Suzie and the Monsters (3 page)

‘I don’t know,’ she says to me wearily as she fills the kettle and sets it to boil. ‘What are you supposed to do when you wake up one morning to find your son in bed with some girl you’ve never seen before, and your daughter is nowhere to be seen, her bed not slept in. I’ve been sitting here all morning praying that she’s slept over with some boyfriend.’ She laughs unhappily at the irony of this. ‘She says she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but... and all sorts of horrible things could have happened.’

‘Cleo’s a good girl,’ I tell her. ‘I’m happy to look after her.’

‘That’s kind of you, and of course I’d be happy to look after — Jenny, was it? I don’t think I know Jenny.’

‘Long blonde hair? Thinks she’s God’s gift to fashion?’

Cleo’s mum laughs at this, a loud genuinely happy laugh. ‘Don’t they all!’ she chuckles.

The kettle clicks off and she turns to make coffee. ‘Strong, four sugars, no milk,’ I supply before she can ask. She shakes her head a little at the idea of so much sugar. When she puts the mug on a coaster in front of me, I close my eyes and spend a minute just breathing in the steam, bathing in the earthy aroma. I open my eyes to discover my spectacles have misted over, and I have to take them off to see anything.

Mrs Lane looks at me in some confusion. ‘How old are you, Mrs Kew?’

‘Thirty five.’ This is pushing it. I can usually convince people I’m thirty, for a while anyway. ‘I look younger than I am. It runs in the family. My mother died last year and lots of people thought she was still in her thirties. It is nice to look young sometimes, but it’s a real pain trying to get through Border Control. “Excuse me, Miss, but this says you’re thirty five. You’d better come with us.” I swear it would be easier to bleach my hair and travel on my daughter’s passport.’ She grins at this, but there is still a shadow of doubt in her eyes.

Cleo bounds into the kitchen wearing white cotton trousers and a white T-shirt with bloody handprints and the legend ‘Keep Calm and Kill Zombies’. She grabs a carton of milk from the fridge and a glass and sits down with us. I can sense laughter bubbling up inside her. ‘They’ll be down after they’ve showered,’ she says. ‘What are you two gossiping about?’

‘I was about to ask if it was okay for you to come Salsa dancing with Jenny and me next Friday.’

‘Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea!’ Cleo’s mum enthuses.

Cleo is more wary, however. ‘Maybe.’

‘Great!’ I give her a grin. ‘I’ll take that as a maybe. And now, apologies, but I really have to be going.’

‘But you haven’t even touched your coffee,’ Mrs Lane protests.

‘I don’t drink coffee,’ I say. ‘But I adore the smell, so thank you really.’ I pick up my spectacles, which have cleared now, and make my way out.

Back in my blue Mini Cooper I ditch the spectacles and the Armani suit jacket, putting on Cleo’s jacket instead, and apply Illamasqua Corrupt, purchased in town before coming over here. It matches the jacket very well, and describes me perfectly. I consider removing my Armani kitten heels, but they’re a lot better for driving in than the sandals in the box on the back seat. Then I phone Alia. ‘What’s the deal with this guy?’

‘I think something’s spooked him,’ she replies sleepily. ‘He isn’t going anywhere, just to work and back home. He’s even had a new security system installed.’

Alia is my employer as well as my closest friend. She runs a private investigator agency specialising in missing persons. This is something I’m good at. I know all the places where the lost and forgotten end up. But it’s my other talents that Alia values most.

‘Give me his address.’

‘You can collect it from reception in ten minutes.’ I laugh at this. ‘Reception’ is a drop box in the lobby of the building where she lives. The office in town has a sign on the door saying ‘By Appointment Only’ with a phone number and e-mail address underneath. All of her investigators work on a finder’s fee basis and a share of annual profits, if any. It’s certainly not my main source of income. No, I work for Alia because the work is interesting and it gives me an identity: Suzie Kew, Investigator, Missing Persons — yes, Suzie the imp, business cards and all. Because Alia knows how to really pleasure a woman, and because after all these years she still never asks how old I am or what my real name is.

I see Cleo watching me from an upstairs window and give her a wave. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’ I ask Alia.

‘If anyone else was asking, I’d say no.’ She laughs. ‘Take care, little Suzie,’ she says, and ends the call.

