BOOK ONE — DETECTIVE PINK BUNNY ART
DETECTIVE PINK BUNNY — THE VELVET RABBIT MURDER
At nine o’clock precisely, Sebastian Bell opened the brass doors of the Velvet Rabbit and admitted democracy.
It arrived wearing dinner jackets, silk dresses, discreet wedding rings, municipal honours, borrowed watches and the expression of people who had paid twenty-five pounds merely to enter a building in which every further decision would cost considerably more.
The November rain had polished Soho until the pavements shone beneath the lamps. Black cabs arrived in a patient procession. Chauffeurs opened doors. Umbrellas bloomed beneath the crimson awning and were handed to attendants who possessed, by the end of each evening, a more accurate knowledge of London adultery than most divorce solicitors.
Inside, the old theatre glowed.
The smoked mirrors multiplied candles, champagne buckets and the prosperous profiles of men who preferred to be seen from one particular side. Waiters moved between the tables in white jackets. The old royal box had been dressed in black roses and gold ribbons. Upon the stage, eight tall transparent voting boxes stood beneath the names of the finalists.
Every box was empty.
This was the final honest condition any of them would enjoy.
At the champagne desk, customers purchased gold voting tokens.
One token cost ten pounds.
Ten tokens cost ninety.
Fifty tokens included a bottle of champagne.
One hundred tokens included a bottle, a velvet pouch and the right to behave as though the evening’s artistic integrity had become a personal investment.
Sebastian had explained that the system allowed the public to participate directly in culture.
Jazz Monroe had explained that it allowed bankers to vote more often.
Both descriptions were accurate.
Backstage, the eight finalists stood before the long mirror while the house filled beyond the curtain.
Sebastian Bell took the stage at nine thirty beneath a cone of golden light.
The room applauded because he owned the champagne.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “welcome to the final night of the Velvet Crown.”
Cheers rose from the tables.
At the judges’ desk sat Lord Augustus Marchmont, Adrian Bellamy, Commander Dominic Harcourt, Marius Vale and Marcus Pyle.
Marcus had brought his wife.
Mrs Pyle sat directly behind him wearing emerald silk and the expression of a woman who had purchased front-row seats to justice.
Augustus wore evening dress and a white carnation. His silver-topped cane rested against the table. Adrian had placed two telephones beside his scorecards. Harcourt had no visible telephone, no drink and no intention of appearing entertained.
Marius Vale wore a black scarf and the expression of a man prepared to suffer for other people’s art.
Sebastian explained the rules.
The audience tokens formed fifty per cent of each result.
The jury scores formed thirty.
Patron votes formed twenty.
At the mention of patron votes, every eye in the house turned towards Felix Dorring in the royal box.
Mr Dorring smiled.
Madame Eclipse did not.
Sebastian continued:
“Quarter-final winners will advance to the semi-finals. The semi-final winners will compete for ten thousand pounds and the Velvet Crown.”
He pointed towards the glass case.
The crown glittered.
In the wings, eight dancers looked at it.
A crown is a small object until seven other women want it.
Then it becomes a political system.
The first pairing appeared upon the screen:
VELVET VIPER
PINK BUNNY
The audience placed tokens inside her transparent box.
Viper returned backstage breathing hard.
Penny gave her water.
“You would have fallen?” Penny asked.
“Eventually.”
“Badly?”
“There are no elegant falls from twelve feet.”
She drank.
“Do not let whoever did it leave.”
Penny looked towards Rafe.
“No one is leaving.”
The master of ceremonies announced:
“Detective Pink Bunny!”
The room erupted.
Pink light rolled across the stage.
Penny stepped through the curtain with the handcuffs swinging from one finger.
She wore the fitted jacket, stockings, high heels and the tiny police cap tilted over one eyebrow.
The public knew the costume.
The public did not know the woman inside it had spent the previous ten minutes considering wax residue, chain pins and the direction from which a saboteur’s hand had approached.
She walked to the centre.
“Good evening.”
Applause answered.
“The Velvet Rabbit has received reports of criminal activity.”
Men looked at one another.
Penny raised one finger.
“Missing wedding rings.”
Laughter.
“Unexplained withdrawals.”
More laughter.
“Government officers attending theatrical competitions for reasons connected to civic responsibility.”
Adrian placed one hand over his heart.
Penny continued:
“One suspect will assist my investigation.”
Hands rose.
Lord Augustus lifted his cane.
Marcus Pyle raised both hands until his wife pushed one down.
Commander Harcourt remained motionless.
Penny looked across the room.
Then pointed towards Marcus.
His wife stood and applauded.
Marcus rose more slowly.
“You arranged this,” he told her.
“I have arranged many things,” Mrs Pyle replied. “This one includes witnesses.”
Marcus climbed onto the stage.
Penny seated him in the chair.
“Name?”
“Marcus Pyle.”
“Occupation?”
“Television presenter.”
“That is not an occupation.”
The audience laughed.
Marcus smiled towards the nearest camera.
Penny circled him.
“You offered twenty points.”
His smile weakened.
Mrs Pyle leaned forward.
Penny held up the cue card.
“For one convincing kiss.”
The room cheered.
Marcus looked at the judges.
“This was private correspondence.”
“Nothing written on television stationery is private.”
She fastened one pink cuff around his wrist.
“What else are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
Penny touched the makeup mark upon his collar.
“Not your shade.”
His wife called:
“I told him.”
Marcus looked alarmed.
Penny removed the hotel key card from his inside pocket.
The room howled.
Marcus said:
“That belongs to the production company.”
“Suite 614?”
“We film there.”
“Your programme is about antique clocks.”
