by Riley Banks
She had come straight from the beach where Nancy’s body had been found, not even bothering to change out of her jeans.
‘Where’s the dress I sent you?’
‘Fuck the dress,’ Charlotte said, deriving extreme pleasure from the shocked expression on his face. ‘Haven’t you heard?’
He shrugged, the action so full of nonchalance she was sure he couldn’t possibly know about Nancy’s death. ‘Heard what?’
‘Nancy Robertson killed herself.’
‘Oh that. Yes, I heard.’
His face was unreadable – inscrutable. Everything about him suggested careful choreography.
He wore an impeccable Ralph Lauren tuxedo that would have looked great next to the cobalt gown and, if Charlotte hadn’t been so furious, she would have been flattered that he’d gone to so much trouble for her.
But someone had blackmailed Nancy.
Charlotte was positive the blackmail was the catalyst for Nancy’s suicide. She wanted to know who ordered the photos.
Was it BJ?
She studied him like a scientist inspecting a rare microbe, looking for any outward sign of guilt.
‘Such a shame,’ BJ said, sliding an airline ticket across the table towards Charlotte. ‘She asked me to arrange flights for her to return home, which I did first thing this morning. Did she tell you she was leaving?’
Charlotte shook her head. Nancy hadn’t said much of anything. She glanced at the ticket. It was a first class commercial airfare back to Washington DC.
‘She was due to fly out this evening at 10pm.’ BJ pointed towards the time stamp, his eyes sparkling unshed tears – any hint of nonchalance disappearing with a flood of raw emotion.
He was either moved by the tragedy of Nancy’s death or he was the world’s best actor.
Charlotte, however, was looking for a different time stamp. The one that stated what time the flight was booked.
It was only tiny but she found it.
BJ was telling the truth. He had booked the flight that morning.
‘You have no idea why she killed herself?’
‘I barely knew her,’ BJ said. ‘How could I possibly know why she would do such a terrible thing?’
It was time to play her cards.
Charlotte slapped the envelope on the table with all the authority of a police officer issuing an arrest warrant, watching BJ’s face for any hint of recognition or surprise. For the briefest instant, fear clouded his eyes but it was gone just as quick, his mask firmly back in place.
‘This was delivered to my room this afternoon; around the time Nancy killed herself. She wanted me to have it. Do you have any idea what it is?’
BJ shook his head. ‘No idea. Did she send you a suicide note?’
‘Yes, she did.’
His face blanched white and he looked like he was going to be sick. ‘What?’
‘She wrote a suicide note.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I gave it to the police. I thought it prudent given the recent troubles your company has seen. Without it, you might have found yourself troubled with a full-blown murder investigation. After all, it was plausible that she may have been pushed.’
The white became green. It was obvious he hadn’t considered that possibility.
‘Good idea, Charlotte. Out of curiosity, what did it say?’
He was having trouble looking away from the envelope; treating it with the same wary respect one would treat a poisonous spider.
Charlotte had meant to recite the note verbatim but something changed her mind.
‘It said she was a coward for killing herself and asked if we could tell her family she didn’t mean to hurt them.’
‘That’s all? Pretty short don’t you think? Why did she give it to you?’
Time for her trump card.
‘Because she wanted me to have these.’ Charlotte slid the three photos on to the table, pushing them towards BJ.
He reached for the photos then thought better of it, pulling his hand back across the table. His eyes met hers and there was genuine surprise in them. But what was he surprised about? The subject matter or the fact that she had them in her possession?
‘What’s this about Ms Burke?’ he said, reverting back to the formal use of her name. ‘What game are you playing?’
‘Game? I assure you, I’m not playing any games. These photographs were taken over the course of this trip. I think you might be looking at the catalyst for Nancy’s suicide.’
BJ licked his lips, the action too nervous to have been choreographed.
‘I think you’ll agree we can rule out the notion that Nancy took them herself.’
‘Why can we rule that out?’
Charlotte arched her eyebrows and left his question unanswered.
She let him sweat for a minute before lowering her voice. ‘Are there more photos like these? Photos say… of me?’
‘Isn’t that question better aimed at my brother? I’ve only just joined this trip.’
His accusation stung, not least because Charlotte had already had the same thoughts herself. ‘I’m asking you,’ she said, not wanting to think about Damon right now.
BJ sighed, as if trying to explain the simplest fact to a small child. ‘I don’t have any answers for you, Ms Burke. I have no idea who would have taken these pictures, or why. And frankly, I’m insulted that you would accuse me. I’ve gone out of my way to be a friend to you -’
She cut him off. ‘I’m not here to make friends.’ She didn’t add that her last three friends had all turned up dead.
He reached across the table, his hand closing over hers. ‘All the same, I’d like to be your friend, Charlotte.’
So now they were back on a first name basis. What was worse, he said her name like a caress, looking and sounding just like Damon. A little too much like him. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. If you need someone to talk to…’
Charlotte pulled her hand away, shocked by the butterflies his touch sent racing through her body. She searched his face for some sign of deceit but he looked so genuine, she was almost sucked in.
