Untouchable

by Ava Marsh

Genres: Female Sleuths; Suspense

Synopsis

Spend a night of sexual adventure with this gritty, debut thriller.

In a toxic world of lust, lies, and elegant hotels, London’s high-class escorts cater to the carnal appetites of powerful men. It’s a game Stella knows how to play, one that allows her to escape the nightmares of her past. The rules are simple: always leave your client satisfied, don’t get involved, and never disclose your real name. But when a fellow call girl is murdered, the game changes completely. And there’s only one rule—survival.

Once a respected professional, Stella knows how easily men can get away with murder—especially when the victim is a prostitute. Determined to get to the truth, she finds herself sucked into a deadly conflict with some of the world’s most powerful men. But while they may consider themselves above the law, there’s one secret every escort knows: no man is truly untouchable.
 

Release date: October 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 336

Sample

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PRAISE FOR UNTOUCHABLE

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

CHAPTER FIFTY

PROLOGUE

So, Grace,” he says. “Here we are.”

The temperature in the room drops several degrees. The breath catches in my throat and I swallow hard.

He knows my name.

He knows my fucking name.

“Why are you here?” I ask, struggling to keep any trace of fear from my voice. “What do you want?”

He smiles, finally, but it has no warmth in it. “I came to deliver something, Grace.” His tongue sliding over my name, caressing it.

“What?”

He raises his hand, and I flinch, but he strokes my cheek.

“A message from Michael.”

The hand drifts lower to my neck. He stares deep into my eyes, his features giving nothing away as his grip around me tightens, his fingers digging into my skin while his thumb traces the line of my throat. At the base, in the hollow where it joins my chest, he presses down. Not enough to stop my breathing. Just hard enough to make me very afraid indeed.

My pulse starts to sing in my head, and all I can feel is the constriction in my throat, this man’s breath on my cheek as he leans in and whispers three words in my ear. Three words like punches, like a kick to the guts.

“Michael says hello.”

ONE

THREE YEARS EARLIER

You expect more the first time you turn a trick. You hear about women who throw up the moment the client walks out the door. Some resort to hysterics, or the bottle. Others are overcome with remorse, resolving never to do it again.

In my case, nothing. He came. He came—eventually. And then he left.

Sliding the lock behind him, I felt no more than a vague sensation of having lost my virginity all over again. I walked into the bathroom and examined my face in the mirror above the sink. Searching, as after fumbled, hasty, anticlimactic sex at fifteen, for clues to what had changed.

Not much, it seemed. Same sleek dark hair, though underneath eyes more weary two decades on. The hint of a wrinkle I allowed to elude my focus, this not being the time for self-doubt.

So that’s that, I told my reflection. You’ve sold yourself for money. You’re a whore, Grace Thomas, a prostitute, a hooker, a harlot, a working girl.

I released myself from my own gaze, feeling slightly numb and slightly elated. I’d crossed the line and there was no going back.

Once a tart, always a tart. Another thing I’d never live down.

TWO

MONDAY, 19 JANUARY

Forget violent clients or venereal disease, the true scourge of working girls is tax returns—at least for those of us who bother to file one. How to describe your business, for instance? The get-out clause on every independent escort’s website—being paid purely for “time and companionship”—won’t wash with the Inland Revenue.

I opt for my standard evasion: personal therapist—vague enough to obscure the real source of my earnings, truthful enough to pass muster should anyone dig deeper. Grabbing my calculator and diary, I tot up my appointments. Three hundred and thirty-six hours at an average of £250 per hour gives me an income last year of . . . blimey . . . a gratifying £84K.

That’s before expenses, of course. I tap my pen against my teeth, trying to remember what I can claim for. Condoms and lube, certainly. Cost of website and updating photographs, yes. Taxi fares—probably.

But stockings? Clothing? Makeup? Brazilians? Vibrators? Batteries?

And how much for working from home? Assess how many rooms you use for business, suggests one website, and for what proportion of the day. Hmm. I see around half my clients as in-calls, here at my flat. So if I spend around seven hours a night sleeping in my bedroom and, say, an average of three or four a week fucking in it, what proportion does that make for business use?

And what about the lounge? If I screw someone on the sofa, does that count as using the room for work purposes?

The trill of my mobile cuts through my ruminations. I check the screen—a London landline. I answer on the fourth ring.

“Stella?” He sounds American. Or possibly Canadian—I can never tell the difference.

“Yes?”

“My name is Gerald. I wonder if you might be free this afternoon. For an hour?”

I think for a moment. I should really get this done—the deadline’s in a few days. “Where?” I ask.