“The suite has excellent natural light.”
“At midnight?”
Mrs Pyle laughed until she had to remove her glasses.
Penny took Marcus’s watch.
On the reverse were the initials of his first wife.
She held it up.
Marcus closed his eyes.
“Do I receive any points for honesty?”
“You have not attempted it.”
The music grew.
Penny moved around the chair, turning the interrogation into dance. She opened the jacket one button at a time, used his tie as a ribbon and let the audience believe every movement existed for their pleasure.
Meanwhile she watched the judges.
Augustus had written twenty upon his scorecard and placed the supper menu beneath it.
Adrian had written eighteen, then crossed it to nineteen after Penny mocked Marcus’s hotel key.
Marius wrote nothing.
Harcourt’s pen remained still.
Penny shifted from comedy into stillness.
For three minutes, as Marius had requested, the rabbit vanished.
No joke.
No prop.
No volunteer.
She stood beneath a single white light and allowed the movement to become slow, spare and almost sorrowful. The room quietened.
Penny did not smile.
She did not tease.
She looked beyond Marcus, beyond the judges and beyond the crowd of men who believed she belonged to the stage because they could afford the table.
For those three minutes she danced as Penelope Hart.
Rafe stood in the wings.
He recognised her.
That frightened him more than Harcourt’s note.
Then the music changed.
Pink light returned.
The rabbit came back laughing.
Penny pulled Marcus’s tie, brought his chair forward and whispered loudly enough for the front tables to hear:
“Do you confess?”
“To anything.”
She unlocked the cuff.
The room rose.
Her jury scores appeared one by one.
Augustus: 20
Adrian: 19
Marius: 20
Marcus: 20
Harcourt: 4
The audience booed.
Augustus turned towards him.
“Commander, have you misunderstood arithmetic?”
“No.”
“She was magnificent.”
“Yes.”
“Then why four?”
Harcourt looked at Penny.
“Because she watched the room when she should have been surrendering to the performance.”
Penny smiled.
“Perhaps I never surrender.”
Lord Augustus rose and ordered champagne for the entire room.
Sebastian leaned towards him.
“My lord, that is one hundred and eighty-seven people.”
“And staff.”
“Two hundred and fourteen.”
“And the dancers.”
“They are staff.”
“Not tonight.”
Adrian Bellamy attempted to arrange a photograph beside the winner.
Rafe intercepted him.
“Private celebration.”
“I helped create the event.”
“You helped create false tokens.”
“Indirectly.”
“You may celebrate indirectly.”
Marius Vale kissed Penny’s hand.
Marcus Pyle asked whether the encore volunteer might be reconsidered.
His wife dragged him back to his chair.
Harcourt approached the stage steps.
Penny looked at him.
“Eighteen?”
“You kept the costume.”
“You asked for seventeen.”
“You exceeded the bargain.”
“Careful, Commander. People may think you enjoyed yourself.”
“I observed.”
“From a very good seat.”
He almost smiled.
Then moved away.
The house began chanting.
“Crown dance!”
The chant spread.
“Crown dance! Crown dance!”
Penny looked at Sebastian.
“What?”
He looked innocent.
“Tradition.”
“No one mentioned a tradition.”
“The winner performs an encore.”
“I just performed an encore.”
“That was the final.”
“What is the difference?”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
The chant grew.
Lola handed Penny the pink jacket.
“Go.”
“You want another performance?”
“I want the audience too tired to discuss my defeat.”
Jazz placed the tiny police cap beneath the crown.
It sat crookedly.
“Perfect,” she said.
Rafe reached Penny before she returned to the stage.
“You do not have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
She touched his chest.
“The room voted.”
“For the dancer.”
“That is who won.”
Rafe looked at the crown.
“And who goes home?”
Penny leaned close.
“You already know.”
She kissed him.
Quickly, but not lightly.
Then she returned to the stage.
The entire cast joined her.
Scarlet Sin in red.
Diamond Fox in silver.
Lady Midnight in black.
Velvet Viper beneath the repaired chains.
Honey Trap with mismatched fans.
Sugar Storm filming despite three direct orders.
Madame Eclipse returned from the dressing room without her assistants. She stood at the edge of the group wearing only the black robe and applauded with the others.
Sebastian opened the first bottle.
The cork struck the competition banner.
Champagne erupted over Penny’s crown.
She screamed.
Jazz opened another.
Lola aimed deliberately at Penny’s hair.
Honey attempted to open a bottle and fired the cork into Marcus Pyle’s lap.
Mrs Pyle applauded.
Waiters brought more bottles.
Augustus sent an entire trolley.
The dancers poured champagne across the stage.
Customers lifted glasses.
Some drank.
Some threw.
Gold ribbons stuck to the wet floor.
Pink light caught the spray until the air appeared filled with diamonds no one could pawn.
Penny stood beneath it laughing.
Rafe watched from the wings as champagne ran through her hair, over the crown and down the pink costume.
For one night, jealousy surrendered to pride.
The Velvet Rabbit had chosen its queen.
Scarlet Sin lifted Penny’s hand.
Diamond Fox lifted the cheque.
Honey Trap lifted the wrong fan.
Sugar Storm shouted into her telephone:
“Pink Bunny has won!”
The public cheered.
Another bottle opened.
Then another.
The old theatre filled with laughter, music and the sweet expensive rain of victory.
By the time the lights rose, every bottle in the Velvet Rabbit had been emptied. Champagne had been poured into glasses, over tables, across the stage and, finally, over the laughing woman beneath the Velvet Crown.
That night, Pink Bunny did not need to take a shower.
She had already been bathed in champagne.
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