*

The address takes me to a barn conversion out in the countryside. The grounds are walled off and the only entry I can see is through the main gate which looks to be good, solid construction, steel bars and hinges, and an electronic system for opening and closing. There’s a little hut on the inside where a guard sits, watching the gate through a window, and perhaps he also has screens connected to the CCTV cameras mounted on the four corners of the house. Or perhaps there are other guards inside the house.

I pull up outside the gate in an unmarked white van, hired for the afternoon and false plates attached. The guard watches my arrival with a professional distrust. I get out, take a large bouquet of lilies from the back of the van, and walk over to the gate, the guard coming over to talk to me through the bars. I would guess that he is mid-forties and looks in pretty good condition. He’s wearing a uniform that I don’t recognise, the only insignia a silver D shaped like an arrow head.

‘Flowers for, ah,’ I check the card, ‘a Mrs Vanessa Redgrave.’ I show him the card as evidence. He barely glances at it.

‘The actress?’

‘Huh?’

There’s silence for a moment as he realises he’s fallen into the generation gap. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know Vanessa Redgrave?’

‘Is she in the new Transformers movie?’

He gives up. ‘No, and she doesn’t live here.’

‘Oh. Does she live around here somewhere?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, exasperated.

‘I thought maybe you knew her, the way you were talking about her.’

‘Course I bloody don’t. Now piss off, will you?’

I shrug, and leave, the guard muttering darkly behind me.

Alia is right about the security. Just from the gate I spotted two motion detectors and what looked like a laser emitter.

I drive back to the city, swap the plates back and return the van. Back at the florist’s, I write a new card, ‘Thinking of you!’ with lots of daft hearts, and pay for the lilies to go to Cleo in the next delivery run. The florist gives me a knowing look like I’m cheating on someone, but doesn’t comment.

*

It’s six o’clock before the guards change, and it seems there’s only the one guard. None go in or out of the house, anyway. I catch an occasional glimpse of movement inside the house, and lights sometimes switch on and off. The new guard drives up just before six in a company car with ‘Dodgeson Home Security’ in large blue lettering along the side, and parks outside the gate. He is allowed through the gate on foot. He is about fifty, and looks pretty tough. Reminds me a bit of Bruce Willis in the film last night. The two guards chat for a few minutes and then exchange keys, and the original guard, the Vanessa Redgrave fan, gets in the company car and starts the engine.

I climb down from the tree where I have been perched for the past three hours and jog over to the Mini. The company car came from the direction of the city, and I guess it’ll head off now in the same direction, back to base, wherever that is. I have to break the speed limit for a few minutes before I finally catch sight of him, and then I keep my distance. He’s driving fast, but not illegally, heading consistently south through the villages on the western fringe of the city. When he does finally turn into the city, along Riverside Drive, which is busy even on Saturday evenings, it’s only a couple of minutes before he turns into an industrial estate that backs onto the river. I drive past then turn back to look for an observation post.

I end up climbing a drain pipe up to the roof of a warehouse across Riverside from the industrial estate. From the edge of the roof, however, I have an excellent view of the offices of Dodgeson Home Security, a building with tight security, lots of people wearing the same uniforms as Bruce Willis and the Vanessa Redgrave fan. Dodgeson Home Security is obviously supplying its own office security. It’s about half an hour before I catch sight of him again, exiting the office building and heading over to a blue Ford Mondeo, shiny and new. I scamper back across the warehouse roof and down the drain pipe, jump in my car and race around the block, just in time to see him pulling out onto Riverside in the opposite direction from me, back out of town. By the time I manage to turn round, he’s nowhere to be seen.

I stop to think. I check my phone. One message: ‘Please don’t send any more flowers. Everyone’s asking who they’re from.’ I grin.

I phone Alia. ‘Ever hear of Dodgeson Home Security?’

‘No, I’ll ask around.’

It’s seven o’clock. Saturday. I think I’ll hit the clubs one last time.

*

The girl in the mirror is a mess, or at least her Armani suit is trashed from being used improperly as camouflage, but it would have been stupid to hide in a tree or walk across a warehouse roof wearing Cleo’s pink jacket. I throw it all in the bin, heels too, and have a shower for the second time today, washing with almond soap and carnation shampoo from a local artisan. I am reminded of watching Cleo in the shower this morning, and it occurs to me the flat feels very lonely without her here. It’s too long since I had a real friend.