Get a hold of yourself, girl. He’s playing you like a cheap fiddle.
‘I’ll be fine thanks. In fact, I’ve taken measures to ensure that I stay that way,’ she said, tossing out her cryptic threat.
A tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. ‘Okay. I’ll play along. What measures are those?’
‘People seem to be dropping like flies around here and I really don’t intend to be next. Someone took these photos,’ she said, indicating the sordid snap shots in front of her. ‘Logic would dictate they had a reason. I’ve been an investigative journalist long enough to recognise blackmail when I see it. So I have arranged for copies of these pictures to be sent to my editor if something happens to me.’
BJ nodded his head, still amused on the surface, though his eyes clouded over. ‘Isn’t that blackmail itself?’
‘Perhaps it is but I don’t intend to be the next victim of whatever is going on here. And I promise you this. I intend to find out exactly what is going on.’
‘Investigative journalists,’ he sneered.
For just a second, Charlotte had a glimpse of the cruelty that lay just beneath the surface of his perfect veneer. It chilled her to the bone.
‘Conspiracy theorists more like it. Well, feel free to look. I have nothing to hide and neither does my family. You think you’re the first journalist to come after us? To think there is some deep dark secret? I assure you, you are not. And just like them, you won’t find anything.’
With a loud flurry, she pushed the chair back, almost knocking the waiter down as he delivered their pre-ordered food to the table.
And therein lay the real BJ, a man so intent on control that he thought choosing her clothes and food, however nice, made him a good date. ‘I don’t think I will eat with you after all,’ she said, her voice escaping between tightly clenched teeth.
‘Suit yourself.’ He waved awa
y the second plate of food.
Charlotte tried to muster all the scorn she could as she walked away with her head held high. Yet a part of her couldn’t help feeling that BJ had won this first round. His cool nonchalance was hard to penetrate.
Fighting him would be more difficult than she thought.
The plane touched down on the tarmac at Sydney airport, the A380 taxiing towards the waiting terminal.
‘Grandpa, we’ve landed,’ Carl said, touching his grandfather’s shoulder with the reverence of a Hindi pilgrim.
The old man woke up, disorientation clouding his blue eyes. For a moment, he looked annoyed to see Carl, but he quickly covered the faux pas with a weak smile.
For the last twenty four hours, the two men had been inseparable. It was the most time they had spent together since… well since ever.
Carl still had no idea what they were doing, nor did it seem his grandfather would ever tell him.
Not that he cared.
It was enough that his grandfather had come to him for help. They were spending time together, which gave Carl a much-desired foothold in to The William S Club. Nothing else mattered.
They made their way through the immigration cue, collecting their bags from a large turnstile.
‘Where is the driver?’ Carl searched for the ubiquitous company representative and the ever-present black Mercedes.
‘Nobody is coming for us, boy. Nobody even knows where’re here, and that’s just the way I want it to stay.’
‘What’s going on Grandpa?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t bother me now. Go find us a taxi.’
Carl did as he was told, hoping like hell The William S Club lived up to his expectations.
Sweat glistened on Baker’s bare torso as he finished helping the crew unload the cargo.
He had kept to himself for most of the flight, going over the documents from the safe deposit box again and again. Amazing that those few pieces of paper had been the cause of so many deaths.
‘See you tomorrow, Andy.’
‘Huh?’ Baker took a second to recognise the pseudonym he had travelled under. ‘Oh yeah, see you tomorrow, Danno.’ The words were automatic. He had no intention of seeing them tomorrow or ever again if he could help it. His work with the cargo line had been a one-off.
He set off across the tarmac, slipping a black AC/DC t-shirt over his head, the heavy cotton clinging to his wet skin. Paul had no idea what came next or even where he’d go.
‘Hey, Andy. Come back.’
Baker fought his gut instinct to run, turning instead, striving for cool indifference. ‘Yeah, what’s up, Danno?’
‘You forgot your pay.’
‘Oh thanks.’ He said goodbye again, and walked across two staff car parks to the cargo crew taxi stand.
A guard shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. Last taxi just left. This time of day, you’ll have better luck down there.’ He pointed to a long line of commercial passengers five hundred metres down the terminal. ‘Or I can call you a cab.’
‘Yeah, that would be good,’ Baker said. He could have joined the line but he was still a wanted man. Best not to press his luck.
He leaned against a bright red post box while he waited, closing his eyes and relishing the feel of sunshine on his face. Free sunshine not five minutes in a crowded prison yard.
‘Hello? Where can I find a limousine?’
Baker didn’t bother to open his eyes. It had nothing to do with him and he’d rather not be drawn into needless conversation with some English tosser.
‘No limousines down here mate. Did you fly cargo?’ the guard said.
‘No, of course not,’ the pompous Brit said. ‘We flew first class.’ The way he said first class made even that sound like it was beneath him.
‘Then the line’s that way mate,’ the guard said.
Baker cracked open one eye, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I don’t mind sharing if he doesn’t.’