“The Randolph Excelsior. Knightsbridge.”

I check the clock on my phone. It’s nearly one. “What time?”

“I was hoping two o’clock. Does that suit?”

Another set of calculations. An hour to finish this—or at least wrestle it into submission. Five minutes to eat. Ten to shower and run a razor over all the bits that count. Add ten to dress and slap on some makeup, fifteen to dash to Boots for more condoms, and at least twenty to get to the hotel.

“Three would be better,” I say.

He hesitates. “Three o’clock is too late. A quarter after two?”

I inhale, make up my mind. Tax dodging it is.

—

At exactly 2:15 P.M. I’m standing outside Room 759, savoring my last few seconds off the clock. And the anticipation. You never quite get over it, having no idea who’s about to appear at the door, knowing in just a matter of minutes you’ll be as intimate as two people can be. Suspense has proved an enduring aphrodisiac.

The door swings open to reveal a tall, slim man with an unexceptional face. Probably in his early fifties, judging by the lines around his eyes and the recession in his hairline. Though his teeth as he greets me are improbably white—I’m guessing he’s had them bleached.

Gerald Archer stands aside to let me in. I give the place a quick once-over. The room is larger than a standard suite, the bed flanked by two dark, solid bedside tables. The curtains and walls are all muted beige; even the art print on the wall confines itself to tasteful neutrals.

Meanwhile Gerald conducts his own evaluation, his face expressionless as he takes me in. I smile, but he barely responds, and I wonder with a slight lift in my stomach if this is going to be one of those occasions when a client gets cold feet. It happens sometimes. A crisis of conscience, perhaps, or simply a case of not particularly liking what he sees.

I hover in the middle of the room, waiting for some kind of reaction. Gerald’s lips lengthen into a tight smile. “Would you like a drink?”

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

He nods. Pours himself a Scotch from a bottle on the desk. Takes a sip and sets the glass back down.

“You warm enough?” He gestures toward the thermostat on the far wall.

“Thanks, I’m fine.” To prove the point I remove my jacket, folding it over the back of one of the armchairs.

Gerald eyes me again as the TV chatters away in the background. He makes no move to switch it off, but then I’ve lost count of the number of North American clients who think it’s perfectly normal to screw to a sound track of CNN.

“I apologize for it being rather last-minute,” he says finally.

“No problem.” I’m wondering now if I’m here because another girl canceled.

“I wasn’t sure of my schedule, you see. Not till this morning.” His lips barely move as he speaks, giving his face a shifty look. I glance at his feet. He’s wearing red socks, a blaze of color in a room full of understatement.

“You look nice,” he says, taking in my gray Whistles sheath dress and black executive-height stiletto boots. “Very chic.”

I relax a little. Perhaps I was actually his first choice.

Gerald picks up the whisky glass and downs the remainder, then steps toward me and plants his mouth on mine. Cut to the chase, why not? I taste the Scotch on his breath, and beneath it something more pungent. Garlic, maybe. I repress the urge to draw away. This, after all, is what I’m paid for—the willing suspension of disgust.

“I’ve been looking forward to fucking you,” he murmurs, drawing back, eyes locking with mine. His are the kind of blue that fades with age, surrounded by heavy lids that echo the hint of jowls along his jawline. Otherwise, he’s not too bad. Handsome, even—or at least was once.

“Do you mind?” I nod toward the TV. He reaches for the remote and switches it off, then slips an arm around my waist, dropping his head to kiss my neck.

No awkward small talk. No inane attempts to make this feel like anything other than what it is.

He releases me and I bend to unzip my boots, then take his hand and lead him to the bed. We undress each other quickly. He pushes me onto the pristine white sheets, burying his head in my crotch, his tongue drumming against my clitoris with an insistence that makes me flinch.

He doesn’t take the hint. I endure it for a minute or so, then fake an orgasm. Nothing showy. You don’t have to go all When Harry Met Sally. A hitch in your breath, a couple of urgent gasps, a final undulating moan—that usually does the trick.

Gerald lifts his head, chin glistening, eyes glinting with satisfaction. Nothing flatters a client more than thinking they’ve got you off; it’s the challenge, perhaps, or the reassurance. They may pay for every minute of your time, but most want to believe you’re enjoying it as much as they are.

And sometimes I am. Just not today.

“One second.” I slip off the bed and grab a condom from my bag, tossing it on the bedside table. It’s then I notice the book—an Anne Tyler novel, the one about the couple who marry during the war. Next to it a pair of reading glasses, lilac with small diamanté chips on the outside of the frames. The type only a woman would wear.

