The Honey Trap (7 page)

‘Your chi is unbalanced. You are dislocated from yourself, Issy – it’s time to look within.’

‘Mother, I’m totally spent.’

‘You need to meditate.’

‘Stop with the mumbo jumbo. The fact is I’m straddling two worlds, being single and being a mother.’

‘Surrender to your situation. It’s the only way forward.’

‘How did you cope with the two of us on your own?’

‘I got stoned a lot.’

I’d forgotten the sweet herbal smell that was my mother’s scent. I know a fair few mothers who puff to relax at the end of a day, some during the day, or who pay a nightly visit to
the bottle that takes the edge off the situation and aids a quick exit to sleep.

‘Are you advocating I take drugs?’

Having spent much of my youth wasted, I’d turned away from the dulled numbness and brain stupefier that is weed.

‘I’m just saying, you’re trying to do too much and gotta slow down. Your life has changed. There are constraints now, and you have to find a way to work within them.’

She’s right and I hate her for it.

I’ve never subscribed to the idea that motherhood changes one as a person. Fundamentally you remain the same, though perhaps become more patient.

‘There’s a reason the finger found its way to you.’

‘OK, Mum, whatever. So when are you coming over again?’

‘The summer. Have you spoken to Freddie lately?’

‘Not for a while.’

The last I’d heard from Freddie was a few weeks back, when he went on a major clubbing/drugs binge. I’ve learnt from previous experiences not to contact him for about a week after,
as he is ‘coming down’, which translates as being a paranoid pain in the arse.

‘Mum, do you think I’ll ever fall in love again?’

‘Give it time, it’s bound to happen.’

‘But my prime is passing me by. I’m getting ugly, Mother.’

‘I’m hearing a lot of negativity, Issy. Are you still going to your group-therapy sessions?’

Oh Christ, that was a laugh.

Nadia had told me how a friend of hers met a really cool man in group therapy. They had since married and were expecting a kid.

‘Don’t dismiss it – it’s a great way to meet people and get a load off your chest.’

So, off I went to my local GP, got an instant referral, easy-peasy. No sooner had the words ‘single mother’ fled my parted lips than she had me signed up. A week later, I sat in a
sterile room surrounded by a bunch of depressives talking about their childhoods and coming to terms with their feelings. I couldn’t get a word in and had to listen to some pretty appalling
stuff, which incidentally cured me on the spot, as I realised how lucky I was in comparison.

On the male front there were but two, a geezer in his fifties and a younger one. The latter not-too-bad-looking, actually, if I squinted hard, a bit Hugh Grant-ish, if he shaved off his face
fur, but alas, he turned out to be married.

Then, like a bolt from the blue, a thwack of a realisation bludgeoned me and I recalled his name . . . Bob.

Yeugghhh . . . Imagine if it was the same guy. But of course I would have recognised him . . . unless that is he had shaved off his beard and tache.

Yeugghhh . . .

Nah, surely I would have clicked?

Thrice yeugghhh, as snippets of conversation vomited into my consciousness. Yeah, on recollection, I had been struck by his seemingly genuine sincerity and empathy. Yet, it was inconceivable to
marry the email Bob with this one, but now it kinda made sense. The guy was obviously schizoid. Although thinking about it, he was the counsellor.

‘Max, I’ve got to see a policeman today,’ I announced.

Max lay warm in the bed beside me, all cuddly and edible. One of my main fears when he was a baby was that I’d eat him. I swear, the smell, the soft skin, pink flesh, tiny fingers –
I’d bury my face in his belly, gobbling the love off him. Now things have begun to change and his bottom is not quite so endearing, as he blasts the morning chorus, trumpeting the dawn call a
little too close for comfort.

‘Max! What do you say?’ I chastise Mr Fartypants.

‘It wasn’t me.’

Ah such sweet denials.

‘Yes, it was.’

‘No, it wasn’t. It was you.’

Damn, no longer can I get away with it. He’s way too clever for his age and I, guilty, changed the subject.

‘I have to meet a detective today.’

‘Are you going to prison?’

‘Hope not. It’s about that finger you found.’

‘The finger in the garden?’

‘Can I have a kiss?’

