Bateman Street was a short distance from Assassins. I was so preoccupied by Dervla’s disappearance that a rickshaw almost obliterated me outside the Three Greyhounds. After a crisp exchange with its driver, I spent the rest of the walk wondering why the artist had bailed on her own launch. By the time I reached the shop where Harry Parr had last used her credit card, I was no closer to a credible answer.
It was no accident that Bombaste looked like a bespoke tailor’s shop. Its owner, Freddie Tomms, had been apprenticed to his father’s Savile Row establishment, Ruddock & Tomms, for seven years. In the general scheme of things he would have taken over the reins at R&T when his dad retired. However, Freddie had other plans.
His idea had been to introduce the quality workmanship he had learned in the Row to the world of BDSM. Prior to the opening of his Bateman Street shop, kinky corsets were usually run up in polyester by someone with a fortnight’s experience. Freddie’s were lovingly made out of the highest-quality satin and priced accordingly.
Funded by his dad, he fitted out a former hardware shop with mahogany shelving, silk wallpaper, and a nineteenth-century chandelier. Glass cabinets held items made from sterling silver, plaited horsehair, hand-carved jade and WWF-certified wood. If you wanted a butt plug made from Meissen porcelain, then Freddie was your man.
All of this I knew from an article in the ES magazine. Bombaste was the sex shop du jour for celebrities of every stripe. Photographs featured grinning supermodels, actors and the current England cricket captain holding up brown paper carriers with the distinctive B logo blazoned across their front.
Featured in the window display was a brown leather tawse on a Perspex plinth. It probably cost what most people earn in a month. I stared at the burnished whip for a minute, trying to get some inspiration as to how to play things. Not being a member of Her Majesty’s Constabulary meant that I couldn’t just wander in and demand to be told stuff. Subterfuge might be necessary. If not downright lying.
A bell jingled and an assistant came out from behind a vintage cash till. In her mid-thirties, she was a plumpish woman wearing a black dress and scarlet lipstick. Her smile seemed genuine and caused my confidence to rise a degree or two. ‘May I help you?’ she asked in a West Country accent.
‘I wonder if you can,’ I said. ‘Were you working in the shop on Tuesday the fourteenth?’
The woman’s smile disappeared. ‘Is there some kind of problem?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said reassuringly. ‘A friend of my wife’s bought an outfit. She loved it and I want a surprise for her fiftieth.’
Although the word ‘outfit’ made it sound like we were standing in Debenhams, it was the best I could do, having no idea what Harry had used her card to pay for.
‘We get a lot of people in,’ the assistant said, ‘and it might not have been me who served her. What does your wife’s friend look like?’ My description rang no bells. ‘And you’ve absolutely no idea what she bought?’
‘I know it was about eight hundred pounds, if that helps.’
‘I’ll check the daybook. Everything over five hundred we write down.’
The assistant went back behind the till to consult a ledger. I perused a selection of love eggs. According to a handwritten card, concubines in the Secret Palace had used them to strengthen their pelvic floors. Of course, they’d all died and crumbled into dust long ago. One day you’re busy giving your snatch a workout, the next you’re shaking hands with the Reaper. Such is the human condition.
‘Actually, I do remember her.’ The assistant was back at my side. ‘She was going to La Cage that night and wanted something with a bit of wow. She bought the Marlene in the end. It looked terrific on her. Want to take a look?’
‘Why not?’ I said.
At the far end of the shop were racks of garments. The assistant pulled a grey silk dress off the rail that had a kind of rope motif around the bust and hips.
‘What d’you think?’ she said, holding it up.
The dress was an exact copy of the one that Harry Parr’s corpse had been wearing, right down to the thin leather draw belt that had been used to strangle her.
‘Very classy,’ I managed to say.
‘Yeah,’ the assistant agreed. ‘This is one of the nicest things we do. Mind you, you’ve got to make an effort when you’re going to La Cage.’
‘Actually, I don’t think I’ve heard of the place,’ I said.
‘You’re not on the scene, then?’
‘The wife and I are thinking about it.’
‘Well, you’re not going to start with LC. Unless you’ve got an introduction, you won’t get through the front door.’
Not another bloody private members’ club.
‘Assuming we did, what kind of thing would I have to wear?’
‘Probably your best bet’s a tux,’ the assistant said, after casting an appraising eye over me. ‘Although you could wear a vest and chaps if you wanted to go for it.’
‘Tux sounds better,’ I said. ‘Where’s the club based, as a matter of interest?’
‘Causal Street in Mayfair,’ she said. ‘D’you want to take the dress?’
‘Actually, I think it might be best if I brought Margot in to try it on.’
‘We have a full exchange policy . . .’
‘If we came in person then we could pick up a few other things as well. By the way, when my wife’s friend came in, was she with anyone? We’d heard rumours she was back with her husband.’
Now that her chance of making a sale was disappearing, so was the assistant’s obliging attitude. ‘I think she was on her own,’ she said, looking over my shoulder. ‘D’you mind if I leave you for a while and serve someone else?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
Bar Bernie on Wardour Street was a culinary time capsule. Opened in the early fifties, it had served chips with everything to Teds, mods, punks, New Romantics and emos, not to mention three generations of Berwick Street stallholders and production-company runners. Its seats were upholstered in thick green vinyl, and the framed poster by the door showed a bleached-out shot of Rimini. It was a world-class caff that would doubtless become a sushi bar when Bernie Jr hung up his apron.
As usual the booths were occupied and I had to settle for one of the Formica-topped tables in the middle of the room. I’d just bitten into a ham roll when my phone began to ring. I hadn’t called or texted Stephie since she forwarded the link to the Manchester flat. My finger hovered above the Accept button until the call went to voicemail. It wasn’t the warmest message I’d ever received.