The Troika Dolls (3 page)

‘Like what?’ A single diamond tear was rolling down Sandy’s perfect cheek.

Stevie noticed that Sandy’s nose didn’t run, or go pink, or swell like hers did when she cried. Sandy cried beautifully.

‘The simplest and most effective deterrent to kidnapping is privacy,’ she began. ‘You can start with an in-depth cyber-stalking report. Then at least you know how much people can find out about you. I’m guessing your phone number is already de-listed. You should get rid of any personalised number plates, for example, and try and avoid ostentation— flashy jewellery, lavish parties,
cars
.’

Stevie was deliberate in her emphasis. Douglas Hammer had, at last count, a yellow Lamborghini Murcielago LP 640 with nappa leather upholstery by Versace, a red Ferrari, a Mercedes Gull Wing— the one with the doors that lift like wings—painted metallic orange, and a convertible Rolls Royce Phantom in electric blue with a polished stainless-steel hood. These were not vehicles that had been chosen for discretion.

‘Most importantly you should restrict the circumstances under which you—and especially your child—are photographed.’

Sandy’s fingers were tearing at her tissue. She threw it on the floor and grabbed another.

‘But we’re celebrities. People
have
to know about us. I won’t have Kennedy-Jack growing up in a climate of fear and repression, too afraid to go out.’ Sandy crumpled her robe and looked up defiantly. ‘I will not give in to the criminals!’

Sandy was magnificent in her defiance. Stevie had heard her utter that last line wonderfully as Dot Fellows in
Eat the Rich: A Courtroom
Drama
. But she did wonder how much of what she was saying was actually sinking in.

Sandy got up and began to pace.

‘Where is Kennedy-Jack now?’ Stevie asked.

‘With his nannies.’

‘Where are his nannies?’

‘They said, um . . .’ Sandy looked flustered. ‘Wait. I know. I had a bath this morning . . . he was in the next room because I could hear him watching TV. I had a large skinny chai brought up from Starbucks and it was hot so I burned my tongue . . . CeeCee gave me a pedicure . . . Ray called from LA about the promotions tour, again. He is driving me crazy . . . and then Douglas . . . No. He was tanning . . . the nannies took Kennedy-Jack . . .’ Sandy’s face was a wonder of concentration.

The bedroom door opened and in strode Douglas Hammer, beaming. He headed straight for Stevie, his right hand extended.

‘Thank you so much for taking the time,’ he grinned. ‘Sit down, make yourself completely at home.’ He had thrown on a white shirt and looked tough and tousled, as if he had just woken from a particularly handsome sleep.

Stevie took the hand. ‘Stevie Duveen, Hazard Limited.’

‘Stevie, that’s an unusual name. Is it a family tradition?’

‘Dougie,’ Sandy’s little voice peeped from the corner.

‘Yes, honey?’ he moved to her side.

‘Dougie, Stevie was just asking where Kennedy-Jack was and—’ ‘Oh, KJ? He’s with his nannies. They’ve taken him to the park.’

‘How many nannies does KJ have, Mr Hammer?’ Stevie asked.

‘Call me Douglas, please.’ He twinkled his eyes.

‘Alright, Douglas.’

‘Ah, he has three nannies, well, two brunettes and a “manny”. I didn’t want him growing up only under female influences, you know? Not that I’m ever far from his side.’

‘Do you have any specific reason to be concerned about Kennedy-Jack’s safety, Douglas?’

He leaned in conspiratorially, brushing his forelock with perfected absentmindedness. ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

A knock on the door and a beetle appeared with a tray. ‘Mushroom tea anyone?’

Stevie had to accept a steaming cup. She would have preferred coffee but it was not offered. Stevie disliked herbal teas unless she was unwell, but she shouldn’t be rude. She sipped.

The tea tasted as if it had been made by steeping a laundry hamper full of football socks in boiling water then running it all through a little sieved dirt.

‘Lovely, thank you.’ Stevie gently laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and moved away from it.

‘Actually, Miss Duveen, we’d appreciate it if you’d do an interview for us, you know, telling the public how Kennedy-Jack is in danger—’ Stevie felt obligated to interject with ‘Please call me Stevie.’

‘Douglas, Stevie has some great stuff on cyber-stalking, how kidnapping gangs are stalking our baby on the internet.’

