Notes on a Missing G-String, page 1
Notes
on a
Missing
G-String
WINONA KENT
Contents
ALSO BY WINONA KENT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Copyright © 2019 by Blue Devil Books and Winona Kent
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this story or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 978-0-9880826-5-6
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9880826-6-3
Please visit Winona’s website at www.winonakent.com
Please visit Blue Devil Books at www.bluedevilbooks.com
ALSO BY WINONA KENT
Disturbing the Peace
Marianne’s Memory
In Loving Memory
Persistence of Memory
Cold Play
The Cilla Rose Affair
Skywatcher
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the following people, without whose assistance this novel would not have been possible:
Brian Richmond, for his continuing inspiration, wonderful story sense and clever suggestions
Brenda Woods, excellent firewalker
Deed Poll Officer Rebecca
And, of course, my mum Sheila Kent, my sister Stella Kent and my husband Jim Goddard, for their patience and understanding while I indulged in my passion and locked myself away on weekends, holidays and days off to write this novel
Apologies if I’ve left out anyone—it wasn’t deliberate.
Thank you all!
CHAPTER ONE
It had been five years since I’d last seen Sal.
I was confined to a bed in the Star Amethyst’s crew hospital after being plucked from a pitching life raft in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska. Our ship, the Star Sapphire—sister to the Amethyst—had just gone down, surrendering herself to the sea after a raging fire had spared her the indignity of a knacker’s yard in India.
Sal was the captain’s secretary; I was the nightly entertainment in the TopDeck Lounge—Jason Davey, performing all your vocal and instrumental favourites, eight ‘til late.
When the Amethyst had docked in Vancouver two days later, releasing the Sapphire’s rescued passengers and crew to a scoop-hungry media, we’d parted ways with promises to stay in touch. And we had, for a while. But Sal wasn’t into Facebook or Twitter. She stayed aboard the Amethyst while I left the sea and went travelling. Our texts became less and less frequent until we remembered each other only on our birthdays and at Christmas.
And now, all of a sudden, here she was at the Blue Devil, five years older, her hair betraying little threads of silver, her figure still attractive but reminding me more of my mum than the love of my life—which was what Sal had been, albeit on a hopelessly platonic level, when we’d been shipmates on the Alaska run.
I have a regular gig at the club, playing guitar in a four-piece jazz combo. It was Saturday night and it was late—past 3 a.m. We’d just come offstage and were settling in to a post-show round of drinks before heading home.
I couldn’t believe it when Sal turned up at our table.
We hugged and kissed and I introduced her to my band.
“Rudy, Ken and Dave,” I said. “Sally Jones. The main reason I ran away to sea.”
Rudy, Ken and Dave knew all about my maritime history, but I always suspected they doubted some of my saltier tales. Having Sal show up in person provided an instant boost to my credibility.
“Drums, sax and keyboards,” Sal acknowledged, sitting down. “Hello. I enjoyed your show.”
“And we absolutely enjoyed having you enjoy us,” Rudy replied, ever the congenial host. “Something from the bar?”
“Thanks. A glass of Pinot Noir would be lovely.”
“Some things never change,” I said. “Are you still aboard the Amethyst?”
“God no. I finally came ashore. I’ve been the Assistant Manager at the Crestone for the past six months.”
“Marble Arch?” I guessed. “Big. New. Four stars?”
“Five, Jase, if you don’t mind.”
Her outrage was entirely fabricated. Sal was no corporate hack and never had been, even when, as the Sapphire’s top manager, her job had involved daily communication with StarSea Admin in Southampton.
“I always knew you’d land on your feet,” I said.
“It’s not a precise fit. But it’s better than sitting in a stuffy office juggling entries in some lazy executive’s personal calendar. I’ve found it difficult to…settle.”
I understood. All of us who’ve shared a career at sea have the same affliction. We can’t get used to a life that isn’t in motion, to views that always look out over the same roads, the same gardens, the same never-changing lamp posts. We crave the unforeseen and thrive on the unexpected.
“Anyway,” she said, “ship’s captains don’t need secretaries anymore. Everything’s digital. They were talking about phasing my job out when I disembarked. It was one of the reasons I knew it was time to go.”
Rudy returned with her wine—very generously poured—and a glass bowl filled with the last of that evening’s savoury bar snacks.
“I read about your brilliant detective work tracking down Ben Quigley.”
Ben was a musical legend. He’d dropped off the face of the earth a few years earlier and I’d been asked to try and find him by my son, Dom, who was studying film production at university and wanted to do a documentary about him for his course.
I’d eventually located him in northern Canada. And after I’d brought him back to London we’d both attracted a certain amount of media attention. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t enjoyed being in the spotlight.