Why not hide them? I wonder. A simple omission, possibly, or is he trying to make me uncomfortable? I consider asking, then remind myself I’m not his therapist; I’m here to deal with his cock, not his cognitive style.

I turn back to Gerald, who’s stretched out on his back, arms folded behind his head, watching me. I avoid his gaze. Look instead at the dark nest of his pubic hair. There’s no sign of an erection, so I bend down and take him in my mouth, changing the rhythm as he enlarges, trying to keep my thoughts on the job at hand. Done with full concentration, fellatio can be almost meditative: just my mouth and a prick, a little dance of mutual satisfaction. But my mind keeps wandering to the glasses on the table.

No wonder he was so antsy about the time. I feel a wave of revulsion, and drag my focus back to his erection. Cocks, in themselves, are rarely repellent. It’s easier to hide your antipathy if you concentrate on this—the business end—rather than the dick it’s attached to.

“Stop.” A slight gasp in Gerald’s voice tells me I’m in danger of going too far.

I sit upright, offering him a languid smile. “Too much?”

“Nice,” he says, his eyes not quite meeting mine, “but maybe a bit too nice.”

“Let’s take a breather.” I glance at the travel clock on his bedside table. Still half an hour to go.

Three years in the business and I’ve learned that pace is everything. It’s not rocket science. You’re working on roughly one ejaculation an hour for most guys over thirty—any more is too much effort, and puts you at risk of going overtime; any less and, well, you can forget that repeat business.

But Gerald clearly has other ideas. “Come here.” He beckons me back up the bed. I fold myself into his outstretched arm. He reaches over and caresses my breast as I trace a line down his belly with my forefinger and curl my hand around his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze of encouragement. I don’t want him wilting on me.

Premature ejaculation and a flaccid penis—Scylla and Charybdis, the rock and the hard place. The two hazards every working girl has to navigate.

Twisting round, I grab the condom from beside the clock. Rip the foil with my teeth, checking it over briefly before unfurling it over him. It’s tight, the rubber extending only two-thirds of the way up his shaft and pinching a bit at the top. It’ll have to do—Boots was all out of large.

I sit up and straddle him, lowering myself onto his erection. Gerald closes his eyes as he eases into me, slowly, firmly, lifting his hips to meet my downward thrust. I toss out a few responsive noises, until Gerald stops moving. He pulls out and removes the condom, then pushes me on my back and thrusts his cock in my mouth. A few jerks and he shudders into stillness. I swallow fast, but the hot, saline tang of his semen scalds my taste buds and I fight the urge to grimace.

“Well . . .” Gerald says as I wipe my lips with my fingers. “That was fun.”

“Mmmm.” I try to sound appreciative.

Gerald sinks back into the pillow. His face is impassive, his mouth a half smile.

“So tell me, Stella.” His tone deeper now, more relaxed. His gaze cool. Assessing. “Does your boyfriend mind?”

“Mind what?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You doing this.”

I eye him steadily. “Does your wife?”

Gerald’s left eyelid twitches. Slowly, stiffly, his lips contract, then he looks away. He’s up and off the bed before I can even think how to excuse myself. Wrapping himself in a dressing gown, he retrieves his jacket and, with a tight expression, hands me the envelope.

“Thanks,” I say, taking this as a dismissal. I dress quickly, silently. Gerald stands with his back to me, pretending to examine something outside the window. Turns only as I head for the door. His cheeks are flushed and I can’t tell if it’s from the sex or my verbal indiscretion.

“A word of advice, Stella.” His voice has a hint of quaver; there’s a tension in his expression as he speaks. “When you manage thirty years of marriage, you get to judge. Okay?”

I nod, genuinely abashed. Let myself out the door.

Neither of us bothers with good-bye.

—

Pressing the button for the lift, I dig in my bag for my inhaler. Release a blast of albuterol deep into my throat. My chest feels hot and tight. I want to get out of here, into the fresh air, find the nearest bar or café. Get something to chase away the taste of Gerald, of this whole inglorious episode.

What the hell happened back there? I ask myself as I will the lift to arrive. I never used to be so touchy. I’d let the crap clients said wash right over me, just deleted it in my head, like so much junk mail.

Another minute passes. I press the button again. Wonder if I should take the stairs. At that moment the lift doors slide open. I dart in, too fast to see the woman exiting. We collide awkwardly, and I drop my bag.

Half a dozen little foil packets spill onto the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, though it was conspicuously my fault.

“No, no. It was me.” I stoop down to grab the condoms. Praying she hadn’t time to register what they are.

“These elevators you have over here,” she says, in a distinctly American accent. “They’re so small. It does take some getting used to.”

