New Serial: The Slave World (1)

(1): Stolichnaya

“I'm being watched! Night and day! I know I am! Everyone says it's my imagination, but it's not – they haven't seen what I've seen and I know I'm being watched!”

Oh-kay. I sat back in my swivel chair and adopted the caring sympathetic expression I give to all my lovely clients when they first walk through the door of my office in King's Cross, London. There's this thing I do - I call it 'my thing' (original, huh?) - and it's when I meet a client for the first time I try to deduce something about them up front.

Yes, I know, like Sherlock Holmes, yes. Everyone says that.

Rebecca Miles was obviously from a privileged background; you could tell just from her voice, the way she moved like she'd spent her teenage years in some finishing school in Geneva where an elderly Lady called Mrs Haversham taught debutantes to walk in a straight line with a book balanced on her head, and from the obvious money she must have spent on her appearance. Professional makeup, expensive hair cut, beautiful nails, all just perfect, not to mention the elegant clothes. She had that look of entitlement which probably meant she lived in some Chelsea town house and hosted dinner parties on a par with Nigella Lawson.

She had dramatically long light brown hair with sun kissed highlights, exquisitely layered and parted that looked shiny and well cared for. She wore an expensive asymmetrical checked wrap over button down mini dress with three quarter length sleeves, and 'over the knee' high heeled boots in a soft granite suede finish. And then there was the sexy all year round St Tropez tan and perfect dazzling white teeth. Everything about her screamed privilege.

God knows what she made of my run down King's Cross office. It was a simple two room 'flat' for want of a better word with blinds on the windows that had been white once, a desk and chairs for meeting clients and a small kitchen unit adjoining the office, complete with a chipped Wonder Woman mug. And yeah, I had a filing cabinet, even though I kept most of my files on my iMac. The filing cabinet is useful for stashing bottles of vodka because if there's one private detective cliché I subscribe to it's illicit drinking. That's why I keep a stash of extra strong peppermints in the top drawer of my desk. You never know when a client like Rebecca Miles is going to turn up expecting to see a private detective who is sober.

I nudged the empty vodka glass with my left toe so that it slid under the desk where Rebecca wouldn't see it. Professional to a fault, that's me.

Oh yes, and I'm Caitlin Ambrose of Ambrose Investigations, AKA 'Cat' to my friends; sole owner, manager and investigator of, if not the classiest agency in King's Cross, certainly one of the friendliest. I'll let you have a glass of vodka if you want one.

“So you have a stalker then, Miss Miles?” Probably some entitled public school boy called Rupert with a trading desk in the city, a floppy fringe and an ongoing coke habit who met her at a garden party and wouldn't take no for an answer. Cases like that are my bread and butter and simple enough to investigate. It's just a case of compiling a dossier of evidence against the guy and handing it over to the police to take from there, if scaring him with legal threats doesn't work. These days you can tell them they may lose their job over it. That usually works. Charge by the hour and it keeps me in Marks and Spencer's ready meals for a month or so.

Yeah, I'm not a good cook. I'd make a rotten housewife. A romantic meal around my place consists of two microwave 'ready in four minutes' tagliatelle in white wine sauce dishes and a bottle of 25% off red wine from Waitrose. If I really like you there may be a 'take it out of the freezer' box of profiteroles to finish.

I'm such a hot classy chick, guys.

“A stalker? No, if only it were that simple...” said Rebecca. She looked scared. That's the second thing about her. Genuinely scared.

“I take it you've been to the police already?” It's unlikely I'd be her first port of call. The police response to harassment incidents is usually pretty pathetic. They'll go round and talk to the guy but until he does something they'll basically just tell the woman to take reasonable precautions and keep a record of any incidents that might occur. Fucking useless, so that's where I come in.

“The police are...” just thinking about it made her even more distraught. “Oh God, you're going to think I'm crazy...”

“Not at all. Whatever has happened, I'm on your side, Miss Miles. Obviously your experience with the police hasn't been a good one. Okay, we'll get to that, but rest assured I've got lots of experience in dealing with stalkers and harassment. We'll get this sorted. Just take a deep breath, have a moment if you need one and then I'll take some notes, okay?”

