The Slave World (20)

(20): Canary Wharf

My waking hours were now punctuated by three hourly alerts on my phone to remind me to text Adam. I was browsing through Selfridges in Oxford street when the next alert pinged. I smiled as I fished out the phone. This ‘game’ we were playing now kept us thinking of one another. Every three hours I would be reminded of Adam and every three hours a photo text from me would remind Adam of Caitlin Ambrose. I stood by rails of clothes and snapped a selfie as I stood with one hand on my hip and a coy look on my face. I typed the words ‘kajira pose’ and pressed send.

It didn’t take long for a reply to come back: ‘are you shopping?’

‘Yes, I’m in Selfridges. I’m looking for some new tops.’

‘Never mind that. Buy some decent underwear. Those plain cotton briefs you wear are being thrown out tonight. Send me photos of your choices for my approval before you buy them.’

My eyes practically popped out as I read that. Adam was instructing me to buy new underwear? I felt that giddy thrill again of being given an order. Well, not an order exactly – more of a request. I mean, he didn't really own me...

‘I like my plain simple cotton underwear,’ I typed back. 'It’s very comfortable.’

Yes, this was a fun game. I waited for the inevitable reply.

‘Well I don’t. You’ll wear silk underwear from now on, kajira. You don't have a say in this.’

Silk underwear. The thought excited me again. And then a thought crossed my mind. Was he planning on seeing me in my underwear any time soon?

‘How do you know what I’ll be wearing underneath my street clothes anyway?’ I pressed send.

‘Because when you're next at my apartment we're going to have a long conversation about where we're going with this evolving relationship and I've just decided that you'll be wearing your new underwear and nothing else while we talk, and kneeling,’ came the shocking reply.

Oh… my… god… I think my cheeks flushed red as I scanned those words for the third time.

‘You honestly think I’m going to kneel in my underwear when I visit you?’

‘Yes. We’ve known each other as friends for several years, but I think our relationship is changing significantly since we visited the House of Three Moons. I can’t forget how I felt when Kimina led you into the room that night at the end of a leash. You really don't want to know what was going through my mind when we were alone together in that bedroom. I’m glad you wear my ankle ring, kajira. If we were on Gor I'd probably have collared you.’

Wow. Adam was talking about his feelings for me! I laughed at the cheeky suggestion that he would have collared me on Gor. This was hot stuff. My fingers fumbled as I typed back as quickly as I could. 'Feel the same way. Things have changed since that night. We need to talk. Lots! Keep thinking of you. Not sure I should actually say that. Blushing a bit now.’

I spent an hour in the lingerie department, exploring under garments that I had never considered wearing before. The fabrics were so soft, shimmering, edged in lace and often very skimpy. I took photos of some of the matching bra and knickers sets that I thought Adam might like and we soon came to an understanding which ones I should buy. I left the department store that afternoon with a feather light shopping bag and a hefty hit to my credit card.

Shopping in Selfridges was supposed to have just been a way of killing time before I was due to call round and see Rebecca Miles for the first time since I had followed her stalkers to the House of Three Moons. I had a dossier with me that I was going to present and talk about personally. The findings were interesting to say the least and they prompted a question or two for which I might get some much needed answers.

I stopped for a coffee before taking the tube to the Canary Wharf development where Rebecca lived. This area of London was busy during the day but practically dead at weekends. Rebecca had a flat in one of the newer developments close to the river. By the time I got there the three hour alarm rang on my phone again. I sat on the Docklands Light Railway and snapped a photo which I subtitled ‘kajira on a train. So glamorous!’ I don’t know why I was thinking of myself in terms of being Adam’s kajira. I didn’t really think of myself as a slave despite the fact the Goreans considered me to be one. It was a game I suppose, a sexy game between Adam and myself that enabled us to flirt like rabbits on viagra.

Adam texted back to say ‘come round tonight. I want you to model the lingerie in person.’

‘Could model the lingerie at my place and just send you pictures?’ I wrote back.

I didn’t get a reply. The minutes ticked by and there was no reply. I scrolled back to see if what I'd typed could be misconstrued as stand-offish, but no, it was playful flirting designed to try and edge him towards being dominant. I waited five minutes and then texted again: ‘busy?’ Still nothing. I felt a bit miffed. Adam normally got back to me quickly, but perhaps he was in the middle of something. I put my phone away and got off at my stop. Rebecca lived maybe five minutes from the railway line, so I headed through the barriers with my Oyster card and followed the street signs to her road.

I checked my phone again just before I buzzed Rebecca’s door. Zero text messages. ‘kajiras are like cats – they don’t like to be ignored,’ I typed and sent. And then I thought maybe that was too pushy so I quickly added, ‘only kidding, Adam. You’re obviously busy. Catch up later? - your too-needy kajira. x’

Rebecca lived on the third floor and if I was surprised by Adam’s apartment because it was better than expected then I was equally surprised by Rebecca’s apartment but this time because it was smaller than I expected. For some reason I thought Rebecca was extremely wealthy and owned some wide open plan penthouse overlooking the Thames. While there was no doubting that the apartment was expensive (easily two thirds of a million pounds) it somehow wasn’t as good as I thought it might be. She welcomed me in through the hallway and then into the lounge which did indeed overlook the river. The place was simply furnished with good upholstery, a few tasteful paintings hanging on sun kissed off-white walls and a couple of pieces of modern sculpture. In fact her taste in décor wasn't that different to Adam’s though with more feminine touches here and there, such as the scatter cushions and fresh flowers. I had already researched the apartment and knew the floor layout and where the various rooms were situated. There would be two bedrooms, a kitchen/diner and a decent size bathroom.