“Thanks,” I said.
“The thing is, Jase, I was wondering if you’d consider helping me with something. Actually, it’s not for me. It’s for someone I met aboard the Amethyst when we were doing our Mediterranean itinerary a few years ago. She was…‘working’. And there was a complaint. I had to have her escorted off the ship.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Never a dull moment at sea,” Ken remarked.
“Never a dull moment just outside our front door, mate,” Dave replied, dryly.
The Blue Devil’s in Soho, which used to be wicked and sleazy and forbidden. Its dodgy reputation is much diminished now, with many of its historical buildings demolished or on their way to the wrecker’s ball. The area’s re-inventing itself behind builders’ hoardings promising vibrant new shops, chic restaurants and slick glass-walled offices. You can still catch glimpses of the past, though. Especially, as Dave said, just around the corner from our neon marquee.
“Holly Medford,” Sal said. “She was quite reasonable about it. Though understandably disappointed. More, I think, because it meant she was going to miss Venice than anything to do with lost earnings.”
We’d rarely been without our ‘working girls’ at sea, though the higher-class ones tended to avoid the Sapphire because she was old and creaky and decidedly unglamorous. Wealthier punters usually went for the newer and larger vessels. And ships’ officers tended to turn a blind eye unless the ladies caught Security’s attention. They were usually discreet, confidently self-employed, and, as far as I could tell, mostly in it for the perks: the opportunity to earn a shitload of money while they casually cruised the world.
“Rules are rules,” I said, philosophically, well aware of how often the rule about Rules was routinely disregarded.
“Anyway, Jase, she remembered me. I’ve no idea how she found me but perhaps she spotted me in connection with the hotel. I’ve been doing quite a bit of PR lately so my name and face are out there. She rang me and took me into her confidence. She was in a terrible state. I couldn’t refuse.”
“What’s her problem?”
“She’s borrowed some money to pay off a debt.”
“And…?” I prompted.
“She was working at Cha-Cha’s.”
Cha-Cha’s is a lap-dancing club, around the corner and one street over from the Blue Devil. Its website advertises discretion, relaxation and fun, all-night fully-nude performers, a VIP room and private booths.
“Seems a bit of a come down after Servicing at Sea.”
“Well, exactly. But I suppose the freelance market ashore was n’t everything she anticipated. So, to try and make some more money she’d decided to start working as an escort at a club called Moonlight Desires instead. She’d made arrangements to meet the man she owed the money to at Cha-Cha’s. She had it stashed in her locker but when she came back after her shift, it was gone. Along with one of her G-strings.”
“And you immediately thought of me,” I said.
Sal laughed. So did Rudy. Ken and Dave. They knew me too well.
“I am serious, though, Jase. She’s terrified. She owes this man a significant amount of cash and I have the impression he’s not someone you’d ever want to cross. She’s had to go into hiding.”
“Why didn’t she report it to the police?”
“She did. But the loan wasn’t exactly above-board. And she’s a sex worker. They wouldn’t give her the time of day.”
“What is it you want me to do?”
“I thought perhaps you’d be able to find out who took it. And get it back.”
“I’m not a proper PI, Sal. And I’d have no idea how to even begin to investigate a theft.”
“I know that, Jase. But I know you, and how you have a sort-of instinct for getting to the bottom of things—”
“A somewhat appropriate recommendation,” I said, “given the circumstances of the theft…”
Another laugh around the table.
“I can pay you,” Sal said.
“I could never accept money from you, Sal. And I honestly don’t think I can actually do anything. The cash is long gone. Along with the thief.”
“Sleep on it,” Sal suggested. “You’d be doing me—and Holly— a great favour.”
“Ships that pass in the night and all that,” I said. “Like recovering alcoholics and Masons.”
“Seawater’s thicker than blood,” she agreed, sipping her wine.
CHAPTER TWO
Early mornings don’t really exist in my universe. It’s 4 a.m. by the time I get home and another hour until I can properly unwind and fall asleep. And I refuse to wake up before noon.
I come from a musical background. My real last name’s Figgis. My parents were the founding members of Figgis Green, that platinum-record-selling folky pop group everybody knew and loved half a century ago. My family understands late nights and lie-ins and bucking nine-to-five normality. I’ve never actually had to deal with the sort of job Sal was now, unenthusiastically, resigned to.
I showered and shaved, making note of a few more grey hairs in the bathroom mirror. I champion the look of an unkempt musical genius, my dark brown hair on the lengthy side and often untidy. I’ve got my dad’s long curving nose and prominent square chin and my mum’s blue eyes and her thin-lipped mouth. People say they can see more of her in me than him.
