Frank, this lady is a friend of mine, the manager said, setting no more than one foot in the room. She wants to see the tapes from last night. Give her whatever she needs. And get her a glass of water. Shes pregnant.
With that, she turned and gave Maggie one last look. I have a twelve-year-old daughter at home. She hasnt seen her father in ten years. Youre smarter than I was. Best of luck.
Still bored, Frank pulled out a second swivel chair from under the work-bench that served as his desk, and nodded for Maggie to sit in it.
You know what time youre looking for?
Since she had assumed she was never going to get this far, she had not given a moments thought to the question. She tried to remember what Telegraph Tim had said earlier. There had been so many details, she had begun tuning out after a while. But he had told her, she was sure of it.
Did you hear what I said?
Im sorry. I need time to think.
He went back to his puzzles.
Twelve thirty. The estimated time of death; Tim had mentioned it twice. But when Forbess evening began, there was no way of knowing. He could have been here hours earlier. Would she really have to get Frank to spool through four or five hours of CCTV footage, looking for, what, a glimpse of a man Maggie had never met, whom she had seen only on television?
Television. That was it. She had watched Forbes give that live interview on TV while she sat in Stus office, before the meeting in the Residence. It had been just before eight. That would have been 9pm local time. And then, nearly an hour later, they had been interrupted with the statement Forbes had just released. That made it 10pm in New Orleans.
Frank, is there only one entrance and exit to this building?
Slowly, as if wrenching himself away from his Sudoku puzzle, the security guard brought his eyes to rest on Maggie. For staff or guests?
Guests.
Hmm-hmm, he said, by way of affirmation.
Anticipating her next question, he added, Besides, there aint no camera on the other one.
So this one it is, said Maggie, grateful to have one less decision to make. She rubbed her temples: haggling with the European Union at three in the morning over the right language for a cap-and-trade clause in a climate change treaty suddenly looked like a walk in the park.
As Frank punched the buttons that would bring up last nights recordings, Maggies BlackBerry chimed. A message from Stuart.
Call me urgently. Situation grave.
Anything here, maam?
She forced herself to come back to the moment. She had to concentrate.
Until now she had only been half-watching the faces going in and out. Shed ignored groups, especially those made up of the young. She had been looking for bald, middle-aged men which, given the Midnight Lounges clientele, did not narrow it down much.
She looked at the time-code clock at the top left of the screen. It was just past eleven. A procession of heavy men, thin men, black men, white men, men who looked furtive, men who looked flushed, men who looked like fumbling boys, men who looked like wifebeaters Christ, no wonder the manager had grown to hate the entire sex. And Maggie had only been staring at an hours worth of the Lounges customer base, and that was at 2x, twice normal speed.
Half-way through the second hour, at what would have been eleven thirty in real time, something caught Maggies eye.
It was not a man but a woman. Tall, her dark hair cut in a chic geometric bob, she instantly stood out from the rest: classier than the handful of other women the CCTV had picked up that night, who either wore the forlorn expression of the luckless wife bullied into playing along with her husbands threesome fantasy, or radiated the drunken, tottering jollity of the hen night.
Not that Maggie could see her face; she kept her head down. But she walked elegantly. And with something else too. Purpose.
And now she could see why. Walking a pace behind her, as if tugged by an unseen rope, was a man in a flat golfers cap pulled down low to conceal his face and a dark grey suit. He looked sharply left and right as he came out, slipping a tip into the hand of the bouncer on the door as he did so. He looked left and right again, this second sweep exposing his face to the CCTV camera. There was no sound, so there was no way of knowing if he was actually panting. But his eyes were almost bugging out with what Maggie could see, even from this grainy angle, was desire.
It was only then, once she had determined that this was a man leaving the Midnight Lounge with a beautiful woman he had picked up, that she thought to identify him. But there was no doubt about it.
She asked to freeze the frame, so that she could take a good, long look at the man who had stared so knowingly from the television set last night. For there, caught on tape and on heat, was none other than Vic Forbes.
22
New Orleans, Thursday March 23, 00.52 CST
Trying to sound as nonchalant as she could, she asked the guard next to her about the man on the screen. Do you recognize this man?
That your husband?
Do you recognize him?
Im not sure what Im meant to say here, maam.
You heard what your boss told you. Youre to help me out.
I dont know what would help you out, maam. For me to say I do recognize him or to say I dont.
How about you tell me the truth?
He looks kinda familiar, yes.