She sniffed, picked up her designer handbag from the floor, produced some tissues and dabbed gently at her moist eyes while I watched.

“It's been a nightmare. I can't sleep. My friends have been no help at all. I feel trapped, and I know they're coming for me and...”

“Okay,” I leaned forward at the desk and took up a notebook and pen. “So what's the name of the guy who's been hassling you?'

“I don't know. And it's not just one man.”

“Not just one man?” This was a new one for me. You didn't as a rule get multiple stalkers.

“No, I don't know how many of them there are. They watch me and they don't mind that I see them in the street, outside my apartment, when I go to work... it's almost as if they want to drive me to despair before they come for me. And this morning... oh God, this morning when I woke up...” She broke down in tears, resting that perfect beautiful face in her equally beautiful cupped hands.

“What happened this morning, Miss Miles?”

“The doors to my apartment were locked! The windows too! There was no sign of anyone having broken in. No forced entry.” She stared at me with tears in her eyes. “And yet...”

“You were burgled?”

“No! Just listen to me!” she snapped. “Why doesn't anyone just listen to me!”

I leaned back in my swivel chair and just nodded.

“When I woke up, I was still in my bed, but... but...” she sobbed again. “They used an indelible marker of some kind on me while I slept. They lifted the hem of my night dress and marked me...”

“Marked you?” This was sounding more bizarre by the minute. “Marked you how?”

“I'll show you. I'll show you so that you don't think i'm imagining this!” She rose to her feet and, with some slight hesitation, lifted the hem of that expensive button down mini dress. There just below the lace of her delicate pink silk knickers I could clearly see what resembled a cursive letter 'k' high up on her left thigh. It had been drawn there in an indelible red marker pen.

“What is that?” I asked.

Or more to the point, why had someone marked her left thigh with it?

“It's a kef,” she said in despair.

“A kef?”

“The first letter of the word 'kajira'!”

“I'm sorry, I have no idea what that means.”

“No, no you wouldn't. And you're happier not knowing. Oh, if you only knew... you'd like awake at night staring at the fragile locks on your apartment door, afraid to go to sleep like me...”

“Let me get this straight, Miss Miles. A man, or more than one man, entered your apartment last night while you slept, and he marked your left thigh with a pen? Did he do anything else to you?”

“No! No... I don't think so... I wasn't violated... he just lifted my night dress about my hips and marked me kajira.”

That word again. It sounded quite beautiful actually.

“Well this is certainly abuse. And you told the police?”

The beautiful and exquisitely dressed Rebecca Miles blushed. “I was interviewed by a female police officer. She asked me to show her what happened. I showed her the mark in a private interview room. She looked at the mark in silence for several seconds and then she simply said one word.”

“Which was?”

“Slut.” The beautiful Rebecca Miles of Chelsea squeezed her eyes shut. “She knew what the symbol meant! She recognised it!”

“A police woman called you a slut when you went to the station to report abuse?” I was shocked. “You reported her, yes?”

“No! I didn't dare. She knew! She told me to pull my skirt back in place and go home. She knew! I was marked as a kajira!”

Okay. This was just getting weirder and weirder.

“When did all this start?”

“A week ago. After I visited the book shop.”

“The book shop? I think it's probably a good idea if you tell me your story from the beginning, Miss Miles.”

“Have you got anything to drink?” said Rebecca suddenly.

“Um, yes, actually, I do.” I swivelled round to face the filing cabinet. Bottom drawer. Stolichnaya vodka. Cheap and cheerful. Does the trick every time.

I showed Rebecca Miles the bottle and when she nodded I found a couple of glasses that hadn't been on the floor. One of them was even clean. I poured two generous shots and handed the clean glass to Rebecca. To my surprise she downed it in one. With a shrug and an amused smile I poured her a second shot.

“Okay, from the beginning,” I said.

She stared at her glass for a while before she seemed to summon the courage to revisit the events of the last few days. And then she spoke those fateful words.

“Have you ever heard of Gor, Caitlin...?”