“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Miles,” I said as I placed the shopping bag of scanty silk things near the door. In my other hand I held a small file. “How have you been?”

“There’s been very little let up, Caitlin. The only change has been that if I’m still being followed then the men are being more cautious these last few days as I haven’t seen them. I feel they’re still watching me, but they’re no longer being obvious about it. I’ve had little sleep and my appetite is non-existent through nerves. I don’t know how long I can keep going like this. Please tell me you’ve made some progress?”

“I’ve certainly made progress,” I said as I placed the folder on the coffee table.

“Would you like something to drink?” asked Rebecca as she eyed the folder with interest.

“Please. Some coffee would be good.” I watched as she smiled and headed back through the doorway towards her kitchen. I took the opportunity to check my phone again like some pathetic lovesick teenager. Nothing.

I fired off another text: ‘am with Rebecca Miles at the moment. May need to speak to you about this later. Have found something. Will be deliberately cryptic as a pitifully desperate excuse to see you...’ I added an ironic self deprecating smiley face to that and sent it.

Rebecca returned after ten minutes with two steaming mugs of dark coffee, some milk and sugar. I took mine dark with half a spoonful of sugar and stirred the cup as Rebecca didn’t touch hers.

“So how much trouble am I in?” she asked as she leaned forward, looking anxious. She wore a soft candy striped blouse, pale blue jeans and cream high heeled sandals.

“Well, that’s the million dollar question, Miss Miles,” I said as I sipped the coffee. It tasted good, but not as good as the coffee from Adam's espresso machine. “You haven’t been imagining things. You are under surveillance and I believe the men do want to abduct you. There is a Gor connection, and I know where they’re based. The men are dangerous and surprisingly well resourced. I’m sorry if all this sounds scary, but I have first hand experience that these men pose a genuine threat to you.”

I watched as Rebecca placed her head in her hands. “Do we go to the police?” she asked. “I’m not sure I can go to the police.”

“No, I suppose you can’t,” I said with a knowing smile.

“What do you mean?” Rebecca looked up through her fingers.

“I mean, it would be very difficult for you to go to the police wouldn’t it?” I leaned back in the armchair as I regarded her. “You know, I've been trying to work out this last day or two whether you’re just incredibly stupid, or whether you think I’m incredibly stupid. I hope it’s not the latter. My feelings are easily hurt.”

Rebecca lowered her hands as she gazed at me. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, but I think you do. Do you know what happens when you hire a private investigator? We investigate, but not just our target we look into our client too. There are sometimes connections you see, things that help the case, details you may not have considered. So yeah, I do a lot of homework. I'm very professional like that.”

I watched her blink. I watched that nervous tic on her face that I had seen once before when she had first described the men following her.

She knew that I knew, but I guess she didn't know quite how much I knew.

“So... we both know there is no chance of you going to the police, because the truth is Rebecca Miles doesn't exist, does she?”

“Caitlin, I...” she suddenly looked even more scared than that day she had first entered my office.

“You're no more 'Rebecca Miles' than I am. I guess that explains all the payments I've had from you in used bank notes. I'm guessing you don't actually have a Rebecca Miles bank account?”

“No...”

“Didn't think so. By the way, just a heads up for next time you do something like this, paying in cash always makes me suspicious. It's incredibly easy to find out that a client is using a name with no public record. Took me all of ten minutes. The only reason I don't think you're trying to fuck me over is the simple fact that anyone even remotely resourceful would have at least some evidence or paperwork to back up the false identity in case I checked. Are you really using a false name without any corroborating credentials whatsoever?”

“Yes.” Rebecca shrank back on her sofa and curled up with her knees close to her chest. “I don't know how to...”

“So the question then is who are you.” I could see that 'Rebecca' was about to speak but I waved her quiet. “It's okay, I already know your real name. See, here's the thing – I'm really bad at house work. I mean a week can go by without me doing the washing up. So that vodka glass you drank from – its still got your finger prints on it, and finger prints tell me everything I need to know. It cost me three hundred pounds through someone I know on the dark web. Hello, Jennifer Alivia Larner.”

“Caitlin, it's not what you...”

“This cardboard file here, it's your life story as sourced from various records. Three hundred pounds, that's all it takes. I'm charging you that as expenses by the way, and don't even think of not paying. You're the widow of Charles Hugo Larner, who it appears is one of the world's richest men, or was until he died of a stroke nine months ago. That makes you one of the world's richest women now, so what exactly are you doing in a seven hundred thousand pound flat overlooking Canary Wharf, and why am I the best you can afford to hire?”

“The flat is a courtesy flat for employees who need to work in London. I've been using it for a few weeks now. Caitlin I'm so sorry, I didn't want to lie to you, but...

“Hold that thought,” I said as I now opened the card file. “You see I could ask you a lot of questions, but there's really just one burning question I need to ask you, and I think we both know what that question is, don't we?” I said as I spread four glossy photographs along the coffee table.

Now she knew I knew.

The photos were of her, dated 1987, 1993, 2007 and most recently 2022. “Fingerprints don't lie, so I want an explanation for these photos of you.” I tapped each one in turn, “because in this one you're 47 years old; this one you're 53 years old; this one you're 67 years old and in the last one you're 82 years old.” There was no doubting those ages from the way she looked in each shot. By the last one her face was heavily wrinkled from years of sunbathing on luxury yachts anchored off the south coast of France and her thinning white hair was drawn back in an elegant pony tail. But each photo was unmistakably her, just progressively older.

I sat back again and regarded the girl I'd assumed was in her early twenties. “Time for you to talk, I think.”