‘That’s her professional name—her real name is Olga Petrova, though I doubt she introduced herself to you that way.’
The shift of control was becoming a slide. How did they know her name? My God, we’d never reckoned on this. ‘It may have been, but like I said I never asked and I don’t think she ever told me.’
‘Unusual to never introduce yourself at a party.’
‘It happens.’
‘Do you know her profession?’
‘We didn’t talk for long. She told me she’d come from Russia about three years ago and did marketing or something like that.’
‘Did you know she was a prostitute?’
I looked at the table for what felt the longest five seconds of my life. Perhaps they knew everything. Somehow, in just a day, the boys in blue had unravelled the whole damn sordid night. Was it worth keeping up the pretence? Was it really worth digging my pit deeper and adding shiny sides to make escape ever more impossible? Then I saw Bebe’s face, urging me on. ‘I suppose it’s possible, but I certainly didn’t talk about anything that indicated she was one. The only thing she offered me was…’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to get her into any trouble.’
‘Truth is always the best option, Mr Mitchell.’
I felt the interview swing back on track. ‘Coke. She offered me some coke.’
‘Didn’t know her name but she offered you coke?’
‘I guess she was looking for a good time. I’m famous, it happens a lot, some girls want me as a kind of prize.’
‘Did you accept her offer?’
I laughed nervously. I could feel Bebe breathing down my neck. ‘No, no I didn’t take her up on the offer.’
‘So, Mr Mitchell, you were standing with this Russian lady, whose name you didn’t know, discussing the use of recreational drugs, when Jo Thompson arrived. Did you go straight to Ms Thompson, or did you wait while someone else spoke to her?’
‘As soon as I saw her I went over.’
‘Was the Russian woman still with you?’
It crossed my mind to drop the script. If they knew who she was perhaps they had already spoken to her and knew what I was about to say was crap.
‘Yes, she walked over to Jo with me.’ Neither policeman revealed a flicker of emotion. ‘I spoke to Jo first, then introduced them to each other.’
‘How did you manage that?’ asked Ryan, suddenly holding me with his most intense stare of the evening. ‘How did you introduce the Russian to Jo if you didn’t know her name?’
‘I didn’t, I just introduced Jo to her.’ Shit, Bebe was good, he’d thought of everything, except for them knowing who Claudia was, of course.
‘And then what happened?’
‘The three of us talked for a while. Bebe came over; I talked to him about some Taikon company people I needed to meet and when I rejoined the conversation, the two of them, Jo and the Russian, were talking about…talking about doing some drugs.’
‘Coke?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though they’d just met?’
‘I know, but that’s what they discussed. They asked if I wanted to join them. I declined. They left. I went with them because I wanted to get something from my room.’ This was the part of the script I felt most uncomfortable with. I told Bebe I should stay away from saying we left, but he said anyone could have seen us leave together and that had to be covered. It had sounded weak in the bedroom. In the harsh surroundings of the interview room it sounded insipid.
‘What did you need from your room?’
‘Some notes I wanted to talk to a Taikon executive about.’
‘Go on.’
The bloody quicksand of lies: I was sinking faster and deeper and now I could almost feel it on my chin. ‘We got into the lift together. They were talking, pretty much ignoring me. They got out of the lift on the fifth floor, I think, yes, the fifth floor, and that was the last time I saw either of them.’
‘But you never returned to the party?’
‘No, I got to my room and looked at my notes, felt they weren’t ready to talk about, then just crashed out. I felt really tired. It’s not unusual for me to crash out after a show, especially if we’ve been travelling. I mean, I hadn’t shaken off the jet lag.’
‘And you never left your room?’
‘No.’
‘Never went to their room?’
‘No.’
‘Ryan paused again, flicked his notes and glanced at Orton. ‘And that’s the truth, Mr Mitchell? You know that lying to the police is an offence?’
‘Yes, it’s the truth and yes, I know that lying to the police is an offence. I wish I could help more, Detective, and I know it seems strange, but that’s how it happened.’ There—sunk without trace, head covered and the last bubbles of breath on the quicksand’s surface.
‘Thank you, Mr Mitchell, that terminates the interview,’ Ryan checked his watch, ‘at 8.15 pm.’ He pushed the tape button. ‘You’re free to leave. Hope you have a good flight. Detective Orton will show you out.’ Without further comment Ryan picked up his file and left the room.
I didn’t like Ryan any more. He knew I was lying. He knew I knew he knew I was lying. The real question was how far he’d go to prove the point.
Orton reunited me with Bebe and we returned to the hotel in silence. In the lobby I collected a fat envelope from the desk, then went to the room where I collected my travel bag before driving to the airport. We were late, but made the gate just in time. I settled back to yet another plane trip, yet another ride on the knife-edge of extinction.
Dear Jack,
I suppose I always knew you wouldn’t meet me. Why should you? You know nothing of me. I feel that perhaps I should have told you more, then you would have come, but it’s too late now. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in my life, if there’s one rule I live by, it’s never to regret what’s happened. Understand by all means, but never regret—it’s such a devouring pastime and one that leads nowhere.
Why did I want to meet you? That’s such a complicated question, yet at the same time so simple.
I think in the end it was more for you than me, although I admit there’s much about seeing you that will calm me. It’s for you, though, Jack, that I worry more. I know there’s pain, and all I want to do is ease that pain. Perhaps when you’ve read this you’ll still find the time to come, although I admit time, money and patience are wearing thin. At least with this letter I will have given you an answer, one that I hope will remove your worries.
I wanted to tell you a story. Here it is.
Have you ever been to Marrakech? It’s a wonderful place. I was once told that you don’t talk about Marrakech, you have to experience it. Never was a truer word spoken. But of course I must try to tell you of the golden stone walls at sunset, the ochre buildings profiled against a clear blue sky, the palm tree oasis leading the eye to the snow-capped Atlas Mountains in the distance. In the square I would watch snake charmers and jugglers perform for the tourists, while the storytellers attracted the true citizens.
In the Café de France I met Edward. He never really told me what he did in the city—‘something in carpets’ he’d say as if that explained everything. To escape a Europe on the verge of imploding, he had gone to Morocco in 1968 with two friends on a hippie excursion and when they grew bored he stayed on. Edward might have traded his mane of long hair for a neat short back and sides with a precise parting and replaced the kaftan with a white linen suit, but his business was only semi-legitimate, he’d explain with a twinkle in his eye. There was mystery aplenty to draw me to him and next day he helped me take my bags from the Hotel Ichbilia to his tiny one-room apartment on the Rue Souq al-Kebir. It was my first and last holiday romance. At least I have that experience, if precious few others.