I stand to see a middle-aged woman, a Hobbs shopping bag in one hand, a man’s suit fresh from the dry cleaner’s in the other. My cheeks start to burn. My hand trembles as I fumble with the clasp on my handbag. I force myself to look at her face: worn, plump, but amiable. Kind.

Giving me the benefit of the doubt.

“I’m so sorry.” I jab the button for the ground floor. “All of it. Entirely my fault.”

Her smile is warm. “Don’t worry, dear. These things happen.” The lift door closes between us, sparing me the sight of her walking away.

But not the sinking, certain feeling that I know exactly where she’s heading.

THREE

FRIDAY, 23 JANUARY

I’m halfway through my Murakami novel when the phone rings, its shrill sound filling the tiny room. I answer the call, giving the name of the center.

No response.

I repeat the name. This time it’s followed by a muffled sob.

“I’m listening,” I say. “I won’t hang up. I’ll wait until you’re ready.”

No reply. I let a minute pass. I can’t make out much, only the occasional sniff, and start to wonder if it’s another prank call. You wouldn’t believe how many people think it’s funny to ring up a rape crisis center and jerk us around. And not only bored kids—plenty of so-called adult males.

“Do you want to talk?” I ask. “I don’t mind. I’m happy to stay here if you just need somebody on the end of the line.”

A voice clears its throat. I’m fairly sure it’s female.

“I don’t know what to say.” She’s barely audible, but I can hear she’s young. Probably a fair bit younger than me.

“How about you start by telling me what happened?”

A wet, sniveling noise followed by a long, low howl. “He . . . he . . . oh God, I can’t.”

A click, then the dial tone.

I put down the phone and rest my elbows on the desk. Glance up at the clock. Forty minutes to go before Stacy arrives to take over. It’s a Friday night—generally our busiest time—and we try to keep the lines open till midnight. We’d keep them open longer if we could get the funding.

Through the glass in the door I see Mel, one of the outreach workers, mime drinking a cup of tea. I give her a thumbs-up just as the phone rings again.

“Sorry,” a voice says on the other end of the line. Hers.

“No need to be.”

“I just . . . I feel so . . .” She goes silent.

“Embarrassed? It’s hard to talk about something so personal, isn’t it?”

She clears her throat again. “Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me your name? Your first name. It’s good to know what I should call you.”

“Andrea.”

“Thank you, Andrea. And my name is Grace. How about I ask you some questions. You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Okay,” she says uncertainly.

“Did this happen recently?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask how long ago?”

She coughs. “I’m not sure exactly. A few hours.”

“And you’re alone now?”

“Yes. They’ve gone.”

They. I swallow. “So you’re safe, then. No one can get back in?”

“Only my flatmate, but she’s on holiday. She’s not home till Sunday.”

“I see. Andrea, can I ask you if you’ve got any injuries?”

“How do you mean?”

“Cuts, bruises. Perhaps a bump on the head. If so, you should get it checked out straightaway. If you think you need to, I can call an ambulance.”

She coughs. “No, I’m all right.”

“You’re not bleeding anywhere?”

“No . . . I don’t think so.” She starts crying again. A whimpering sound like an animal in pain.

I let her continue for a moment, then ask: “Andrea, do you feel strong enough to tell me what’s gone on?”

“Okay,” she gurgles, and coughs again.

“In your own time. No pressure.”

A sigh, like her breath collapsing. “There were two of them.”

“Do you know who they are?”

“Yes. Well, no, not really. One of them is called Michael. I don’t remember the other one’s name.”

Michael. Something ignites inside me, a curl of dread and dismay. The desire for a cigarette blooms and I have to crush it before I can speak. “How do you know him?”

From the café, she tells me, across from the travel agency where she works. He asked her out when she called in for her morning coffee, suggesting a drink in a local pub. It went all right, she says. His mate joined them briefly, then disappeared.

“I made my excuses after an hour or so, and he asked if we could do it again. I said maybe and left it at that. I could tell he was disappointed, but to be honest, I just wasn’t that into him. I didn’t think . . .”

She stops. I hear her inhale, then release it slowly. Imagine her heart racing as she remembers. One of the first things you learn as a psychologist is that processing memories and feelings is the primary treatment for any trauma.

But that doesn’t make it easy.

“He must have followed me home,” Andrea continues. “About five minutes after I got back the doorbell rang and it was him. He wanted to come in, but I said no. He asked, why not? Was anyone else there? But he knew there wasn’t. He knew my flatmate Dana was on holiday because I’d told him . . .”