Douglas nodded sagely. ‘I’m not surprised. Quick work, Stevie.’

Before Stevie could explain that it was only a possibility that had to be considered in every case such as theirs, Douglas had sat down next to her and lowered his voice.

‘We believe there are powerful people who want us silenced,’ he confided. ‘We are making a documentary about our lives at the moment and it is one of the themes that is going to feature heavily. I’m producing and directing.’

Stevie considered this for a moment. ‘I’m sure it will be a tremendous success, Douglas, but I need to understand exactly what this has to do with Hazard Limited’s services and the threat to your son.’

‘It’s simple.’ Douglas Hammer gave a modest smile. His feet, Stevie noticed, were immaculately pedicured. ‘As you may know we—well,
me
in particular—have been very vocal about the corruption and evils of our administration. I’ve spoken out about this on many occasions on
Larry King Live
,
Oprah
,
Jay Leno
,
Saturday Night Live
.’

Sandy jumped into the conversation. ‘Everyone was talking about that the next day, Dougie.’

‘Look, the point is,’ Douglas sat up a little, his white shirt gaping nicely for effect, ‘that certain people in the administration are afraid of the power I have to change people’s minds. Say what you like, but the public listen to actors. They are the voice of the people, for the people.’ He paused a moment to let the line sink in. ‘Since our activism—especially since we started filming—’

The door opened again and the man with the video camera appeared. He zoomed in on Douglas, who now spoke to camera.

‘Since we started filming this documentary, things have begun to happen.’

‘What sort of things, Doug?’ asked the man with the camera, panning up to Sandy, softly lit by the floor lamp, then back to Douglas.

‘There’s been a campaign to smear me for starters—the trumped-up drink-driving charge, the lies about what I said to the police officer. I am no racist. Never in my life.’

‘And me.’ Sandy turned aflame with outrage to the video-man. ‘The paparazzi have become
vicious
. It’s positively criminal and disgusting. We just want to live normal lives like a normal family.’

Stevie watched Sandy shed another perfect tear, this one digitally immortalised.

‘Has anyone specifically threatened you or your family?’ Stevie was trying to get the meeting back on track. The video-man swung his recorder towards her. Stevie immediately switched off the bedside light and turned her face away, into the darkness.

‘Turn that off please. I won’t be filmed.’

Douglas gestured to the man who stopped filming. ‘There’ll be time for that later, man. It’s okay.’ He turned back to Stevie. ‘Nothing specific but it’s more a feeling—’ His eyes narrowed into a handsome squint. ‘Do you know what I mean? An instinct for danger.’

One of the hairdressers stuck his head into the room. ‘You’ve got flowers, Sandy! Gorgeous ones!’

An enormous bouquet was brought into the room, the uniformed porter staggering under its weight.

‘Read the card please, Dougie.’ Sandy lay back on the pillows.

She seemed to have become weak and fragile under the weight of her worries.

Douglas hopped over on nimble brown feet.

‘They’re from Kofi. Here, wait. Turn the camera back on. I want to do that again. From the top.’

‘Who could they be from? Read the card, Dougie,’ Sandy asked on cue.

‘They’re from Kofi, honey. He sends his warm wishes.’ Douglas gave his wife a loving smile. ‘You see, we have good friends on our side.’ He swung to camera. ‘Okay. Cut.’

Stevie was bewildered. Looking around the room she saw a photo of Nelson Mandela and the Hammer-Belles. It was signed:
Nelson
. They certainly collected some interesting friends.

The bedroom door opened yet again and in came the three nannies and Kennedy-Jack. Sandy and Douglas rushed over to coo, the video back on. The baby was swaddled, his face all but invisible. That was one good thing at least. Stevie stayed in the shadows, watching.

‘We’ve been down at Lilywhites looking for those miniature golf shoes you wanted for KJ. Deadly cute! Then we took him to Hamleys. He loved that!’

The nannies had not been at the park at all. Kennedy-Jack’s parents had had no idea where their baby was. Stevie counted. There were now ten people in the room with Kennedy-Jack, and more in the suite outside. If the threat to the child was serious, this was a problem.

Household staff had to be vetted for any criminal backgrounds, or financial difficulties that might make them vulnerable. Perhaps some psychological evaluation for the nannies and the ‘manny’ . . . It would also have to be explained to Douglas and Sandy that they should take a close interest in the personal lives of those who worked for them, especially the live-in staff. Kidnappers often established personal relationships with assistants or nannies in order to get inside information on the family.

