The Troika Dolls Page 2

  There was little about Douglas and Sandy’s life that was not documented, celebrated, criticised and publicised. They were not, as her indomitable grandmother Didi would have put it, shirking violets.

  A blow-wave of hairdressers burst through the Ritz revolving doors. Stevie counted five from her position in a gilded armchair facing the door. Their deep tans, stiff highlights and large black cases marked them easily. The leader of the wave drifted to the front desk and announced his intention to ascend to the suite of Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle. Loud enough, oh yes, so that most of the lobby could hear.

  Good luck, thought a bored Stevie, stretching her drying toes. She’d been here twenty minutes just waiting for permission to access their floor.

  The posse moved without delay towards the lift and disappeared to the upper floors.

  In astonishment, Stevie stubbed her half-smoked cigarette, gathered up her bag and approached the front desk.

  ‘Excuse me. Are you certain Mr Hammer and Miss Belle know I am waiting to see them?’ she asked, keeping her voice mild.

  Another call was put through. Then, ‘Madam, yes they do. They are ready to receive you now. The Berkley Suite is on the seventh floor. The lift is on your—’

  ‘Right. Yes. Thank you.’

  Under the rather unforgiving, she thought, lift lights, Stevie smoothed her hair and checked her face for smudges of mascara. Presentable.

  Did Douglas Hammer and Sandy Belle have reason to fear for the safety of their five-month-old son, Kennedy-Jack? They were moving to London and had requested the services of Hazard. Stevie would probably recommend the kidnap package which included surveillance-awareness training for the parents, discreet bodyguards that went wherever the baby did, some defensive driving techniques, and detailed home security. The services of a negotiator would also be possible as an extra, should the worst happen.

  Stevie had found that training made the HVTs feel safer and more prepared. Training would calm the fears of the parents in this case and make them more aware of what situations posed an elevated risk, and at what times they would be relatively safe. Existing in constant fear, and not feeling like there was anything you could do about it, was not living. The latest research Stevie had read found that this situation, when replicated in laboratory rats, produced severe neurosis.

  The door to the suite was answered by a woman dressed in a black lycra dance-top and soft shoes, all gentle curves and bumps. She was midway through a conversation via headset that continued at full volume as she waved Stevie into the room.

  It smelt of expensive scent and cleaning products and food and body odour all at once.

  Stevie’s first view of the celebrated Sandy Belle in the flesh was utterly confusing. The star was lashed into a motorised contraption that consisted of rubber strapping tightly buckled to her limbs and torso, which vibrated at high speed then shifted, as if into different gear, to an even higher speed. Sandy Belle, to make matters worse, was groaning. Stevie was horrified but no one seemed to be taking any notice.

  She looked around for Douglas Hammer, caring husband and dashing dresser, tabloid darling, feeder of orphaned masses, five-time Oscar nominee and inveterate collector of fine cars. He was sitting in front of a large mirror surrounded by the hairdressers, ants on a biscuit crumb. A man was filming him with a tiny digital camera.

  Hammer was very handsome, in his early forties, tanned and slimline, dark brown eyes and hair. He was also naked to the waist. All eyes were on Douglas’ reflection, none appeared to even hear the cries of the agonised Sandy Belle. Nor did they appear to notice Stevie.

  The torture machine picked up even more speed, Sandy groaned louder, her body rolled and tossed like a cloth doll, her copper-coloured ponytail whipping the air in a fury.

  Stevie stopped one of Sandy’s black-clad assistants. There were five that she could count.

  ‘Is Miss Belle alright? She doesn’t sound very well.’ Stevie approached the machine, intent on some kind of intervention.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried one.

  ‘Don’t touch the gyroniser! It cost a quarter of a million pounds!’ pitched in another.

  ‘Sandy Belle has three of them,’ cried yet another. Stevie looked for the one who had spoken last.

  What?

  Finally Sandy Belle came to a stop, shiny-red in the face, but recovered enough to speak for herself, or rather, to allow others to speak for her.

  ‘This is Stevie Duveen, Sandy, from Risk Dangers.’

  ‘Sandy’s exercising. This is not really a great time.’