She sniffs, followed by the sound of her blowing her nose. She’s crying again. Mel lets herself in silently and places a mug of tea on my desk, along with a chipped china plate topped with a couple of chocolate biscuits.

“How could I have been so stupid?” Andrea’s voice is full of self-reproach. “I’d said I’d got Dana this really cheap deal to Crete and he’d asked when she was getting back and I told him. I didn’t think anything about it.”

Forethought, I realize, making a note. Premeditation. Michael, you cunning little fuck.

“Then he pushed his way through the door and he . . . the other one . . . was suddenly there behind him. And . . . and . . .” Her voice breaks off. That wounded noise again.

“And they raped you,” I say. “Forced you to have sex.”

It isn’t a question. More a statement of fact.

“Yes,” she sobs. “Michael first, then him. Twice.”

Michael. Even hearing that name makes me want to vomit. The coincidence of it. And despite myself I’m picturing his face. Him attacking this girl. Though I know it can’t be. That Michael is still inside.

I take a deep breath, place the pen down on the pad, and pull myself together. “Andrea?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, honey. I’d like to suggest a couple of options, but you don’t have to do either if you don’t want to. I recommend you go to one of the sexual assault referral centers. I don’t know where you live and you don’t have to tell me, but I can give you some addresses or a link to their websites. They can check you’re not hurt and can do a forensic assessment, if you’re undecided about going to the police.”

I pause, but she doesn’t speak.

“Or you can go straight to your local police station. Is there anybody who could go with you?”

A long sigh at the end of the line. “What’s the point?” says her voice. “We both know what will happen.”

“The police are obliged to . . .”

“They’ll say I invited them, that I consented. There’ll be witnesses to us all drinking together in the pub.”

“Andrea, we can’t be sure that—”

“Yes, we can,” she cuts in. “I’m not stupid. I’ve read how hard it is to get a conviction. I wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d make me look like a slut, like I asked for it.”

I open my mouth to object, then change my mind. Because the fact is she’s right—and I know better than anybody how right she is.

“I only wanted to talk,” she says. “I don’t want to take this any further. I just needed someone to know the truth.”

Andrea starts crying again, heavy, resigned sobs. And I think of those two men and wonder where they are right now. If they have any real sense of what they’ve done.

Then I wonder whether they’ve done it before—or will again.

A rush of heat. Of anger. I have to clear my throat before I can speak.

“Okay, Andrea, I understand. But think it over, will you? You could go and get the forensics done and then decide.” I try to keep my tone calm and measured.

“It’s too late,” she says miserably. “I’ve washed myself, my hair, down there . . . everything. And put all the sheets in the washing machine.” A pause. “I’d throw them away, but they’re not mine. They took me into Dana’s room.”

I suppress a groan. Wonder if she’ll tell her flatmate when she gets back from Greece, or remake the bed so it looks like nothing ever happened. I get a picture of Andrea, sitting alone in her flat, the phone in her hand, and my heart aches for her.

I lift my gaze from the desk to stare at the bare walls of Consultation Room Two. We never use this place for face-to-face work, so there’s little to alleviate the starkness, save a cork notice board studded with aging council notices and a list of referral numbers.

“Is there anybody you could ask over, Andrea? A friend? Family?”

Another pause. “I think I’d rather be on my own.”

Then I’m certain. She won’t tell anyone. For the rest of her life and mine, I’ll be the only other person who knows what happened in that flat this evening. She’ll bury it inside and let it fester, until her whole world is poisoned by what seeps out.

I squeeze my forehead with my left hand, pinching the skin above my nose until it hurts. I have no more advice. And no more questions.

Just a prayer she’ll somehow be spared.

“Grace,” she says suddenly. “That’s a lovely name.”

“Thank you.”

“Like in the hymn.” She sniffs. “I always loved that one.”

“Me too.”

“Grace, I have to go now.” A sigh. Resigned and heavy. “Thank you for listening. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.”

“It’s what I’m here—”

A click on the end of the line.

FOUR

THURSDAY, 29 JANUARY

Cruising past a line of black limousines, the black cab deposits me at the entrance of the Mayfair hotel with a good twenty minutes to spare. The po-faced concierge barely gives me a glance as I stride through the lobby. Not surprising, since I’m dressed more demurely than half his female guests.

I check my makeup in the ground-floor loos, then install myself in one of the leather seats with a panoramic view of the lobby, its giant chandeliers and high-polish art deco glory. The eyes of the concierge settle on me briefly before sliding off toward the main door. I cross my legs and smooth down my skirt. Hard to tell whether he’s sussed me out or not.

Not