Why him?
Was it because they were going to be even harder on him, because of who he was?
Or could it be – a splinter of hope here – that because of who he was, they were just waiting for the opportunity to sneak him out of the back door, and away from this nightmare?
A police sergeant entered the room, with a small photograph in the palm of his hand. He looked at the man in the corner, then the photograph, then back at the man in the corner.
And then he beckoned.
Oh God, the man in the corner thought.
Beresford did not emerge from Diana Sowerbury’s flat until ten o’clock. Even then, he did not head for police headquarters, but drove to the hospital instead.
‘Diana won’t be in today,’ he told the ward sister on the early shift. ‘She’s got a shocking migraine headache.’
‘Hmm!’ the ward sister said.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘I don’t know how things worked in Miss Sowerbury’s last hospital,’ the ward sister said stiffly, ‘but in this hospital we’re required to phone in to administration when we are unable to work.’
‘She must have thought that me telling you was enough,’ Beresford said cheerfully. ‘I’ll tell you what – I’ll ring her now and tell her to ring you.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘No, that won’t do, because after I put her to bed I took the phone off the hook. Maybe I could drive round and …’
‘Forget it,’ the ward sister said. ‘I’ll ring administration myself.’
‘That is kind of you,’ Beresford said. ‘Would it be all right if I spent a bit of time with my boss now I’m here?’
‘Yes,’ said the ward sister, ‘that would be fine.’
The listener in the van heard the door of the hospital room open, and then a voice he’d come to recognize as Beresford’s.
‘Good morning, Monika,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve brought my cassette player with me today, so you don’t have to listen to my horrible voice.’
‘Thank God for that, at least,’ the listener said to himself.
‘I’ve got all sorts of music, but the jewel in the crown is this album by my absolute favourite American group of the moment. Can you guess who it is?’
He sang ‘Sugar, Sugar’ five times yesterday, the listener thought. Please let it not be the Archies.
‘Can’t guess?’ Beresford asked. ‘Well, I suppose I’ll just have to tell you, then. It’s the Archies.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ the listener moaned.
The woman who walked into St Neames police station was in her early forties, but had the same effect Marilyn Monroe might have done if, for some strange reason, she’d suddenly turned up in a small Cornish town.
It was hard to say why she should have such a dramatic effect. She was beautifully dressed, it was true. Her legs were long, her hair was blonde, her breasts seemed firm and pleasantly shaped. But that was still not enough to explain it. Perhaps it was simply that because she thought she was gorgeous, you did, too.
No, even that was not quite right – it was that because she thought she was gorgeous that she was gorgeous. Yes, that was it.
She walked up to the counter.
‘I’m Dr Rosemary Pemberton,’ she said. ‘I believe you’ve got my husband here on ice.’
‘Well, yes, he’s in the police mortuary,’ the sergeant admitted, ‘but I don’t have the forms here—’
‘The forms?’ the magnificent lady interrupted him. ‘What forms are you talking about?’
‘The forms you need to fill in to claim the body.’
‘Why would I want to claim him?’ Rosemary Pemberton asked. ‘He was a dead weight round my neck when he was alive – he’d be even worse now he is actually dead.’ She grinned. ‘Get it? Dead weight!’
The sergeant did not appreciate humour, even when, as on this occasion, it came from the mouth of a vision of loveliness.
‘So if you don’t want to claim the body, then why are you here, madam?’ he asked.
‘Because I want to make sure that the bastard really is dead.’
‘I think you’d better talk to my inspector,’ the sergeant said.
The train had been rattling along at a fair old rate, but as it approached Watford Junction it started to slow down.
Meadows stood up and, squeezing between several sets of thick young-manhood knees, negotiated her way to the aisle.
‘Are you going to the loo, Carole?’ asked Sid Harris – rugby coach and all-round nice guy. ‘I’m only asking because, if you are, then I’ll get one of the lads to go with you.’
Meadows grinned. ‘To tell you the truth, Sid, I don’t think there’d be room for both me and one of your lads in a single cubicle.’
Although if it was you and me, we might just squeeze in, she thought.
Harris had gone a little red in the face.
‘I wasn’t suggesting that you and the lad … that you and the lad …’ he began.
‘I know,’ Meadows said, reaching across and stroking the top of his head. ‘You just want to make sure I’m protected, don’t you?’
‘Well, you can never be too careful,’ Harris mumbled.
The lads were delighted with the performance and especially with their manager’s discomfort.
‘Put him down, Carole – you don’t know where he’s been,’ one of them shouted.
‘Hey, Dockleaf, your dad’s getting married again,’ another one called out. ‘Hadn’t somebody better tell your mum?’
‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’ asked a third.
The whole team was having a good time, but the performance hadn’t been staged for them. It was aimed at the watchers, and it said, ‘You can relax, fellers, because nobody having this much fun is planning anything dramatic in the next few minutes.’
The train was entering the station, and platforms had appeared on both sides of it.
Meadows had already worked out two plans, and now was the time to choose between them.