‘Later, in a few minutes.’

Kisses used to be on tap, whenever I wanted, free access to the Max, but now I ask and have to wait. Unless of course he’s tired and unable to fend off my advances.

Oh lovely, beautiful Max and I woke in a good mood, for some unknown reason. Chased Max through the apartment, ending up with a tickling session and much giggling.

Bambuss leant back in his plastic chair, corpulent and hirsute. His chest hair met with his beard line, which was meeting with his forehead. He sat directly opposite me,
picking luncheon scraps from between his teeth and then tongue-sucking at the remains. His face wore an air of mild perplexity and he appeared to be looking at me somewhat suspiciously. Omar
Sharif? My arse.

‘Miss Brodsky, so it was your son who found the deceased’s finger?’

‘Yes, a week ago, in the garden.’

He asked me questions similar to that of the first policeman.

‘And it still hasn’t turned up?’

‘What, the finger? No, unfortunately not.’

‘And, my dear, you’ve searched everywhere?’

‘And some.’ I explained the circumstances leading to the loss, then quickly changed the subject. ‘So have you found the murderer?’

Intrigued by the gruesome, I wondered if perhaps the culprit was a serial murderer who hacked off his victims’ fingers as some kind of trophy.

‘Well, my dear, the thing is she wasn’t actually murdered.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Her finger was hacked off after she died.’

OK, so he was confusing me.

‘The finger was hacked off after she died?’

Interesting, very interesting, but let’s get down to basics: who was the deceased?

Sarah Bloch. Originally Viennese, seventy-nine years of age. She lived but two doors down from me in apartment no 24, Antrim Mansions, Antrim Road, Belsize Park. She had been
there twenty-five years.

‘Tell me, did you know her? Do you recall seeing her out and about?’

‘What did she look like?’

‘A fine-looking woman, slight in frame, about five foot five. She wore a check tweed coat. Ring any bells?’

‘Wait, something’s coming.’ I focused hard and, through the twitching net curtains of my cerebral matter, a shape, a figure, a . . . ‘No, sorry, old women are a dime a
dozen.’

‘She was very active for her age, worked in a charity shop in St John’s Wood.’

Wait . . . I frequent those musty bargain dens. Only a couple of weeks since I tried on an old Agnes B. trouser suit and the woman selling it had said, ‘You’re getting a
bargain,’ to which I’d replied, ‘That’s why I’m here.’

She winced at my feeble wit and muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t quite catch.

I asked if they could lower the price even more and she said, ‘No.’

I got uppity and replaced the suit on the hanger.

Even though I could have afforded it, even though it looked good on me, even though the colour suited me.

‘Your loss,’ she’d mumbled as I marched out of the shop, disgusted she wouldn’t bargain with me.

I went back the next day, but it had been sold.

‘Detective Bambuss, can you be more specific? What exactly did she look like?’

‘Still quite beautiful, high cheekbones, slender – you could tell she’d been a looker in her day. Very elegant: she wore her hair scraped back into a high bun.’

No, the lady in the shop was plump with badly dyed hair.

‘She’d come out of hospital recently, had fallen down some steps and broken her ankle.’

‘So what exactly happened?’

‘It appears she was burgled after she died.’

‘Burgled, and you don’t think she died from the shock?’

‘No, it doesn’t seem to be the case.’

‘I see. And why the hacking off of the finger?’

Aha . . . a picture was forming in my mind.

‘I suspect she wore a ring. Hence the finger being hacked off?’

Bingo!

‘But why my garden?’

Bambuss smirked, entertained by my mental deductions.

‘Perhaps flung from a window?’ I mused.

‘I’m afraid the distance is too great. We’ve already ruled that one out.’

‘Though of course the gardens are all interconnecting. Perhaps the assailant made a getaway out the back and merely flung the finger by pure chance into my garden. That’s possible,
highly probable.’

Bambuss smirked, so obviously impressed as I Dr Watsoned to his Holmes.

‘And the burglary – tell me more,’ I demanded.

‘Not a professional job, but whoever did it knew her apartment and what she had.’

‘Therefore opportunist. Someone had called to see her, found her dead . . . She knew the culprit, the culprit knew the apartment and where to look.’

