by Iain Cameron
He had come to the UK from Syria as a child when his family had been wiped out by a terrorist bomb explosion. He stayed with his uncle, a former university lecturer in Syria, and did well at school, gaining a place at Birmingham Medical School. He trained as a doctor, eventually specialising in reconstructive surgery. Ten years ago, he left the NHS and started his own practice in Hove, called Cavendish Body Sculptures, specialising in cosmetic surgery for the rich and famous.
He was tall, early forties, with handsome, chiselled features, a neat quiff of thick dark brown hair, and a perfectly proportioned nose and mouth befitting a man in his profession. His naturally light-brown skin gave him a permanent tan, in common with many of his rich clients, who got theirs on the deck of a yacht or around the pool at their foreign villa.
The ladies loved him and he was never short of beautiful companions. He occasionally brought them to places like this, but Robinson knew what Hassan meant when he called them a distraction; he didn’t mean their beautiful faces or voluptuous figures. Gambling was a pleasure that could only be savoured alone.
The drinks were served.
‘Cheers, Trevor,’ Hassan said, picking up his drink.
‘Cheers Hassan.’
‘Thanks for the drink,’ he said, a moment or two later. ‘Perhaps I can do something for you. Do you like rugby?'
‘No, I’m not really into any particular sport.’
‘That’s a shame, as I can lay my hands on several tickets for the England versus Scotland game in a couple of weeks’ time. If you change your mind, just let me know.’
‘I will. Thanks for the offer.’
‘So, tell me, what’s going on in the legal world?’
To hear his plummy southern English accent, a stranger would never guess Hassan’s origins. If not practising cosmetic surgery, he could easily read the BBC evening news, or voice-overs for top-of-the-range car adverts.
‘Since the last time I saw you, and as part of my new, broader role, I attended my first senior management meeting.’
‘You were taking Martin’s place?’
‘Yes, but it seems the meeting was more subdued than normal, due to recent developments.’
‘That’s understandable. Did you discuss anything of note?’
‘We mainly talked about the fall-out from the break-in, you know the sort of thing: staff counselling, security, visitors to our offices, and so on, but then what Alex Vincent said topped it all.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s convinced that as a result of the break-in, a number of his files have gone missing.’
‘My goodness, that is interesting. Why would the killer do that?’
‘We all thought the same and treated it as a bit of a joke, until we realised he was being serious. Haldane’s so concerned he’s instructed Vincent to engage our auditors to make an inventory of all that’s missing. He fears litigious clients.’
Khouri reached for his drink and took a sip. ‘I can understand his concern. If one of your people was to mess up something like a serious fraud case due to the absence of an important schedule, you could be tied up in litigation for years. Do the police have anyone in the frame for the murder yet?’
‘If they have, they haven’t said anything to us.’
‘I certainly haven’t seen anything in the papers.’
‘You would know, as I suspect you have them all delivered to your surgery every day.’
‘Yes, we do,’ he said, smiling, revealing perfectly even, white teeth. ‘What’s happening with Raymond Schofield? Do you know if the police have spoken to him yet?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If they haven’t, they should.’
‘I’m surprised to hear you say that, Hassan. Why would Ray be involved? It was Martin, and myself, of course, who worked on the case and got him off. With all the money he has, he should be erecting a statue to Martin, not stabbing him to death.’
‘He’s a very bad man, Trevor, you must have seen that when you were dealing with him.’
‘I realise he didn’t get to his exulted position by being nice to people. Many of his dirty dealings were exposed during the trial, something we and a PR agency had to spend a lot of time trying to counter.’
‘It’s worse than you can imagine. I’ve dealt with at least two people in my surgery who’ve been battered by his thugs.’
‘What? I thought his next business venture was investing in high-tech start-ups. What’s that got to do with strong-armed bully boys?’
‘It’s not the new business he’s protecting. It’s his women.’
‘Women? I thought there was only one, Clare Mitchell?’
‘Oh, no. I’ve counted at least three. He owns various properties around Sussex and his women live in the houses rent-free. He visits them from time to time. If he finds some guy’s been sniffing around, he sends in his thugs to sort them out. Mind you, I’m only seeing the casualties who go private. Who knows how many others he’s maimed who are now being treated on the NHS?’
TWENTY-TWO
Clare Mitchell stepped out of the villa and jogged in the direction of the beach. Despite the late hour, seven-thirty, and the season, early spring, the heat was oppressive. She ran down the steps and through the garden. She knew, on Ray’s property at least, she wouldn’t trip on a rogue stone or branch, as he paid gardeners and maintenance people to work all the year round.
She liked St Lucia. It was hot, but it wasn’t the dry, oven heat of the Middle East that enveloped your body as soon as you stepped outside, leaving you panting and your t-shirt soaked after running half a kilometre. Here, there was more moisture in the air, making it easier to breathe, but in time, it crept up on you. By the end of a five-mile run, she often felt ten years older and totally drained.
She had no desire to spend another holiday in the company of Ray Schofield, but when he suddenly suggested a short break in St Lucia she jumped at the chance. It was one of the two places she hadn’t yet searched; the documents she was looking for could possibly be there.
