Wicked Beauty
Page 1
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Susan Lewis
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Copyright
About the Book
Tim and Rachel Hendon are riding high on an ideal marriage and growing political success. They have no idea that they are on the eve of a nightmare that is going to totally devastate their lives.
After a high-profile murder, Tim’s campaign manager Katherine Sumner has disappeared. Is she the killer? Or will the information she has on top government officials make hers the next body to turn up on the coroner’s table?
Certain that Katherine is alive and in hiding, acclaimed reporter Laurie Forbes joins forces with Rachel Hendon to search out the truth behind one of the world’s most secretive and dangerous organisations…
About the Author
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-nine novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day and One Day at a Time, the moving memoirs of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com
Susan is a supporter of the childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish: www.winstonswish.org.uk and of the breast cancer charity, BUST: www.bustbristol.co.uk
Also by Susan Lewis
Fiction
A Class Apart
Dance While You Can
Stolen Beginnings
Darkest Longings
Obsession
Vengeance
Summer Madness
Last Resort
Wildfire
Chasing Dreams
Taking Chances
Cruel Venus
Silent Truths
Strange Allure
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Lost Innocence
The Choice
Forgotten
Stolen
No Turning Back
Losing You
No Child of Mine
Don’t Let Me Go
Memoir
Just One More Day
One Day at a Time
For Pamela
Acknowledgements
I should like to extend my sincere thanks to Diane Bodle and Nicole O’Flaherty who so very kindly guided me through the maze of political and parliamentary procedures. Also I warmly thank Jocelyn Jane, Nigel Legge, Tonks, Sharkey and the fishermen of Cadgwith who so willingly gave of their time and knowledge to help me create the fictional village of Killian. I hasten to add that the characters I have created are all fictional too.
A huge thank you to Julian Mounter, a treasured friend and expert pilot who helped me with the flying scenes, as well as lending considerable moral support. And to Nick and Monica who made our stay on Virgin Gorda so easy and pleasurable.
Prologue
The door of the small gallery opened, the overhead bell chimed and in swept the winds of change; the curious, capricious stalker called fate. The door closed, and in several different parts of the world the destinies of a handful of people who didn’t yet know each other began their inexorable journeys towards the events that were ultimately to bind them together.
The owner of the art gallery, a strikingly handsome man in his late thirties, was watching his new visitors – two grey-suited men with expensive raincoats and an air of mild self-importance that seemed to suggest disdain for the paintings they were viewing. The taller man wore horn-rimmed glasses and an expression of weary impatience. The other’s steel-grey hair curled over his collar, and flopped randomly over one eye, lending him a look that might once have been rakish, but had, in middle-age, deteriorated to merely unkempt. At first glance, the owner had assumed them to be interested buyers, or maybe rival dealers, but now he didn’t think so. In fact, he was starting to become uneasy, for there was a discernible change creeping into the room that, whilst no more menacing than a sheathed weapon, seemed to discharge the same underlying potential.
The tall man was the first to speak, while taking a sideways look at a surreal interpretation of a human brain. ‘I believe congratulations are in order,’ he commented pleasantly.
The owner stared at him, his dark, sunken eyes showing more wariness than surprise.
The man turned round and smiled, thinly. His voice and appearance portrayed culture and a high degree of education, though the look in his eyes suggested many darker shades of the image. ‘Marriage can be a haven or a hell,’ he commented. ‘In your case, I’m sure it will prove the former.’
The owner still said nothing, though alarm had punched him like a fist. Why mention his new wife? Were they about to threaten her in some way? Use her as leverage to make him do something illegal? The art world was a smorgasbord of criminal cunning; this wouldn’t be the first such approach …
‘It seems to be a good time for you,’ the tall man continued, turning back to the carefully selected display of figurative works by unknown artists. ‘A new wife. A new client.’ He paused to scrutinize a circular arrangement of multi-coloured squares. ‘A very important client, we’re told.’
The owner heaved an inaudible sigh of relief. Of course, the client. He should have realized sooner, for such a man would naturally be of interest to anyone able to distinguish a Picasso from a Matisse, or even a gun from a sword.
‘A Modigliani nude, I believe,’ the tall man said.
The owner didn’t confirm it; there was no need when they obviously already knew.
The other man suddenly spoke. ‘You have pilot skills,’ he stated.
The owner’s eyes moved in his direction. Tension was building inside him, causing a small muscle to twitch in his temple. Yes, he had pilot skills, but he was suddenly wishing he hadn’t.