As usual, I choose my shoes first, in this case an elegant pair of black Dior sandals with gold studs. To go with these I choose Oroblu Milly hold-ups, a Dolce and Gabbana black tiered skirt that almost reaches the floor, and another of my bespoke corsets, this one black with lace trim. My lipstick is black, Illamasqua Pristine, another of this morning’s purchases. Then I spend an hour curling my hair and tying it up, so that it’s after nine by the time I call for a taxi.

The bouncers at Comatoes almost don’t recognise me, but suddenly they’re wide-eyed and whistling in appreciation. I laugh and blow them kisses. I do a quick circuit upstairs, but I don’t see any interesting faces, just a few regulars, so I head straight downstairs. I don’t expect to see my man, not while he’s spending his nights in that fortress out in the country but I check the crowd before relaxing into the music. After last night’s adventures I’m not particularly looking for more blood or sex, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of the impact my rich sensuality has on the people around me. There’s one person who stands out.

She’s wearing a scarlet red dress and matching heels, and her dark hair has sun-bleached strands like veins of chocolate and gold. Our eyes have met a few times, but she always looks away. She’s here with someone, her boyfriend, maybe her husband, and as my desire to play mounts, his presence is increasingly a problem. Later, nearly midnight, I see her walking off towards the restrooms and seize the moment. I walk across the dance floor straight at him, my eyes catching him, walking with the power of woman that only professional models and strippers can harness. In the moment that I take his hand he is truly powerless to resist me as I pull him onto the dance floor, and over the next few minutes I guide our dancing through the crowd to the far corner, all the while bewitching him with my eyes, until I push him against the wall and tell him, or rather yell in his ear to be heard over the savage music, ‘You must be tired. Why don’t you sit down here and get some sleep?’ And then I hold his confused gaze until he nods and slides down the wall, his eyes closing even before he reaches the ground.

I stride back across the dance floor, people getting quickly out of my way. If you dress like a goddess and walk like a goddess, it’s amazing how people will fear you. I emerge from the crowd in front of the woman in the red dress who is looking round trying to find her man, but she sees me suddenly walking straight at her. I point at her then motion her to come with me, then head off upstairs without looking back. I know that she will follow me, an island of certainty in a sea of confusion. When she reaches the top of the stairs a minute later, I am waiting for her. I step towards her and kiss her beautiful scarlet lips. She’s wearing Chanel Cristalle. She pushes me away, her eyes darting around, worried about who may have seen the kiss. No doubt there are people watching us, but certainly not her boyfriend or husband, and my eyes don’t leave hers for a moment.

She looks back at me. ‘Where’s my husband?’

‘Outside, waiting for us.’

‘Who are you?’

‘The girl who’s going to make love to you tonight.’ She blushes, but doesn’t argue. ‘Come on,’ I say, and taking her hand I draw her after me.

Outside, I push her against the wall and kiss her, and although she tries to push me away, she doesn’t try very hard, and she’s soon kissing me back, uncaring about the bouncers and the queue of people waiting to get in. After a while she breaks the kiss and looks around. ‘Where is he?’ she complains.

‘I want you now,’ I growl. ‘Let’s get a taxi. You can text him to meet us there.’

She struggles with this suggestion, but my mouth on her neck and ear, hot and hungry, nibbling and licking, is very persuasive. ‘Okay,’ she whispers.

Holding her hand tightly, I lead her over to the taxi rank and guide her into the first one available. She shouts out her address, which is only a couple of minutes’ drive from my flat. Hitching up my skirt with some difficulty, I climb on top of her and kiss her again. The driver shouts something about seat belts, which I ignore, and the woman beneath me is distracted by her attempts to write a text message. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks. I tell her. ‘I’m Louise,’ she says, pressing send, making me wonder what her husband will make of ‘Too horny. Going home with Suzie. Hurry!’ when he wakes up.

But finally she relaxes and starts taking more of the initiative. By the time we reach her block, she has loosened my corset laces and popped the metal hooks at the front to free my breasts, which she has been sucking hungrily at, making me very excited. Rather than try to put the corset back on, I carry it and emerge topless from the taxi for all the midnight world to see. On the way up the three flights of steps to her flat, we stop on every landing for her to caress my breasts and kiss my nipples. My moans of appreciation are unnecessarily loud, inviting her neighbours to spy on us through their peep holes. She is loving this exhibitionist game now, but I wonder whether she will dare to leave her flat tomorrow.