Willing Flesh by Adam Creed

to Elena Danya, and Staffe hands them to Pulford. ‘Danya,’ he says. ‘Elena Danya.’ It is good in the mouth, this name. It rolls in the ear, makes Staffe feel sad – the tragedy a little more coloured-in. Staffe realises, with a heavy heart, that before they are done he will probably know more about poor Elena and her world than her lover and her mother and maybe even herself.
    ‘There’s one here for Markary, too, sir,’ says Pulford, wiggling a letter in the air. ‘It’s from the management company.’
    ‘So, he picked up the bills. Leave the place as we find it, Pulford. And tread gently.’
     
    The bedroom smells of fabric softener. The linen is Egyptian cotton: ivory with bands of navy and powder blue. Translucent roman blinds keep Elena’s bedtime world a secret. She has what seems to be a Clarice Cliff lotus jug on her painted French chest of drawers but when Staffe inspects the piece, he sees it is a modern copy. In the matching painted wardrobe, her clothes hang neatly – the kind of finery you would expect of a fancy whore. But Staffe double-checks – no mirror: not even on the wardrobes. Picking up a silver-framed photograph of Elena in a ball gown, looking into the camera with her pale eyes and her china-fine bones, it makes his heart sad to think she didn’t appear to like looking at herself.
    ‘Not your typical hooker’s joint,’ says Pulford.
    Staffe sits on the bed and sighs, ‘Not by a long chalk.’ He feels something stop the mattress from taking his full weight and looks under the bed, pulls out a suitcase. It has ED inscribed on its fawn kid leather. He carefully picks his way through the contents: a pair of faded 501s, not even washed, two lumber-check shirts, a cable-knit sweater and a crocheted tea-cosy hat. Two pairs of colour-run Marks & Spencer’s bikini briefs, and a copy of Mansfield Park . ‘Poor thing,’ says Staffe.
    ‘What’s that, sir?’
     
    ‘This was her,’ says Staffe. ‘Not Markary, not Bobo. Not the bastards she slept with.’
    ‘You heard what Tchancov said. He said she loved …’
    ‘What does Tchancov know?’ says Staffe, going into the kitchen.
    He finds nothing out of the ordinary, sees the washing machine is full. On his knees, he goes through it: only bedding. She must have washed that day, he thinks. ‘You wouldn’t wash … It wouldn’t be the last thing,’ he says to himself, looking at this human remain of her final day.
    ‘Excuse me!’ Miles the caretaker stands in the doorway of the kitchen with his arms crossed. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
    ‘A woman died, Miles,’ says Staffe.
    ‘No woman lived here.’ Miles looks at Staffe, awkwardly.
    Staffe takes a step towards. ‘Are you changing your tune?’
    Miles retreats back into the hallway. ‘I shouldn’t have let you in.’
    Staffe wants to grab the man by the lapels of his suit and rattle the truth from him, but he tries to conjure another way. ‘She was quite a beautiful girl, wouldn’t you say? And popular.’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
     
    ‘You turned a blind eye. And a healthy profit, no doubt.’
    ‘Perhaps I should call the police. You don’t act like police.’
    Staffe notices a stack of writing paper on the shelf of the telephone stand: pale lilac and stiff as parchment. He picks up the phone, presses Redial and after three rings a woman with a stern Balkan accent says, ‘Signet Hotel. Can I help you?’
    ‘You have a reservation in the name of Danya?’
    The phone goes quiet and Miles says, ‘I must insist!’
    Staffe holds out a hand and listens to the woman say, ‘You are not her.’
    ‘Is it for tonight? I am police.’
    ‘Last night. For two nights. She did not appear.’
    Staffe hangs up and leaves. As he passes Miles, busy now into his mobile phone, he hisses, ‘You wash your hands well, tonight. Get under the nails. And try not to look in the mirror.’
    *
    In the Hand and Shears, Staffe reads the