by Riley Banks
Find the back door.
Baker scurried crab-style along the floor, ducking his head, expecting a lethal shot at any stage.
More people screamed.
He heard the word police shouted more than once.
He reached the back door but it was blocked by the muscular bulk of the kitchen cook.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ the man boomed, putting his hands out to stop Paul.
Wrong, buddy. I’m getting out of here.
Adrenaline coursed through him, helping Paul knock the cook to the floor. He vaulted over him and out into the narrow lane.
A white 4WD squealed around the corner, heading down the alley toward him.
No, how did they find me so fast?
Baker sprinted toward a paling fence that separated the alley from a sporting oval, grabbing the ragged wood planks and swinging his legs over, pain radiating from the wound in his shoulder.
The car gunned its engine, speeding up in the hopes of overtaking him.
He zigzagged across the field, aware that a straight line would make him an easier target.
Baker stumbled down a steep incline that led to a man-made harbour.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the driver had anticipated his escape route and was closing in fast.
A commuter ferry was drawing away from the crowded pier.
Baker sprinted, leaping at the last moment, just clearing the two-metre gap.
He was safe.
There was no way for his pursuer to know where he would get off the ferry and no time for him to cover every possible exit.
Sinking into a plastic deck chair, Baker opened Joanne’s phone, scrolling through the names.
The minute he saw it, he knew his problems had just got worse.
She’s in the viper’s pit.
Charlotte Burke, formerly known as Victoria Baker, was working at The Daily Telegraph.
That placed her right in the centre of London where all his problems had started.
Chapter Twelve:
Nancy followed Miranda and Charlotte into the back of a waiting Mercedes, tugging at her dress to ensure it covered all the essential bits.
Courtney, Veronica, Penny and Fiona were already in the second car, awaiting the start of their Sofie-arranged field trip to celebrate their last night in Paris.
‘I still don’t understand why I couldn’t wear jeans,’ Nancy complained.
She wasn’t comfortable having so much flesh on display.
If she could take any comfort at all from Sofie’s enforced dress code – micro minis, killer heels and expensive lingerie – it was that, at least, she wasn’t alone.
Sofie had picked all of their outfits, dressing them like a boarding school matron – only about three million times sexier.
Adding to Nancy’s general discomfort was her current hairstyle.
Instead of her usual braid, ponytail or bun, Sofie had convinced Nancy to wear her hair down, saying her curls were very Julia Roberts à la Pretty Woman.
Yeah right. The only thing that resembled Julia was the outfit Sof had chosen. You know, the one Julia wore before Richard Gere bought her new clothes.
‘I look like a baby prostitute,’ she said.
The driver eyed her in the rear-view mirror, his raised eyebrow and smirk showing he was in full agreement.
‘You do not. You look hot enough to eat,’ said Sofie. ‘We all do.’
‘That’s just what I’m afraid of,’ Nancy said, trying to forget the stark naked man she had found in her bed that morning.
If that wasn’t bad enough, Nancy couldn’t even remember who he was, or how he came to be in her bed, though when she said as much, he was pretty keen to give her a live action replay.
It was all she could do to shoo him out of the room and pray to God nobody saw him leave.
She wasn’t that kind of girl. She didn’t pick up strangers at parties.
She was a virgin.
Or at least had been.
Judging by the ache inside her body and the blood on her bed sheets, she had lost more than just her memory last night.
It took her three very hot showers to stop feeling dirty.
Now Sofie expected her to go out partying again.
Nancy didn’t want to go out. She would have been much happier to stay at the hotel and mourn the loss of her innocence.
But she soon discovered Sofie was very persuasive, and had six accomplices just as eager for any excuse to party.
In the end, it was easier to give in.
‘So where are you taking us?’ Charlotte took one of the glasses Sofie handed out.
Nancy refused, preferring to keep her wits about her. The last thing she needed was a repeat of last night.
‘To the hottest places in Paris,’ Sofie said, her smile wicked.
‘Hottest?’
A sick feeling settled in the pit of Nancy’s stomach.
‘Oui, scorching hot. Starting with the Moulin Rouge.’
‘I thought that was just a movie.’
Charlotte and Miranda laughed, exchanging a secretive look between them.
Nancy had seen the look before. Virginal twenty five year olds weren’t exactly common and she had copped no end of flack from her friends over it.
You’re not a virgin anymore.
‘The Moulin is tame by Parisian standards but is a very good starting ground for my innocent chéries.’
‘Isn’t it a strip joint?’ Miranda asked, nudging Charlotte, both of them loving the fact that Nancy’s cheeks flushed crimson.
Or maybe she was just being paranoid. It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Strip joint? No. Don’t use such bawdry terminology to describe our esteemed bordello maison.’
‘Is this work or play?’
‘Why must it be one or the other, Charlotte? Why can’t it be both?’
The minute the curtain went up, Nancy swallowed her complaints, losing herself in the visual and musical extravaganza of eighty musicians, sixty chorus girls and a troupe of dancing Cancans.