  ‘The gyroniser is the latest in cellulite treatment, originally developed by NASA scientists to prevent muscle wastage in astronauts. Fascinating.’

  Stevie was surrounded. She fought panic like a gulp of bile in the back of her throat. There seemed to be an endless number of small round people dressed in black: headsets, tiny hands and feet, scurrying.

  Like beetles, she thought. She drew a breath and looked Sandy Belle right in the eye.

  ‘Hello, Miss Belle. I am Stevie Duveen, the risk assessor for Hazard Limited. I am here to talk to you about your concerns for the safety of your family. Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’

  One of the beetles began to protest but Sandy Belle silenced her with a wave of her hand.

  ‘It’s okay, Melanie.’ She turned to Stevie and smiled. ‘Call me Sandy. All my friends do.’

  Another beetle scurried in. ‘Sandy, Kelli from Chloe is bringing you bags and shoes in half an hour. Your stylists are going to pick out something you love for the premier.’

  Sandy’s eyes left Stevie’s and began to dart around.

  ‘Sandy,’ said Stevie sharply, re-focusing her attention, ignoring the beetles completely. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’

  A few minutes later, perched on the apricot silk bedspread with the door firmly closed, Sandy Belle, wrapped in a robe, her eyes lowered, began to tell Stevie of her fears.

  ‘I’m terrified that Kennedy-Jack is going to be kidnapped. The thought keeps me from sleeping at night.’

  ‘It’s a terrifying thought for any mother,’ Stevie reassured her sympathetically. ‘Do you have any particular reasons to believe that Kennedy-Jack is in danger?’

  Sandy turned her extraordinarily blue eyes on Stevie and blinked.

  They filled with tears.

  ‘He’s the most famous baby on the planet. Everyone wants him.

  The paparazzi, my fans, the talk shows, the magazines. It’s not right.’

  ‘Well, it’s true that the children of high-profile or celebrity parents are more likely to be a target because they are simply more visible to kidnappers.’ Stevie kept her voice gentle but business-like. It was her job to paint an accurate—but not alarmist—picture of the risks generally faced by people in Sandy Belle’s position.

  ‘Also the wealth of the parents is often advertised—trade publications, rich lists, gossip magazines—and this can tempt criminals. The movements of the child and the parents on many occasions are also known in advance: public appearances, premiers, parties, holidays. This makes the kidnapper’s job easier, and so again, more tempting. But there are also simple things that can be done to reduce the risk.’

  ‘Like what?’ A single diamond tear was rolling down Sandy’s perfect cheek.

  Stevie noticed that Sandy’s nose didn’t run, or go pink, or swell like hers did when she cried. Sandy cried beautifully.

  ‘The simplest and most effective deterrent to kidnapping is privacy,’ she began. ‘You can start with an in-depth cyber-stalking report. Then at least you know how much people can find out about you. I’m guessing your phone number is already de-listed. You should get rid of any personalised number plates, for example, and try and avoid ostentation— flashy jewellery, lavish parties, cars.’

  Stevie was deliberate in her emphasis. Douglas Hammer had, at last count, a yellow Lamborghini Murcielago LP 640 with nappa leather upholstery by Versace, a red Ferr
ari, a Mercedes Gull Wing— the one with the doors that lift like wings—painted metallic orange, and a convertible Rolls Royce Phantom in electric blue with a polished stainless-steel hood. These were not vehicles that had been chosen for discretion.

  ‘Most importantly you should restrict the circumstances under which you—and especially your child—are photographed.’

  Sandy’s fingers were tearing at her tissue. She threw it on the floor and grabbed another.

  ‘But we’re celebrities. People have to know about us. I won’t have Kennedy-Jack growing up in a climate of fear and repression, too afraid to go out.’ Sandy crumpled her robe and looked up defiantly. ‘I will not give in to the criminals!’

  Sandy was magnificent in her defiance. Stevie had heard her utter that last line wonderfully as Dot Fellows in Eat the Rich: A Courtroom Drama. But she did wonder how much of what she was saying was actually sinking in.

  Sandy got up and began to pace.

  ‘Where is Kennedy-Jack now?’ Stevie asked.

  ‘With his nannies.’

