemed far too casual about our being there, especially given that both her parents had died within a few days of each other. I considered perhaps this was her way of dealing with grief—pretend nothing has happened and carry on as normal.

As normal as being a dominatrix is.

Abigail led us through a narrow hallway until we came to a set of basement steps. She went first and was swallowed up by the darkness at the bottom. Cordi still hadn’t said a word, shock written all over her face. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s not that weird.”

“Um, if you say so. This is just a little unexpected.”

“I didn’t have you down as a prude,” I said, nudging her playfully with my elbow.

“I’m not, but this… well, what two people do in their own—”

“Are you two coming down? My time is precious,” Abigail called up.

We both scurried down the stairs like scolded dogs, and it was all I could do to not call her ‘Mistress’. I wiped the smile from my face and tried to put on a professional front.

The basement was a goth’s wet dream. Exposed brick all round. Black painted wooden floor. A large four-post bed lay in the right corner with black satin sheets and various buckles and chains attached to the posts.

In the opposite corner a large wooden cross was installed against the wall. More restraints hung from the crossbeam.

The most surprising was the waist-height table in the middle. It was more like a pommel horse from a gym—rounded and padded at the top with wide-splaying legs.

Bent over it, with his arms and legs tied with leather straps, was a man in a leather suit and face mask. His backside was poking out, incongruously white against the black leather bodysuit. I immediately thought about the gimp in
Pulp Fiction
.

“Um,” Cordi said, her eyes wide as she took in the scene. “We can come back later, when you’re not so… busy.”

“I’m always busy,” Abigail said. She cracked the whip against the gimp’s backside. “Isn’t that right, slave?”

Cordi’s face was a picture. I wasn’t sure what made me smile the most: the scene before me, or Cordi trying to remain professional, all the while blushing like a nun in a brothel.

“Yes, Mistress Abby,” the gimp said, his voice muffled as she pushed his head into the padding. She cracked the whip against his backside twice more, the impact making a loud cracking noise. His body jerked with each hit, and he screamed before composing himself.

“So,” Abigail said. “You said you needed to talk to me about my trip to Japan.”

“Yes,” Cordi said, capturing her composure, even if she couldn’t hold Abigail’s fierce gaze. But then I doubted many could. “And your mother,” Cordi added with practiced solemnity.

“She’s dead,” Abigail said. She placed the whip on a hook on the wall and took down a wide paddle. She struck the gimp three times on each cheek, making him groan and squirm.

Red patches bloomed on his cheeks. As far as bottoms go, it was quite a nice one. If you’re going to be into spanking, I supposed it made sense to have a nice backside.

“That’s one of the reasons why we’re here,” I said, bringing my thoughts back to the conversation. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Smack, smack, groan.

“We weren’t close. I’m not grieving,” Abigail said. “For either of them.”

Wow, awkward much.

“Here,” Abigail said, handing the paddle to Cordi. “I’m tired. If you’re going to take up my time with questions about my family, you might as well do my work for me.”

Cordi took the paddle and opened her mouth to protest, but Abigail shot her a glare before walking past her and sitting on a literal throne. She placed one leg over the other and pointed to the gimp.

“Strike him twice and ask your questions.”

Cordi hesitated but stepped forward.

The guy squirmed and shook his ass, waiting for the impact. I could feel a laughing fit bubble up, but I fought to remain in control. I looked away as Cordi timidly spanked the guy, my laughs coming out with each tame whack.

“Harder,” Abigail shouted. “He doesn’t pay to be tickled. Make it count.”

Oh god, this was the funniest thing I had ever seen.

Cordi surprised me when she gritted her teeth and struck the guy on the butt as ordered. By the third time, I could see a glimmer of a smile on Cordi’s face. I suspected she was starting to enjoy it.

The gimp certainly was. He groaned and begged for more punishment.

“Another, Mistress, I’ve been so bad,” he said, his voice thick with desire.

“So, about your trip to Japan,” I said. “Did you happen to buy any doru statues while out there?”

She stood up and approached me, standing just a few inches from my face. I was only about five-six tall, and with her massive heels, she towered over me. “How did you know?”

“Is it the same one someone left at your father’s shop?” I asked.

In the background Cordi spanked the gimp some more.

“No,” she said. “I still have it. I bought it for my display.”

“Can you prove it?” I asked, feeling like I’d be on the receiving end of a whipping, but I wanted answers.

“Yes. Come with me.”

Before she led me up the stairs, she instructed Cordi to keep going until he said the word ‘Bananas’, his safe word to stop. Cordi nodded and got back to work, spanking and paddling her new gimp friend.

Abigail took me up two flights of stairs and into what I supposed would have been one of the four or five bedrooms of the large property. Walking into this one was like stepping back into Mr. Kirino’s.

White walls, white carpet, and wall-to-wall glass cabinets showing off dozens of artefacts. I stepped forward to investigate. There were antiques from all across the globe. Among the Japanese dorus, of which she had two, there were pieces of pottery from China, fabrics from Peru, and fossils from California.

“You like?” Abigail said from so close behind me I felt her breath on the back of my neck.

“Yes, very much. It’s an impressive collection.”

“In my line of work I get to travel,” she said. “Specialist services create a great deal of demand. I get to take advantage of that and see the world. Each one of these artefacts represents one such opportunity. If I’m going to humiliate the world’s elite, I might as well indulge in culture. I like to think it helps maintain a balance of yin and yang.”

Spanking for antiques, that was a new one on me. I didn’t expect that to be a central tenant in Zen philosophy anytime soon. But I don’t judge, each to their own.

“So what is this about?” Abigail said.

I turned to face her. She had her arms crossed in front of her ample chest.

“We spoke with Mr. Smythe-Johnson earlier.” I stopped to see if she had any reaction, but her face was remarkably impassive, statuesque. I took her silence as a cue to continue. “He mentioned that he fell out with your father, and that his last job as his accountant was to handle your expenses from a trip to Japan.”