Plan A: she would move quickly into the next carriage, and get off the train from there. If her tails followed her through to the carriage, she would have a start of something between twenty seconds and half a minute on them. If they worked out she was getting off, and got off themselves from this carriage, she would have a ten-to twenty-second lead.
Not enough!
Plan B then.
She grabbed her bag and walked quickly down the aisle towards the watchers. The movement caught them off their guard, and the closest one was only starting to rise to his feet when, with no warning at all, she threw herself sideways right on top of him.
For three or four seconds they were a single creature – a confusion of arms and legs – with her screaming at the top of her voice, and him silent as he processed what was happening.
Then she pulled herself free.
‘How could you!’ she moaned. ‘How could you?’
The rugby players now filled the aisle, and as the watcher attempted to regain his balance, one of them planted a mighty fist in the centre of his face.
The other watcher was on his feet, but seemed unsure whether to go to his partner’s aid or to stick with Meadows.
While he was making up his mind, Meadows kicked him as hard as she possibly could in the crutch.
He made a whooshing sound and sank to his knees. Meadows stepped round him.
The rugby team were still roaring at the first watcher, but it was not clear whether each roar was being accompanied by a punch or not.
Meadows stepped off the train and walked quickly towards the entrance to the London Underground. She did not look back.
TWENTY-TWO
He was taken to an interrogation room in the One-Four, where a burly man in a blue uniform had clearly been waiting for him.
‘You are Assemblyman Robert Proudfoot,’ the burly man said, and it wasn’t a question. ‘I am Captain Fred Mahoney.’
‘I demand you release me immediately,’ Proudfoot said. ‘I have important state busi
ness to conduct in Albany.’
Mahoney chuckled. ‘Have you seen how, on all those cop shows on the television, the police captain gets thrown into a panic because the squad’s got a senator or some other high-up in the cells?’
‘I am a state assemblyman. I don’t have much time to watch television,’ Proudfoot said haughtily.
Mahoney slammed his huge fist down on the table. ‘Have you seen it?’ he demanded.
‘Maybe once or twice.’
‘Well, that’s all made up – and this is real life. You were caught in a male brothel where most of the sex workers were underage.’ Mahoney smiled. ‘Did you notice that? I said “sex workers”. That’s because I’ve been sent on a course where they teach you to be nice and clinical. It’s called being politically correct.’
‘I demand to see my lawyer!’ Proudfoot said.
Mahoney scratched his head. ‘Well, you can certainly do that, but it may turn out to be one big fat mistake,’
‘What do you mean?’
‘See that recording machine over there? Mahoney told him. ‘The reel isn’t turning, because it’s not recording. You can check that out for yourself, if you want to.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘So why am I not recording it, you ask yourself. It’s because I want it all to end here in this room – done and dusted, all forgotten, it never happened. Once your lawyer enters the picture, however, it’s all a matter of record, and that takes it out of my hands.’
‘Let me see if I’ve got this straight,’ Proudfoot said. ‘If we keep this just between us, it will be like my arrest never happened.’
‘Nearly right,’ Mahoney said. ‘If you give me the answers to the questions I’m going to ask you, it will be as if your arrest never happened.’
‘So what do you want to know?’
Mahoney stood up. ‘Not yet,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, not yet?’ Proudfoot asked. ‘I’m here, you’re here, let’s do it.’
‘If we started now, you’d just feed me bullshit for the first half hour, so while I’m away, I’d like you to tell all that bullshit to yourself – get it out of your system. Then, when I come back, we can get right down to the real nitty-gritty straight away.’
‘You can’t treat me like this,’ Proudfoot said. ‘I am entitled to some respect, you know.’
‘You think?’ Mahoney asked.
There were those in the stylish and artistic circles who regarded the Rivoli Bar of the Ritz Hotel as a masterpiece of Art Deco, but Kate Meadows was not one of them. Nevertheless, that was where she’d arranged to meet Farhad at exactly twelve o’clock.
She entered the Rivoli at half-past eleven, walked over to the bar, and said to the nearest of the two barman on duty, ‘I am meeting Prince Farhad bin Wahid here. I believe he has reserved a table.’
‘You do realize, Madame, that strictly speaking, we don’t reserve tables for anybody,’ the barman replied, running his eyes approvingly over Meadows’ smart grey suit.
‘Yes, I do realize it,’ Meadows agreed.
‘That said, your table is over there, Madame.’
The barman pointed to a table under a bas-relief of Zeus (disguised, on this occasion, as a swan) in sexual congress with Leda.
‘Perfect,’ Meadows said.
‘Would Madame like me to take her bag to the cloakroom for her?’
Meadows shook her head. ‘Madame will be needing her bag.’
She went straight to the ladies toilets. When she emerged again there was no sign of her stylish grey suit, and instead she was wearing a metallic purple dress with a neckline that plunged, and had a slit up the side almost to her waist. She was also wearing a piled-high purple wig that Medusa would have sold her soul for, and had applied mascara in industrial quantities.
The two barmen were alarmed to see that a whore had managed to worm her way past the doorman, then horrified when they realized she was the classy-looking lady who was due to meet a prince.
Meadows read their expressions with some amusement, but also with a great deal of sympathy.