By Jove, I think I’m on to something here.

‘What about her family?’

‘An only son, living in the States.’

‘Did she have any friends?’

‘A few, the bridge brigade mainly. They met in her house every four weeks.’

‘So an acquaintance. You say she’d been in hospital . . . therefore someone would have had access to the apartment. Forgive me, I’m thinking aloud. Yes, it could well be a . .
. a neighbour.’

‘A neighbour?’ echoed the detective.

‘Yes, someone who perhaps held a spare set of keys, helped her out occasionally.’

‘That’s exactly what I was thinking.’

‘Great minds and all that,’ I declared.

‘Tell me, my dear, do you have a liking for jewellery?’

‘What girl doesn’t.’

Felt an oncoming Ally McBeal moment and suddenly wondered if I was under suspicion. It was the way he was peering at me, whilst nibbling at his nails. Shaggy’s song came to mind: ‘It
Wasn’t Me’. Max’s all-time favourite, beating ‘Bob the Builder’ by miles. Imagination hurtled into the surreal as Bambuss crooned accusations and I defended myself,
circling about the interview table.
(Picture this, I was caught red-handed murdering the oul’ one next door! . . . Did you hack her into pieces? It wasn’t me! Chop her up with a
bread knife? It wasn’t me!)

The detective stared at me strangely.

‘Miss Brodsky?’

‘Sorry.’

I snapped back to reality.

‘As I was saying, if you recall any suspicious activities, or anything that would be of use in our investigations, please get in touch.’

‘Of course.’

‘And you don’t mind if we have a look around your garden?’

‘Not at all. I’m working later, but I’ll let Maria know.’

‘And your work – what exactly do you do?’

‘Well, since you ask, I’m actually a special agent, of sorts.’

My maiden voyage into the world of the near adulterous and I, nerve-racked, practised chat-up lines on Max.

‘You come here often?’

‘I wanna watch a video.’

‘Hi.’

‘
Thomas
video.’

‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’

‘Now!’

Failed abysmally. What chance would I have with an adult male? Nadia’s top tips had been to establish eye contact, mirror their body language, and if stuck for something to say, repeat
word for word what they had just said, adding an upward inflection.

My first mission. I remember it well.

With knees knocking, I espied my suspect alone at the bar and approached with caution. A free stool beckoned, and I wedged myself up on to it. Just got to be friendly, smile, order a drink and
if all else fails, talk about the weather.

Five minutes later.

‘It’s bitter cold, hey?’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s cold outside.’

‘Mmm,’
très, très
unresponsive.

Then out of nowhere came a gem of a chat-up line.

‘I just split with my boyfriend.’

‘Oh.’

The suspect’s interest is awakened. Everyone loves a sob story – always makes them feel so much better about themselves.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t usually come to bars on my own but . . . do you mind if I, well . . . talk with you for a minute?’

So I told him my story, actually told him the truth. Maybe I went on a bit – it was near on an hour later when I finally finished.

‘I know how you feel,’ he sympathised.

‘Do you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you stuck in a stale marriage?’

‘What?’

‘I saw your ring.’

‘No, I have a healthy marriage, thanks.’

‘Guess I jumped to the wrong conclusion. On the rebound . . .’

I blushed, giving him the come-on.

‘That’s OK, nice talking to you.’

He jumped up and left.

‘You too.’

OK, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. I’d expected sleazy, not a kind and generous listener. As far as I was concerned, my suspect was impeccable marriage material. A decent male, so
rare a species. But hey, I’m cynical and I downed a quick one for the road and bid the landlord
adieu
, setting off in spirits high and my faith redeemed in mankind.

Tipsy and reporting slurred messages down the mobile to the office, I tripped on the pavement and fell to my knees. My new tights were laddered, and as I rose up from that humbled position, I
shifted quickly. Basically to make out I was tying my shoe strap, so as not to be further embarrassed, but also because who should I spot emerging from the opposite doorway? My suspect. I
didn’t bother to holler after him. For we were in Soho and the sign on the door said ‘Live Model’.

As in any business, we at the Honey Trap have our own classification code.