She was having so much fun that she forgot she wasn’t going to drink and allowed Sofie to pour her a glass of champagne.
After all, what could a couple of drinks hurt?
The continual buzz of the telephone on Lucy’s desk eroded Highgrove’s creativity and concentration, wearing him down like Chinese water torture.
‘Lucy, will you fucking answer that,’ he called, trying hard to refocus on the mock up pages for tomorrow’s edition.
No answer.
Where the hell is that girl?
He marched across the office, swinging open the door between them, ready to give her another earful.
But the office was empty.
Moron. It’s New Year’s Night. Of course she’s not here.
What time was it?
Half past ten.
Who the fuck would call the office as such an ungodly hour?
If he didn’t pick it up, they’d just keep ringing.
‘Yes? What do you want?’
‘Hello. I was wondering if I might speak with Charlotte Burke.’
‘Not here. Call tomorrow and speak to her secretary.’
‘Please, it’s imperative that I speak to her - today if possible.’
Tough luck bozo.
‘She won’t be back for a couple of weeks. Can someone else help you?’
‘No, it has to be Charlotte.’
‘I’m her editor. If you’ve got something to say, say it to me.’
Highgrove knew that sources could be notoriously paranoid but he wasn’t about to hold this wanker’s hand and walk him through the five steps of spilling his guts.
‘Do you have a mobile number -’
‘I’m not in the habit of giving out my staff’s personal information.’
‘It’s vitally important.’
‘Yeah, it always is buddy. Anyway, as I said, she’s out of the country so unless you want to leapfrog around the world afte
r her, I suggest you wait until she gets back to London.’
This guy was starting to piss him off.
‘What countries is she visiting?’
‘No bloody idea. You want that information, call the Harvey Press Office in London.’
‘Harvey Incorporated?’ There was a retching sound in the background, as if someone had just chucked their cookies.
‘I’m too fucking late,’ the man said, his voice a weak whisper.
Late? What was he talking about?
But the only explanation Highgrove received was the sound of dial tone coming down the line.
He’d hung up.
Bloody fruitcake.
But Highgrove couldn’t deny the call had disturbed him.
He picked up the phone, deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, cursing as her phone went straight to voice mail.
‘Burke, call me the minute you get this message.’
Too late for what?
‘Holy fucking shit, this place is lame as. I thought Paris was supposed to be hardcore hotties,’ Hank said, turning his nose up in disgust.
A handful of their fellow journalists had turned up for the after-dinner drinks and, of those, ninety-eight percent were men.
‘Where are all the chicks? Are you sure they didn’t say it was Faggots Night?’
‘Better fucking not be.’ Zac shared Hank’s disgust. Given the crowd that had shown up to the New Year’s Eve party, he had expected the bar to be jam-packed with models, actresses and gorgeous women.
At the very least, he expected the female journos – Ms Charlotte No Lays and her dyke mates – to be in attendance.
‘Maybe they’re just fashionably late,’ Hank suggested.
‘Don’t fool yourself mate. Nobody else is coming. They’ve found something better to attend.’
The thought did nothing to improve Zac’s already volatile mood, which had gone from bad to worse since breakfast.
That’s when he first noticed the sexual tension between that rich-prick Harvey and Charlotte No Lays.
He might not be an expert on body language but he didn’t need to be.
A blind man could see those two were hot and heavy for each other.
So he had watched them all day – at lunch, the press conference, during dinner - suspicion festering in his mind until it became a fatal infection.
Not one word passed between them, not even hello or goodbye.
But they weren’t fooling anyone.
What they didn’t say with their mouths, they screamed out loud with their bodies. Every opportunity they got, they were stealing glimpses at each other.
And whenever they found themselves in close proximity, their faces would colour, their heart rates increase.
Sexual tension? You could cut that shit with a knife.
How ironic that neither of them had shown for this lame ass party.
Were they upstairs now, fucking?
An old dude entered through smoky glass doors, his eyes spotting Zac across the room. He smiled, heading in Zac’s direction.
‘Are you Wilson?’
‘Depends who’s fucking asking.’
‘Well, that would be me.’
Was the asshole trying to be ironic?
‘What do you want then?’
‘I have something for you.’ He handed Zac a plain white envelope.
‘What is it?’
‘Tickets to a very exclusive club.’
‘What kind of club?’ He tried to play it cool but the offer piqued his interest.
Anything had to be better than this lame ass party.
He tore open the envelope, sliding out two pastel pink cards with flowers and shit all over them.
His name was printed on one card; Hank’s on the other.
‘Le Jardin de l'Amour? What the fuck is that?’
He pronounced the word in typical English fashion, with no accents.
‘You will see when you get there.’
‘It’s not a gay club or anything, is it?’
The man laughed, putting a wrinkly hand on Zac’s arm. ‘Trust me. You’re going to love this place.’
Vomit burnt his throat and he didn’t know whether to be ecstatic, furious or shit scared.
How about all three at once?
