Height: 176cms
That was it. The rest – the pessimism, the envy, the brown ringlets perhaps, lack of sporting ability, the love of carbohydrates, the yawning ability to find fault: these riches would come from her. The Danes, she learned, are prolific exporters of Lego and sperm.
His sperm – the Danish doctor’s – would be delivered in a test tube, encased in some polystyrene, to the Harley Street clinic where it would await defrosting at the right time.
She hadn’t discussed the idea with Ellie because she didn’t want to be dissuaded. In Manon’s mind, Ellie had become the harbinger of practicalities: the workload (all those broken nights, no respite); the finances (supporting two kids on a police salary; covering the rent on maternity pay); never going out, always being tired. Manon preferred to turn away from these so she left them pinned on an imagined-Ellie’s worried face.
And she hadn’t discussed it with Fly. She flushed at the very thought that she hadn’t discussed it with Fly, her guilt escaping in thoughts which came to ambush her at unexpected moments. She hadn’t discussed it with Fly because …
Because she was a coward.
Because it was painful to think what Fly might feel. Displaced. Replaced. His position challenged by a gurgling white baby who shares her DNA. At the same time, she couldn’t give up her right to a child of her own. There was some ruthlessness in this. At the same time – back it goes – she couldn’t stand the thought of Fly entertaining insecure thoughts so instead she waited, maintaining the status quo.
Why tell him when it hadn’t happened yet? Might never happen. Why upset him with what was – at her age – only a slim possibility?
The day after the body in the Welsh Harp and the online sperm purchase, Havers called Manon into his office.
‘Welsh Harp body?’ he said. ‘She was called Jade Canning – ID came in from fingerprinting. Right, so, yes, I’m giving Jade Canning to DS Harcourt, testing her mettle. She’s a very bright officer. Going places. Let’s see how she does as SIO.’
‘You’re making a DS the senior investigating officer in a potential murder? Without a DI overseeing?’ Manon said. ‘Sorry, have you suffered a blow to the head?’
‘I doubt it’s a murder, not from the looks of it. Yes, it’s unusual but a) I’m 99 per cent sure it’s a druggy lowlife who jumped and b) I think Harcourt’s got what it takes. And I’ve always said, how can young officers learn except on the job?’
Manon looked at him. Wondered if they were shagging. You’d have to be really desperate to shag Havers.
Saskia
After the Carlton Mayfair and the railway arches, we went back to Jon-Oliver’s house in Holland Park. He said I could stay a few nights, get myself straight. I suppose we were both a bit shell-shocked by what had happened, though he was pretending it was all part of life in the fast lane.
Jon-Oliver’s place was like a hotel or a show home – everything new and unlived-in. He’d hired interior decorators and given them the keys and a massive budget, then left them to get on with it. It was all done out in a palette of greys, white and black, with massive chandeliers and identikit bathrooms in Italian white stone. The kitchen was full of new Miele appliances, untouched. The smell of paint and packaging. The film was still on the oven door and I peeled it off from one corner.
The living room had dove grey walls and black velvet sofas that no one had ever sat on by the looks of them. It smelled of new carpets. That’s a lovely smell. Jon-Oliver wanted more sex – fine, I didn’t care, part of the job – but first we had to remove twenty-one scatter cushions from the bed. Imagine what those designers spent on those stupid cushions. He went straight off to sleep but I couldn’t sleep, so I went wandering round the house.
I kept thinking about Jade, where her body was and what they were doing to it, walking through the faceless luxury of Jon-Oliver’s home. I ran my finger over the quality fittings and materials. I imagined what it would be like to live in a house like this, to have whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted it.
Then I went to his study, sat down at his desk, nudged the mouse and his computer screen lit up, so I had a nosy around his files. I read up about the Chinese delegation, and the investments Jon-Oliver was lining up for them. One email mentioned plans for a lavish Christmas drinks party to celebrate the signing of contracts. Much of it, I didn’t understand – the stocks and shares stuff was a complete mystery. But I understood the property investments: four Thames riverside penthouses at ￡3 million each, in a skyscraper mostly owned by offshore shell companies.
At that moment, I realised a couple of things. I realised that the Chinese deal was very important to Dunlop & Finch. I realised there was no way of threatening Titans about Jade’s death. Titans, and Moukie – or whoever’s behind Moukie – those people don’t have a reputation to protect. They’re pimps, gangsters. They’ve got links to organised crime. They’re like the Russians – couldn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks of them.
But Dunlop & Finch? They’re bona fide. Markus van der Lupin considers himself a man of business, part of the establishment. A City firm paying directly for escort girls as part of client hospitality? It would lay waste to their respectable veneer, to Lupin’s dinners at Mansion House, his ties to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Jon-Oliver said Lupin loves the British establishment, takes his wife to Ascot every year. He has left the Latvian sprat factory of his ancestors way behind.
And I realised he was right about them not allowing a police investigation to take place. The Chinese would view it as a stain, as would all those other clients who banked on discretion and anonymity.
At that moment I saw a way out, and it was a whole lot more realistic than waiting for Jon-Oliver to marry me. I saw that if I had enough information about Dunlop & Finch and their clients, I could get money from them – a lump sum that would set me up in Spain. I started the dossier.
I got the printer going, client after client, while drinking an array of macchiatos and hot chocolates from his unused machine in the kitchen. I printed off the details of a shell Jon-Oliver had set up called Claybourne Leisure, which is the front for Titans. His firm and the escort agency were ‘in it together’ as the saying goes.
I started blackmailing them, that’s why I started getting hurt. At first I was sending demands by email from an Internet café. I wanted ￡1million or I’d go public with the connection to Titans and start naming clients like Xi Ping. It took a whole lot of courage (and some Lambrini) to send that email, but I told myself ￡1million was small beer for them.