What do we do, they were asking each other.
If we throw her out, the prince will be furious with us.
But if we let her stay and other customers complain – and they were almost bound to – then the bar manager will be furious with us.
Meadows walked over to the bar. Her movements were much more catlike, now that she was in costume.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said to them, ‘if you get any grief from this, I’ll tell Farhad to buy this place and promote you both. And he would do it, if I told him to, you know.’
‘Of course he would,’ said the first barman, who could no longer imagine anybody not doing what she wanted them to do.
Dr Pemberton and Inspector Green sat facing each other across the coffee table. Green was doing his best not to look at Rosemary’s knees, which he had already established were everything that a man could hope a woman’s knees would be.
‘There’s really no need to put yourself through all this, Dr Pemberton,’ he said. ‘The fingerprints are quite enough to have him declared legally dead.’
‘I want to see him,’ Rosemary said.
‘And his face is a real mess. It will only distress you.’
‘Before my husband left me, he beat the shit out of me and emptied my bank account,’ Rosemary said. ‘I could see him after he’d been fed through a jigsaw puzzle cutter, and it still wouldn’t distress me.’
‘I just can’t understand how any man could ever leave you,’ Inspector Green said.
And then he thought – Oh my God, I didn’t intend to say that. I honestly didn’t.
‘I’m so sorry …’ he began.
Rosemary laughed. ‘There’s no need to apologize. I enjoy being admired by men. Ah, but if you could have seen me before he left me, you would not have admired me then. Since he’s been gone, my hair has turned quite gold with grief.’ She laughed again. ‘That’s Oscar Wilde, you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know, actually,’ Green confessed.
‘So I have to see Roger, you see,’ Rosemary said. ‘I need to convince myself that he’s never coming back. It’s not logical at all. It’s right down here,’ she began to rub her stomach, slowly and sensually, ‘in my gut.’
I wish she wouldn’t do that, Inspector Green thought.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Pemberton, but for your own protection …’
‘Call me Rosemary.’
‘… for your own protection, Rosemary, I really must insist …’
‘I wouldn’t like to have to go to all the time and trouble of hiring a lawyer,’ Rosemary said sweetly. ‘I wouldn’t like things to get messy – in the legal sense, of course.’
There was no fighting her.
‘Very well, Dr Pemberton …’ he began.
‘I asked you to call me Rosemary,’ she pointed out.
‘Very well, Rosemary, I will allow you to see your husband’s body – but on your own head be it.’
At exactly midday, Farhad entered the bar. Had he been in a smart suit, he would have turned women’s heads. Dressed in robes, as he was, he was accompanied by a train of admiring gasps.
He had always been a handsome man – a distinguished man – but in the several years since they had last met, his looks had, if anything improved.
Kate had once heard a society hostess (the wife of an important cabinet minister) try to flatter him by saying that he was Omar Sharif’s double.
Farhad had not taken it well.
‘You think I look like an Egyptian?’ he’d asked, in a voice as cold as the desert at night-time.
‘No … I …’ the hostess had replied, completely flustered.
‘Besides,’ Farhad had interrupted her, ‘if anyone is anyone’s double, then Sharif is mine.’
Farhad came to a halt by Meadows’ chair, and when she held out her hand, he caressed it with his lips.
‘Zelda, my dear, you look wonderful,’ he s
aid.
‘You’re late,’ she told him.
He looked at his watch.
‘No … I …’ he began.
Meadows seemed to swell to twice her normal size.
‘Do you dare to contradict me?’ she demanded.
‘No, I …’
‘Then sit down!’
There’d been a time when she’d found his predilections so amusing that it had been hard not to laugh. After all, Farhad came from a society in which men ruled supreme – in which most women would regard being treated as second-class citizens as a promotion.
In Saudi Arabia, a woman could not leave the house unless in the company of a male relative, could not have a job (which must be in an all-female environment) without the permission of a male relative, could not travel in a vehicle unless accompanied by a male relative – and could not even have an operation for a serious illness unless a male relative agreed.
And this male relative could, in some circumstances, be her son. Yes, the child she’d given birth to – who could be thirty or even forty years younger than her – had the power of life and death over her.
It would have been a dream-come-true for macho shitheads all over the western world, and yet this prince – this member of the Saudi Arabian royal family – had been so wired genetically that he obtained his sexual pleasure from being ordered about by a woman in thigh-length boots.
‘May I speak?’ he asked.
‘You may.’
‘When you disappeared, I spent thousands of pounds on private detectives, looking for you.’ Farhad paused. ‘Did I do wrong?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you forgive me?’
‘We shall see. I want you to do something for me.’
‘Anything.’
‘Do you have good contacts in the Saudi Air Force and the Ministry of Defence?’
‘I have three brothers in the Ministry, and one in the Air Force. I share a mother with the one in the Air Force.’
‘Do you get on well with all of them?’
Farhad shrugged. ‘I cannot remember. When you have fifty-three brothers, as I have, it is sometimes hard to keep track.’
‘Then let me put it another way – will they all do favours for you?’
‘Oh yes.’
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