Vikki was coming home.
But it was not the homecoming he would have wanted for her.
Instead, she was with them.
Bill Harvey had found Victoria first.
He had moved with frightening speed, pouncing within hours of Baker’s release from jail.
Why?
Why send his goons after Vikki?
Why not just come find him?
The whys were no longer important. Only the whats mattered now.
What did they want with his daughter?
What were they hoping to accomplish?
What could Paul do to help her?
A fucking press trip.
It was both ingenious and diabolical, using his daughter’s profession as a means to entrap her.
And Baker knew from painful experience that Harvey played hardball.
The bastard had already killed to protect his secret.
He wouldn’t blink an eye at ending Vikki’s life.
She’s not Vikki anymore. She’s Charlotte. Charlotte Burke.
And you’re too late. You’ve lost. Harvey has won again. He always wins.
Nausea twisted and bounced inside him, and he retched in the bathtub where he sat slumped against the cracked ceramic tiles.
‘You okay in there?’ Tank called, banging on the door.
‘Yeah, give me a second.’
He dragged himself up, looking at his ashen face in the mirror.
Fuck, when did I get so old?
He opened the door, stepping out into the lounge where Tank was watching the Channel Nine morning news.
‘Holy shit man, is that you?’
A photograph flashed onto the screen – a photograph of Baker with Joanne, just seconds before she died.
‘Turn it up.’
‘…wanted in connection with the horrific shooting of 25-year-old Joanne Parker yesterday in Cronulla. Paul Baker was released a fortnight ago from the notorious Long Bay Correctional Facility south east of Sydney where he served twenty years for corporate fraud against his former employer – Harvey South Pacific Group. According to information from Parker’s grieving parents, Baker visited her home, posing as a Child Service’s employee looking for Victoria Baker. The police have not been able to locate Ms Baker, who police believe is the daughter of the accused.’
The screen switched to a brief interview with Parker’s parents, who made out he was a vicious deranged sexual pervert that had hunted down their daughter and her friend.
This changed everything.
Baker had expected to patiently wait Victoria’s arrival in Australia – perhaps even meet the plane when it landed.
Now…
‘Does anyone know you’re living here?’ Tank eyed the front door as if he expected the police might bust through it any second with a battering ram.
‘No, but I’m gonna go anyway. You don’t need the cops sniffing around. But, Tank, I didn’t do it. I swear. I’ve never… never killed anyone.’
Maybe not directly but indirectly he was responsible for the deaths of three people.
‘Fucking pigs. They’re always looking for some ex-crim to finger. Listen, call me if you need help with anything. You got somewhere to go? Scratch that. Probably best I don’t know.’
Baker nodded, feeling his plans spin out of control.
Now, not only was he homeless, he had just topped the Most Wanted list.
None of that mattered.
The only thing that he cared about was Vikki.
And if Victoria saw this, she’d never speak to him again.
Chapter Thirteen:
From the moment she was instructed to bring the girls to Le Jardin de l'Amour, Sofie knew she had her work cut
out.
Le Jardin was the most infamous Parisian club échangiste.
And colonial women were so delicate.
They might talk tough but beneath the trampy exteriors lay the prudish shells of their Victorian ancestors.
If he wanted them there, Sofie was going to have to work them up to it gradually.
Give them a tour of Parisian érotique, starting with the chaste Moulin cabaret.
Of course the minute she suggested it, Nancy almost shit kittens.
Merde. Le Moulin est pour les enfants.
It was a wise starting point – more artistic than sexual. A perfect platform from which to announce their next stop.
Le Musee d’Erotisme.
To Sofie, it was another child’s exhibit; one she had first visited in École élémentaire.
Still, the foreigners loved it.
They giggled at the phallic and yonic displays like pubescent girls seeing their first penis.
Thank God for alcohol.
It might have made the women act like a platoon of Essex girls out on the prowl but it loosened them up enough to consider the third stop on their tour all part of the fun.
They even accepted the gift bags Sofie had ordered at the Supermarchés de Charme Concorde.
Even Nancy.
She might have blushed like a virginal bride when she saw the erotic playthings inside the bag but she didn’t give it back.
By the time they reached the adult heart of the Pigalle District, the women no longer cared that they were witnessing live sexual acts on stage.
They were hot. They were horny.
And, thanks in part to a special last drink Sofie had prepared, they were ready for their final destination.
There was nothing harmful in the vial.
Just a little chemical help that would remove every last drop of puerile inhibition.
It was one thing to watch the Parisian sex shows.
Quite another to partake in the action themselves.
Le Jardin de l'Amour offered plenty of opportunities for the latter, something Sofie was to encourage her fellow journalists to do.
‘Enlevez vos robes s'il vous plaît,’ said the cloakroom assistant.
‘Translation Sof,’ Miranda said, clutching the Veuve Cliquot, which she was swigging straight from the bottle.
‘He asked you to remove your dresses,’ Sofie said, handing over her coat and handbag, along with her gold, sequinned dress.