The timing of the holiday bothered her for a reason she couldn’t fathom. In no shape or measure could Ray be considered an impetuous man. No one running a large international company with over a thousand employees ever did anything spontaneous. Corporate types lived by plans, strategies, and budgets, devices designed to tell staff what to do, how to do it, and provide a measure of their performance.
Two things might have spooked him. First, the home visit from two Sussex Police detectives. She wasn’t there at the time, but had gone out to a restaurant with Ray in the evening and he’d been jumpy. She’d met him many times in business after delivering a speech at the CBI, talking to a room full of fund managers, or being interviewed on radio or television. Then, she would have described his behaviour as high and excited, never jumpy.
He would want to know if he’d looked smart, sounded confident, covered all the things he had on his checklist, but he wouldn’t be listening to her responses. He was too hyped-up with adrenaline, like a footballer at the end of a gruelling match. After his chat to the police, he seemed nervous, preoccupied, as if going over each of his answers, trying to determine if he’d said something wrong.
Second, he had received a call from his wife. To the tabloids, Rebecca was the blonde bimbo on the arm of leisure supremo, Raymond Schofield. She was smaller than him with an hourglass figure, large boobs, and athletic legs, courtesy of the days spent in her youth as a fringe player with the England hockey team.
Rebecca was anything but a bimbo, although Clare knew she didn’t mind being characterised as such. It gave her license to do things in the business which people didn’t see coming, giving them less time to organise their defences. The Crema Coffee shops were her idea, as was the way they were set up. She’d resisted all attempts by Ray to make them as efficient and functional as possible, and instead, she allowed them to develop a casual, bohemian style. All were supplied daily with fresh flowers, the female toilets were equipped with com
plimentary nappies and tampons, the men’s with an aftershave dispenser, and she ensured the female-to-male ratio of staff in the business was maintained at fifty-fifty.
A day before he’d suggested going away, Clare knew Ray had been talking to Rebecca on the phone in the car when he arrived to pick her up from her flat in Hove. He’d appeared so agitated she had taken a step back into the hallway of her building to watch. In the main, conversations between the divorcing couple were amicable, if a bit business-like; you take the microwave, I’ll have the coffee maker. She assumed all divorces progressed in this way, although she had never experienced one close up.
It was a common enough occurrence at Raybeck Leisure; one of the unintended consequences of Rebecca’s desire to have an equal split of the sexes, was an increase in the number of shop floor romances and affairs. Clare, as financial director, often saw the fall-out: numerous ‘Change of Beneficiary Forms’ for the pension fund, increases in maternity pay, more dispute resolution dubbed, lovers’ tiff resolution, and more severance payments; the whole nine yards.
Despite her initial reluctance to join Ray on yet another holiday, she had to admit, it was a fantastic villa sited in a spectacular spot. It was located high on a cliff at the midpoint between two sweeping, curved bays, each filled with soft, pale sand. Ray claimed he had spotted the villa, but if Rebecca hadn’t found it, she had certainly played a major role in how it was furnished. In common with the house in Warninglid, the villa furnishings were minimal, but exuded great taste and style.
In this part of the island, few tourists knew the bays existed, or if they did, they didn’t have the transport to negotiate the rugged access roads. On such a beautiful evening as this, there was no one lying on the beach or running along the hard sand near the shore as she was doing.
Clare hoped she was never part of the acrimony between Rebecca and Ray. She knew Rebecca well and had talked to her on a number of occasions since the split, and didn’t detect the least trace of rancour. That said, people with less sense than Rebecca would resent Clare’s presence in Ray’s life.
She had a clear conscience as it wasn’t her who had driven a wedge between Ray and his wife. It was Sylvie Goss, Rebecca’s former best friend and a regular visitor to Mayfield Manor in Warninglid. She was similar in age to Rebecca, fifty-six, but unlike her friend, looked and acted ten years younger. She had a figure to match, with larger than average boobs, a slim waist and extraordinary long legs that could grace hosiery and shoe adverts, which at one time, they did.
Clare had been Ray’s constant companion for the last seven years. He ran Raybeck on strict cost-conscious lines and deferred to her judgement on all things financial. She had accompanied Rebecca and Ray to numerous conferences, trade shows, meetings, holidays at the villa in Portugal, and once to St Lucia.
To their eternal frustration, the tabloids were unable to capitalise on her presence. If a journalist called the press office because they’d seen Ray and Clare together in a London restaurant, they would be told Ms Mitchell was Raybeck’s financial director and accompanying Mr Schofield to discuss a business matter. It never failed to fob them off, because if there was one thing designed to bore readers and have them turning over to the TV pages, it was an exclusive story about an accountant. In the public’s view, they were slightly more popular than an undertaker or actuary, but less than an estate agent or fund manager.
Returning to the villa after completing her run, she began a series of cool-down stretches on the patio, in an attempt to reduce the build-up of lactic acid in her system and avoid muscle pain later. Facing the beach, she watched as the track of her footsteps in the sand across the bay vanished under the lapping waves, while the big orange disc of the sun slowly sank below the horizon. Since childhood, sunset had left a feeling of melancholy. The sun seemed to disappear so completely into the ocean she couldn’t be persuaded it would return the following morning.