While I had my Sunday lunch (a very nice gourmet wild mushroom soup, a toasted bagel with fresh smoked salmon and cream cheese and slices of red onion; a couple of chocolates left over from a Christmas gift box; and tea) I had a look at Cha-Cha’s website. They had a photo gallery: several ladies in minimal clothing sharing a sofa with a nattily-dressed gentleman in their VIP room; several other ladies wearing even less clothing wrapping themselves around the ubiquitous poles; and a third selection of ladies offering hospitality, drinks and themselves at individual tables.
I wondered if any of them were Holly.
Likely not. Cha-Cha’s has been around for about a decade, and so had most of those photos.
The idea of investigating a criminal act at a gentlemen’s club in Soho did entertain a certain amount of intrigue. But it was also just this side of sleazy. And it was a very dodgy minefield, politically, morally and socially. I’d always had a live-and-let-live attitude towards sex workers, a lot of whom, I knew, were in the business because they wanted to be. But for every one of those independently-minded businesswomen I also knew that just around the corner there were walk-ups and pop-ups rife with exploitation and abuse; many, many more vulnerable young women struggling with desperate circumstances; unimpeded trafficking from Asia and Eastern Europe; and a downward spiral of drugs and addictions. I’d meant what I said to Sal. I really didn’t think I could do anything. And I really, honestly, didn’t think I wanted to.
Still, I popped over to have a look at the escort agency website where Holly had been working—Moonlight Desires.
It was a good deal more high-class than Cha-Cha’s.
All of the escorts had their own albums detailing their names (cities in the American Midwest seemed to be popular), specifics and specialities. The pictures looked professionally staged and shot and featured each lady happily posing in a boudoir, showing off a variety of extremely flattering bras, lacy thongs and stockings, followed by a good deal of saucy nakedness.
The rates started at £450 an hour for an Outcall—meaning your escort would come to the location of your choice, rather than you having to navigate your way over to where she was. I did some quick arithmetic and could easily see why Holly had decided to diversify.
I still wasn’t convinced, though. I still couldn’t see how I could possibly solve her theft.
I distracted myself with a phone call to my mate, Trevor Pitt.
I was chasing down a recording contract. I am aware that just verging on fifty does seem a bit late to be pursuing that sort of thing, but I’m a great believer in thumbing my nose at what’s considered usual. And I’d always had that dream: it wasn’t anything new.
Before Emma died, I was gigging around clubs and smaller venues with a group of like-minded colleagues. We did a little jazz but our focus was more on the kind of music you’d have heard from Mark Knopfler, Bryan Ferry and Elton John. One of my favourite songs is “Sultans of Swing”—a pub rock tune about an underappreciated jazz band.
After Emma died—after Sal had rescued me from the depths of grief and got me installed in the TopDeck Lounge (every StarSea ship has a TopDeck Lounge, built over the bridge, with panoramic windows facing forward over the bow), I became my own one-man-band, playing requests and observing the weekly turnover of passengers (sorry, “guests”). I always managed to slip a few of my own compositions in. And in doing so, I gently exposed my audience to some very accessible jazz licks and phrases.
But I’d never let go of my original plan. I really wanted to score that record deal. I’d been chasing labels for the better part of three years, sending in my demo’s and waiting for their replies, which were usually a polite No Thanks and, if I was lucky, a brief apology that jazz guitar was a hard sell at the best of times and that it was no reflection on my talent and they were certain I’d soon find a home for my music. That last point largely contradicted the first point, but who am I to question a kind rejection? They could just as easily have not replied at all.
I reconfirmed Monday afternoon with Trev, who owns Collingwood Sound and who’d also composed one of the tunes we were going to demo; and then I rang Rudy, Ken and Dave to make sure it was still in their calendars.
It was.
And then I called Sal.
“Are you sure?” she said, the disappointment apparent in her voice.
“Convince me otherwise,” I said. “This woman could easily earn hundreds of pounds a day at Moonlight Desires. How much does she owe?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. But that’s the problem, isn’t it, Jase? She can’t keep working and stay safe from that loan shark. He’d track her down in a minute.” She paused. “Couldn’t you at least meet her and talk to her?”
I really didn’t want to.
But I also didn’t want to let Sal down. I would always owe her, big time, for getting me the gig aboard the Sapphire and turning my life around.
“Where’s she now?” I said.
“At the Crestone. I’ve comp’d her a room under my name for a couple of nights.”
“Would I be able to see her this afternoon?”
“Yes, of course. Do you want me to be there as well?”
“I think it would be best.”
“I’ll let her know. See you in the lobby at three?”
I glanced at the time. It was ten past two.
“In the lobby at three,” I confirmed.
