The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [37]
Henning chuckled. ‘Stevie, you sound like my grandmother.’
‘Well, I am sure she was a very sensible woman.’
When Maxim stood to greet them, Stevie realised he was twice as big as she had originally thought, and he had not one but three blondes on his big arms. He gave Henning a bear hug and they were offered a seat at his table.
Maxim pulled a wildly expensive bottle of vodka from amongst twenty or so bottles clustered in the centre of the table. He began filling shot glasses, insisting everyone drink. Stevie was rather glad to down her shot. She was not sure she could face a man like Maxim without a proper drink.
When she saw that Henning and Maxim were deep in conversation, Stevie leaned back into the sofa and became invisible.
Good. Now, where’s that photo wall . . .
She scanned the gallery. The back wall was covered with the faces of girls who had been plucked from the crowd to compete for the modelling contract. All very young, most stunning, others a little stunned by the flash. Many of the photos had phone numbers written on them, the girls maybe hoping they would take some VIP man’s fancy and be called up and swept off their feet.
It did not take Stevie long to find Anya’s face. She had definitely been here and she had been singled out. She would have been very happy. The photographer had taken three photos: her wide-set eyes were huge in her face, her wavy blonde hair almost angelic in the harsh light of the flash. In two pictures, she was standing beside a dark-haired girl with beautiful dark eyes and a strong nose.
We should have brought Vadim up here with us, Stevie thought. He would surely recognise the girl. Stevie would have to steal a photo. Her mild kleptomania—usually triggered by bouts of stress—had been useful more than once. Not even the wall noticed as Stevie stepped up, removed a photo and slipped it into her purse.
Back at the table, she sat down and caught Henning’s eye. He rose, Maxim hugging him, kissing him on the lips in the Russian way. Stevie was a little horrified for Henning. Maxim looked like a man who would certainly have ghastly breath.
‘Are you sure you’ve told me the truth, Henning?’ Stevie took his arm as they headed back downstairs to find Vadim. ‘I find it hard to believe that a humble librarian would know people like Maxim Krutchik.’
Henning sighed. ‘I’m not exactly a librarian, Stevie. I’ve explained it to you before: I’m a cataloguer of rare books. The former Soviet Union is full of them, forgotten pieces of odd literature. Many items are instant collectibles. Worth a fortune to some people.’
‘People like Maxim?’ she asked in disbelief.
‘You’d be surprised.’
Vadim stood out on account of his stillness amongst the heaving mass of bodies. He was leaning on the bar, still smoking, still staring at another rum and coke. His pallor, his white hair, his lashless eyes were lit for a moment by a roving spotlight that came to rest on him. For those three seconds, he was incandescent.
Seeing the photo distressed him, reminded him of Anya—as if she was ever far from his mind. But he recognised Petra straightaway.
Stevie put the photo back in her bag. ‘Let’s see if she’s here.’ They split up and set off.
In the centre of the club was a raised stage. On it, a floorshow was in full swing. Three girls in fluorescent bikinis—one with tassels, another with feathers, another with not much on at all—were dancing and gyrating like rubber bands. Diego appeared at Stevie’s side.
‘This is where all the main strippers dance.’ He gestured happily. ‘I am going with Iacopo to the bar. We get you vodka.’
‘Thank you, Diego,’ she called after him, but he had already been swallowed by the crowd.
They were good dancers, quality girls with perfect legs and pretty faces. More expensive than the other girls, Stevie assumed. Petra was not among them. Nor did she appear to be any of the women in tight jeans dotted around the stage, many twisting to the music in a way that suggested they too had spent time on a podium. Smoke machines fed with apple tobacco