‘Did you have a good run?’
Ray was standing outside the patio doors, a bottle of Wadadli beer in his hand. He was drinking more now that he no longer had a big business to run. Then, he had his fair share of management dinners and retirement lunches, but he would drink little, as he often had to make a speech afterwards, or he intended returning to the office once the event was over.
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘I think it’s cooler in the evening than in the morning, and the views with the softer light are spectacular.’
‘You should be a photographer or painter with an eye like that.’
‘You know me, I don’t have the patience.’
He walked over and kissed her.
‘You’re taking a risk,’ she said.
‘I know, but despite your top being soaked through, there doesn’t seem to be the usual rancid hum of sweat. It must be something in the air back home. Pollution, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘You’ve got a lot to learn about women, Ray Schofield,’ she said, tapping him playfully on the nose. ‘Rancid hum indeed. I’m off for a shower before you say something you might regret.’
The bathrooms in the villa were every bit as big and as well-appointed as those in Portugal. Not only was there a range of shower soaps, moisturisers, and night creams, all leading brands, there were also huge, thick bath towels to wrap herself up with.
She would never call herself a keen runner, subscribing to running magazines and scouring athletic shops for the latest gear. In fact, she didn’t enjoy doing it, but instead used it to fulfil two specific purposes. She had always been a confident businesswoman and thought nothing of walking into a meeting room full of men, but now and again depression would strike. It was rooted, she believed, in the untimely death of her father and her mother’s inadequate attempts to try and fill the void.
Running had been suggested by a coach at university, and whenever she spotted a black cloud on the horizon, she would lace her trainers and head outside. The abundance of fresh air and the surge of adrenaline would usually do the trick and push the clouds away. When she started work at the sumptuous offices of Raybeck Leisure in Leadenhall, her secretary soon became accustomed to her boss walking into her office in a smart business suit, only to appear a few hours later decked in a garishly-coloured tight top and clingy leggings. This, and her ability to bring clarity to Ray’s often scattered thought processes, was the reason her staff called her Superwoman.
Running was also used to organise her thoughts. Her day would be filled with meetings, phone calls, interruptions by Ray, and emails, some requiring an immediate response. Pounding the pavements around Leadenhall was often the only time she could be on her own, her phone on airplane mode and set to playing upbeat music.
After drying off, she opened the wardrobe. She flicked through the dresses, rejecting the pale pink as she didn’t yet have much of a tan, and instead, selected the navy. They were dining in the Calico Rose restaurant this evening, one of the Island’s most exclusive establishments. The great and good of St Lucia would be there, even on a midweek night, with the added bonus of any visiting dignitaries.
She enjoyed a bit of celebrity spotting as much as the next girl, but this wasn’t Ray’s aim; he went there to be noticed. Even in this far-flung corner of the Caribbean, a long way from Fleet Street and Wapping, Ray had his eye on a photo opportunity and the flattery that a column inch or two would bring.
After selling the business, Ray promised he would leave all the hullabaloo associated with corporate life behind. There would be no more press conferences, meetings with the London Mayor, drinks with journalists, or meals in the latest ‘happening’ London restaurant, all in an attempt to shoehorn his picture into the paper. He was kidding himself, but she wasn’t fooled. The level of adoration he once enjoyed would be difficult for anyone to give up; near impossible for a man like Ray with an ego bigger than any diva pop star.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror and did a twirl. Despite this being a holiday, she didn’t want to look like a tourist, but as Ray’s business pa
rtner. So, the earrings were small with diamonds, the dress knee-length, and the shoes were smart sandals.
Satisfied, she headed downstairs. At the mid-point landing, she stopped. She could hear Ray on the phone. If there had been any neighbours, they would have been able to hear him too.
‘Just fucking do it!’ he hollered. ‘I don’t care what you have to do!’
There was silence for a moment; Ray listening to the caller, or had he walked off towards the garden?
‘Pete, listen to me. They know nothing. You’re in the clear. Just fucking get rid of him, right?’
TWENTY-THREE
He reached into his briefcase and picked out the Tupperware box Anita had packed for him. Alex Vincent had told his wife on several occasions not to bother as she had the boys to deal with, but she had grown up in a household where her mother insisted a wife had to look after her husband. In his family, things were done differently, but having a discussion with his wife and trying to get her to change her mind, was about as fruitful as sticking his head down the toilet.
He opened the box and, as usual, a little note lay on top.
To Alex,
The most wonderful man in the world and the best father our two boys could ever imagine.
Love always,
Anita xx
He pulled the drawer open and added the note to the pile Anita had previously penned. When he explained her behaviour to friends, they found it hard to reconcile this with the high-powered Mergers and Acquisitions expert she once was. In those days, she lost no sleep over decisions to close factories or to sell companies to foreign rivals, and would happily raise millions of pounds to allow corporate raiders, asset strippers, and land hoarders to do their dirty work.