  ‘Where are his nannies?’

  ‘They said, um . . .’ Sandy looked flustered. ‘Wait. I know. I had a bath this morning . . . he was in the next room because I could hear him watching TV. I had a large skinny chai brought up from Starbucks and it was hot so I burned my tongue . . . CeeCee gave me a pedicure . . . Ray called from LA about the promotions tour, again. He is driving me crazy . . . and then Douglas . . . No. He was tanning . . . the nannies took Kennedy-Jack . . .’ Sandy’s face was a wonder of concentration.

  The bedroom door opened and in strode Douglas Hammer, beaming. He headed straight for Stevie, his right hand extended.

  ‘Thank you so much for taking the time,’ he grinned. ‘Sit down, make yourself completely at home.’ He had thrown on a white shirt and looked tough and tousled, as if he had just woken from a particularly handsome sleep.

  Stevie took the hand. ‘Stevie Duveen, Hazard Limited.’

  ‘Stevie, that’s an unusual name. Is it a family tradition?’

  ‘Dougie,’ Sandy’s little voice peeped from the corner.

  ‘Yes, honey?’ he moved to her side.

  ‘Dougie, Stevie was just asking where Kennedy-Jack was and—’ ‘Oh, KJ? He’s with his nannies. They’ve taken him to the park.’

  ‘How many nannies does KJ have, Mr Hammer?’ Stevie asked.

  ‘Call me Douglas, please.’ He twinkled his eyes.

  ‘Alright, Douglas.’

  ‘Ah, he has three nannies, well, two brunettes and a “manny”. I didn’t want him growing up only under female influences, you know? Not that I’m ever far from his side.’

  ‘Do you have any specific reason to be concerned about Kennedy-Jack’s safety, Douglas?’

  He leaned in conspiratorially, brushing his forelock with perfected absentmindedness. ‘Yes. Yes I do.’

  A knock on the door and a beetle appeared with a tray. ‘Mushroom tea anyone?’

  Stevie had to accept a steaming cup. She would have preferred coffee but it was not offered. Stevie disliked herbal teas unless she was unwell, but she shouldn’t be rude. She sipped.

  The tea tasted as if it had been made by steeping a laundry hamper full of football socks in boiling water then running it all through a little sieved dirt.

  ‘Lovely, thank you.’ Stevie gently laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and moved away from it.

  ‘Actually, Miss Duveen, we’d appreciate it if you’d do an interview for us, you know, telling the public how Kennedy-Jack is in danger—’ Stevie felt obligated to interject with ‘Please call me Stevie.’

  ‘Douglas, Stevie has some great stuff on cyber-stalking, how kidnapping gangs are stalking our baby on the internet.’

  Douglas nodded sagely. ‘I’m not surprised. Quick work, Stevie.’

  Before Stevie could explain that it was only a possibility that had to be considered in every case such as theirs, Douglas had sat down next to her and lowered his voice.

  ‘We believe there are powerful people who want us silenced,’ he confided. ‘We are making a documentary about our lives at the moment and it is one of the themes that is going to feature heavily. I’m producing and directing.’

  Stevie considered this for a moment. ‘I’m sure it will be a tremendous success, Douglas, but I need to understand exactly what this has to do with Hazard Limited’s services and the threat to your son.’

  ‘It’s simple.’ Douglas Hammer gave a modest smile. His feet, Stevie noticed, were immaculately pedicured. ‘As you may know we—well, me in particular—have been very vocal about the corruption and evils of our administration. I’ve spoken out about this on many occasions on Larry King Live, Oprah, Jay Leno, Saturday Night Live.’

  Sandy jumped into the conversation. ‘Everyone was talking about that the next day, Dougie.’

  ‘Look, the point is,’ Douglas sat up a little, his white shirt gaping nicely for effect, ‘that certain people in the administration are afraid of the power I have to change people’s minds. Say what you like, but the public listen to actors. They are the voice of the people, for the people.’ He paused a moment to let the line sink in. ‘Since our activism—especially since we started filming—’

  The door opened again and the man with the video camera appeared. He zoomed in on Douglas, who now spoke to camera.

  ‘Since we started filming this documentary, things have begun to happen.’