The Brit turned around, his horrified face staring at Baker like he was a walking communicable disease. ‘No. I have my grandfather with me and, not to be rude or anything but we don’t even usually take taxis.’
Baker’s heart almost burst from his chest. As soon as he saw the pompous little shit’s face, he knew who he was. Every last one of those bastards looked alike. And that meant that the grandfather he had mentioned…
Oh fuck. I have to get out of here.
The taxi rolled to a stop and Baker rushed forward, flinging the door open so fast, he almost ripped it off its hinges.
Junior Harvey rushed towards him, shouting ‘Hey, you.’
Baker didn’t know if Junior Harvey recognised him or not. He didn’t even know if the kid was involved in the family business. But he wasn’t about to stick around to find out.
‘Go,’ Baker all but shouted at the bewildered driver.
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere, just go.’
‘You in trouble mister?’ the taxi driver said, his foot firmly on the brake.
‘I’ll give you ten thousand pounds if you let us have this car,’ the young man said, opening the door and looking in at Paul.
‘What?’ both Paul and the driver said in unison.
‘Ten thousand – each,’ the man reiterated.
‘Screw you. Do I look like I need your charity?’ The taxi driver put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, giving Baker about two seconds to yank the door out of Harvey’s hands.
He slammed it closed, looking at his new hero in the rear view mirror. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said, sure his heart was somewhere up around his throat.
‘Don’t mention it. Bloody rich assholes. They think they can just buy the world,’ the driver said grinning back at him. ‘No wonder you were in such a hurry to leave.’
Chapter Forty:
Charlotte woke up to a strange warbling bedside her bed. She reached across, her first instinct to press the snooze button.
But it wasn’t an alarm. It was the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Charlotte Burke?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is the Postmaster General at the Portofino Post Office. We have a package here for you to collect.’
‘A package? For me?’
‘Si.’
She wrote down instructions on how to get to the post office, thanked the man and then hung up.
‘Buongiorno,’ Charlotte said when she reached the front of the queue.
‘Buongiorno mia cara. Come posso aiutarla?’ The woman behind the counter had mistaken Charlotte’s greeting for a proficiency in Italian.
But Charlotte only knew how to say hello and thank you. That was the extent of her language skills.
‘I’m sorry. Do you speak English?’
‘Si, a little.’
‘Someone called and said there was a package… ah a postale – for Burke - Charlotte Burke.’
‘How you spell?’
‘B U R K E.’
The woman turned to a large box of envelopes and began rifling through the contents. ‘Buonaiuto, Buffone, Buonsanto, Burke. Si, si. I have it here.’ She returned to the desk, handing Charlotte the bulky parcel.
‘Grazie.’
Back out on the street, Charlotte opened the package, puzzled to see it contained a prepaid iPhone. There was no note in the envelope. Nothing but the phone.
The first thing she checked were the contacts but there was only one number and it had no name attached. It was an international number.
Her natural curiosity won out. She pressed call and waited while the phone connected through.
‘Hello?’
‘Charlotte, is that you?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Thank God I finally got you.’
People didn’t often get under BJ’s skin but he had to admit, Charlotte had found a way.
Despite his bravado the previous evening, BJ was worried. Worried enough to call his father for advice.
She was smar
t enough to protect herself. What’s to say she’s not smart enough to figure out our secret?
BJ knew what his father would say – he’d been saying it all along. Charlotte Burke had to die.
But the thought of her death made BJ sick to the stomach.
‘We have a serious problem,’ he said when his father answered.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘Charlotte. She’s blackmailing us.’
‘Go on. I’m listening.’
BJ told his father about Robertson giving the photos to Charlotte and then her subsequent suicide.
‘I tried to convince her we weren’t involved but she didn’t buy it. She’s arranged to have the photographs sent to her fucking editor if anything happens.’
BJ half expected his dad to issue her death warrant anyway. Instead he said, ‘Damon called me.’
‘Where the hell is he?’
‘He wouldn’t say. He refuses to give up Anita so I fired him. I will not have my fucking children defy me.’
BJ knew there was a thinly veiled warning in there for him. That Bill was subtly telling him that if he didn’t do as he was told, he would suffer the same fate.
He gulped back his distaste. ‘Any word from Grandpa? Do you think Damon was involved?’ The timing fitted. Damon went AWOL a few hours before their grandfather.
‘I honestly don’t know but I think he’s going to do something stupid.’
BJ didn’t know what to say. The two pillars that kept him grounded – his dad and his grandfather - were shifting and changing like they were built on sand.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Tie things up in Europe and cut the trip in Dubai back to bare basics – a day or two maximum. Ditch Asia. Get your ass to Australia as soon as possible. Baker will surface soon and when he does, I want his daughter there. It seems we may need Burke alive a little longer.’
Charlotte’s voice came through the other end of the phone, and Damon could picture her as if she were standing right in front of him, even recalling the smell of her perfume.
‘Damon?’ She sounded wary, as if she half-expected it to be someone pretending to be him.