‘I’ll put a package together tonight and we can discuss your needs further, including specifics, when you feel you have the time.’

Stevie would suggest meeting at Hazard HQ next time. There might be fewer distractions.

Sandy put a hand on Stevie’s arm as she collected her bag and stood to leave. ‘You will help us won’t you Stevie? We’re terrified for little KJ. If people like the Beckhams have kidnap threats, well . . . Our baby is much more famous. Do you see?’

Then Stevie understood exactly the kind of package the Hammer-Belles wanted: non-intrusive, highly visible, very cosmetic, very expensive. Even when it came to peril, they had to be in more danger than all the other celebrities.

‘We will tailor our services to suit your specific situation and I hope you will be satisfied.’ She was well-practiced at sounding reassuring. ‘If security circumstances change, the contract has built-in flexibility to allow us to respond accordingly.’ In other words, if a threat actually became tangible, Hazard could quickly upgrade security.

Stevie shook hands with both Hammer-Belles. ‘Try to live discreetly,’ she added. ‘It’s really the best defence.’

As she was jostled through the suite door by a team of photographers from
Hello
magazine, Stevie marvelled at the winds of attention that were needed to fill the Hammer-Belle sails. It had been a charade, a waste of time.

_____________________

Clouds of drizzle swept over
Green Park. Stevie hurried on past the wet pigeons, the slick bare trees, over the sleeping daffodils buried under the frozen earth. It was only three o’clock and it was gloomy, the day already dead.

‘Daylight never even made it today,’ she said aloud, startling the pigeon stuck to the rubbish bin. Looking down at her sodden ballet shoes, she began to regret her impulse to walk back to her hotel. The slimy black boughs dripped water down her collar and she drew her coat more tightly round her shoulders.

Two girls were sitting on a park bench in front of her. Stevie noticed them because it was odd weather for sitting out. Both were wearing skin-tight jeans, black puffer jackets and large hoop earrings. Their shoes were even less suitable than hers—patent-leather stilettos. They must have been sitting there a while because they were wet through.

One girl was talking on the phone. She had red hair and she was crying. Mascara and eye shadow had pooled in a bruise under each eye. Her friend had dark curly hair pulled high up off her face. She sat as still as ice, watching the girl on the phone. Even from a distance, Stevie noticed their nails, extraordinary talons, one set painted in fluorescent— almost ecstatic—yellow, the other pure white.

They might be strippers, thought Stevie, with those nails, those skinny legs and pale faces . . . As Stevie approached, she overheard the red-haired girl, her voice trembling into the phone.

‘They know it’s me. They’re going to fuck me up.’

As Stevie passed, turning for a moment to look into the rain-spattered faces, the smeared eyes, she realised with a shock that the girls couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Stevie kept walking.

They’re going to fuck me up.
She wanted to stop—
Who is? What
have you done? You’re only children!
—but she didn’t. She walked on. It felt horrible.

What would have happened if she had stopped? And asked what was wrong, offered help? They would probably have snarled at her like frightened dogs. It was too late now. On she hurried, through the damp. And yet, Stevie couldn’t get the girls out of her mind. Fifteen years old—they should be in school, dreaming of their first kisses, shopping with their mothers, not trembling on a wet bench anticipating violence. Much was wrong with the state of the world, she thought, and it seemed like so little could ever be done to fix it.

Someone else would have stopped and spoken to the girls on the bench but she had passed them by. She had proven herself a coward. She spent her days organising protection for the prominent names that asked for it. Some had good reason, some had a bad conscience; to others security was a symbol of status, a way to show people that their impact on the world was potentially so great that they were wanted dead. Still others felt themselves to be so exceptional that, in an era when random violence was
vogue
, they would somehow be singled out for misfortune above all others. But it was girls like these, vulnerable and hunted on a park bench, that most needed protection and who were most unlikely to get it.

Stevie thought of Pound’s famous image from the Paris metro.

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Only the picture in Stevie’s head was charged with menace and fear. Girls all over the world were sitting on wet park benches and standing on railway platforms and crouching in the lobbies of cheap hotels, quietly shaking, because no one could protect them. That is what it meant to be utterly alone.