You know who that is? For a moment, she hesitated: was it possible this guard had seen Forbes on TV?
Well, I couldnt tell you his name, if thats what you mean, maam.
You couldnt?
Thats not how it works here. Were not meant to know anyones name. We never ask. Thats the whole point. Its not Cheers.
But youve seen him before?
Hes been here a coupla times.
A couple?
OK. Bit more than a couple.
Is he a regular?
Im sorry, maam. This must be real hard for you.
So hes a regular, yes?
The guard nodded.
And what about her? Maggie nodded towards the frozen image on the screen. The woman was only half in shot, at the extreme right of the picture.
The guard rewound and played the sequence back at half-speed: the head down, the sharp bob of hair, the elegant figure. Hard to tell, he said finally. He rewound the tape and stared at her intently. But the woman kept her head down, refusing to reveal her face.
Oh, OK. I can see who that is now.
She come here often too?
She works here.
Here? You mean I could go talk to her?
Youd have to ask the boss bout that. Mind you, she aint here today.
Maggie frowned, puzzled.
Shes a dancer. Started a couple of days ago, I think. But she didnt turn up for work today.
And do you remember her name?
Youre kidding, right?
No.
Like I said, its not Cheers.
I thought that was just for the guests.
OK, he said, allowing himself a small, patronizing smile, as if explaining to a naïve child the ways of the world. The girls have names. But theyre bullshit names. Mystery, Summer, all that shit.
So what was this one called?
I cant remember that, maam. Im sorry. Remember, I aint inside seeing the show. Im on the door.
Were you on the door last night?
Before he had a chance to answer, the door swung open. It was the manager. She smiled at Maggie. You got what you wanted?
I wouldnt say it was what I wanted.
The woman shifted her features into a pose of earnest concern. No, of course.
Frank, eager to seem helpful, gestured for his boss to come closer and to look at the screen. The lady wants to know who this is. I said she was new.
The manager leaned in for a closer look at the monitor and Maggie hurriedly suggested Frank rewind: she wanted to go back to the image of the woman alone, before Forbes entered the frame. The security guard might not be a cable TV viewer, with instant recall of the face of Vic Forbes, but she couldnt be so sure of the manager.
The outline of the woman now dominated the screen, the shape of her haircut the clearest feature. After a second or two, the club manager spoke. Franks right. Shes new. Started this week.
Who is she?
She dances under the name of Georgia, if that helps you.
You dont know her real name?
I never ask.
And she only started this week?
Right. She came in day before yesterday, I think. Offered to start right away.
Just like that.
Well, it wasnt a hard decision, if you know what I mean.
What do you mean?
The manager looked back up at the screen, a half-smile on her face. You think your husband left the club with this girl?
Maggie nodded, dipping her head: the anguish of the betrayed wife.
Well, you dont want to hear any more about it then, do you?
Maggie stared at her. You said it wasnt a hard decision. What did you mean?
I shouldnt have said anything. Im sorry.
What did you mean?
I just meant that she was- She hesitated, unsure how to put it. Unusual. In this place, I mean.
Maggie kept her eyes on the manager, leaving the silence hanging. Eventually the woman spoke again. Look, most of the girls in here look like strippers. Their nails are fake, their boobs are fake, their hairs fake. The college boys like those girls plenty, but the more upscale guests are looking for something real. Kind of the whole natural beauty thing. Theyll pay for that. Theyll come back for it again and again.
So you hired her straight away.
Yes. She was gorgeous, no doubt about it. She looked at Maggie, who was furrowing her brow in a show of wounded wifely love. Im sorry.
Maggie collected herself. And where is she now?
I dont know.
Dont worry. Im not going to go after her.
I wouldnt blame you if you did. But, Im telling you the truth: I dont know.
Did she not show up for work?
Not since last night, the manager said. Then, making the connection, she nodded towards the CCTV image on the screen: Not since then.
Have you tried to contact her?
I called her this evening. Her phone just rang.
Maggie looked down at her hands, digesting what she had heard.
The woman spoke again. Listen, sweetheart, you dont want to hang around a sleaze-pit like this. Why dont you and your baby go home, have a long soak in the tub, and put all this behind you. Chain the door and get the locks changed tomorrow. Hows that sound?
Maggie managed a watery smile. Thanks.
Im sorry you had to find out like this, honey. But better to find out now than later. Take it from me, that aint no fun. Not for you, not for your child.