  ‘What sort of things, Doug?’ asked the man with the camera, panning up to Sandy, softly lit by the floor lamp, then back to Douglas.

  ‘There’s been a campaign to smear me for starters—the trumped-up drink-driving charge, the lies about what I said to the police officer. I am no racist. Never in my life.’

  ‘And me.’ Sandy turned aflame with outrage to the video-man. ‘The paparazzi have become vicious. It’s positively criminal and disgusting. We just want to live normal lives like a normal family.’

  Stevie watched Sandy shed another perfect tear, this one digitally immortalised.

  ‘Has anyone specifically threatened you or your family?’ Stevie was trying to get the meeting back on track. The video-man swung his recorder towards her. Stevie immediately switched off the bedside light and turned her face away, into the darkness.

  ‘Turn that off please. I won’t be filmed.’

  Douglas gestured to the man who stopped filming. ‘There’ll be time for that later, man. It’s okay.’ He turned back to Stevie. ‘Nothing specific but it’s more a feeling—’ His eyes narrowed into a handsome squint. ‘Do you know what I mean? An instinct for danger.’

  One of the hairdressers stuck his head into the room. ‘You’ve got flowers, Sandy! Gorgeous ones!’

  An enormous bouquet was brought into the room, the uniformed porter staggering under its weight.

  ‘Read the card please, Dougie.’ Sandy lay back on the pillows.

  She seemed to have become weak and fragile under the weight of her worries.

  Douglas hopped over on nimble brown feet.

  ‘They’re from Kofi. Here, wait. Turn the camera back on. I want to do that again. From the top.’

  ‘Who could they be from? Read the card, Dougie,’ Sandy asked on cue.

  ‘They’re from Kofi, honey. He sends his warm wishes.’ Douglas gave his wife a loving smile. ‘You see, we have good friends on our side.’ He swung to camera. ‘Okay. Cut.’

  Stevie was bewildered. Looking around the room she saw a photo of Nelson Mandela and the Hammer-Belles. It was signed: Nelson. They certainly collected some interesting friends.

  The bedroom door opened yet again and in came the three nannies and Kennedy-Jack. Sandy and Douglas rushed over to coo, the video back on. The baby was swaddled, his face all but invisible. That was one good thing at least. Stevie stayed in the shadows, watching.

  ‘We’ve been down at Lilywhites looking for those miniature golf shoes you wanted for KJ. Deadly cute! Then we took him to Hamleys. He loved that!’


  The nannies had not been at the park at all. Kennedy-Jack’s parents had had no idea where their baby was. Stevie counted. There were now ten people in the room with Kennedy-Jack, and more in the suite outside. If the threat to the child was serious, this was a problem.

  Household staff had to be vetted for any criminal backgrounds, or financial difficulties that might make them vulnerable. Perhaps some psychological evaluation for the nannies and the ‘manny’ . . . It would also have to be explained to Douglas and Sandy that they should take a close interest in the personal lives of those who worked for them, especially the live-in staff. Kidnappers often established personal relationships with assistants or nannies in order to get inside information on the family.

  ‘I’ll put a package together tonight and we can discuss your needs further, including specifics, when you feel you have the time.’

  Stevie would suggest meeting at Hazard HQ next time. There might be fewer distractions.

  Sandy put a hand on Stevie’s arm as she collected her bag and stood to leave. ‘You will help us won’t you Stevie? We’re terrified for little KJ. If people like the Beckhams have kidnap threats, well . . . Our baby is much more famous. Do you see?’

  Then Stevie understood exactly the kind of package the Hammer-Belles wanted: non-intrusive, highly visible, very cosmetic, very expensive. Even when it came to peril, they had to be in more danger than all the other celebrities.

  ‘We will tailor our services to suit your specific situation and I hope you will be satisfied.’ She was well-practiced at sounding reassuring. ‘If security circumstances change, the contract has built-in flexibility to allow us to respond accordingly.’ In other words, if a threat actually became tangible, Hazard could quickly upgrade security.

  Stevie shook hands with both Hammer-Belles. ‘Try to live discreetly,’ she added. ‘It’s really the best defence.’