‘This client,’ the tall man said, sliding his hands into his pockets and perching on the edge of a table. ‘He’s an interesting individual, wouldn’t you say?’ When he received no reply, he said, ‘We’d like to know more about him.’
The owner considered a facetious referral to a businessmen’s almanac, or the Internet, but as he was now beginning to get an idea of precisely who these men were, he held on to his silence.
‘We all need to play our parts,’ said the man with the silver hair. ‘As your father’s son, I’m sure you understand that.’
There was his confirmation, they were who he suspected, and now he wished he’d stayed at home today. ‘But I’m not my father,’ he said mildly, though fear was definitely starting to factor in with the anger and hostility now.
Appearing surprised the tall man said, ‘There was a time when you were eager to follow in his footsteps.’
‘I was much younger then. I know better now.’
As though he hadn’
t spoken the tall man said, ‘You received a good training. Your record in the field is exemplary, though not extensive, I grant you.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ he protested.
‘It won’t take long to bring you up to date. We need you to start building trust with your client right away.’
The owner looked at him. He could and would protest some more, though he knew already that it would do him no good.
The tall man smiled again, showing his expensively capped teeth. ‘It won’t be difficult for a man such as yourself,’ he told him amiably. ‘Educated, civilized, charming … In fact, I can already feel my own trust starting to grow.’ He let the compliment bask in its glow of sarcasm, then said, ‘If we begin now, it should all be over by the end of the year.’
That had been three years ago and so much had changed during that time, the deception and duplicity had become so deeply ingrained in his life that it was his life. How gullible he’d been back then, for he’d truly believed it was all about art. How naive and shortsighted, when he’d always known that nothing with these people was ever what it seemed, and now gone was the art dealer who got his kicks from mentoring; the amateur musician who liked to sing and fool around in the local pub; the new husband who couldn’t get enough of his dazzling Titian-haired wife. He was different now in ways that often made him unrecognizable, even to himself, yet perversely, wholly irresistible to his wife. His only escape was the time he spent with her, when their passion burned even hotter than the early days, when, after only a month of knowing each other, they’d managed to tumble out of bed long enough to get married. Did she have any idea who, or what, he really was now? How his gallery had become a front for a whole other kind of culture that was as malign as art was benign? Did she even care? He doubted it, for the mystery of his sudden departures and frequently prolonged absences was as addictive to her as the erotic games they played were to him. She was a woman like no other – as unusual as she was beautiful, as unconventional as she was unpredictable. He couldn’t imagine ever loving or desiring another woman, but nor could he have imagined the events that were about to crash into their lives and change them as irrevocably, yet much more catastrophically, than that short visit to his gallery had, three years ago.
Chapter 1
JUBILATION EXPLODED SKYWARDS. Champagne corks flew along with multi-coloured streamers, as confetti showered the triumphant faces like kaleidoscopic rain. Shouts of congratulations and laughter made up the chorus behind an orchestra of clapping hands and party hooters, while cameras flashed and rolled as news reporters shouted into microphones and mobile phones. Like everyone else, they were electrified by the elation as they transmitted this widely anticipated victory to the nation. No last-minute upsets here, no surprises either, but the joy was as great as if the charismatic Tim Hendon had been a rank outsider.
Rachel Hendon’s smile was ecstatic. The press loved her and followed her every move almost as closely as her husband’s. Some said it was thanks to her that her husband enjoyed the kind of popularity most politicians only ever dreamed about, for it was widely known that she consulted frequently with his team of advisers, and kept his image as polished as any icon’s. But the famous Hendon gravitas and intellect were as much his own as the famous mass of blond, wavy hair and casual Armani chic. Not many political couples were so photographed or written about as the Hendons, and since his appointment to the Cabinet, eighteen months ago, their profile had attained an almost celebrity-style status, while their credibility remained a source of head-thumping frustration for those who were out to destroy it.
Rachel’s slight, impeccably dressed figure moved through the crowd like a beacon of light. All eyes followed, everyone wanted a piece of her, for they all knew what a powerhouse she was, how ready her wit and generous her laughter. Being around her, her husband had once said, was as intoxicating as happiness. Her lustrous brown eyes shone with gratitude and friendship as she grasped the outstretched hands warmly, and thanked and hugged those who’d worked tirelessly alongside her and Tim during these past hectic weeks. And now tonight, the Government, their party, was back in power. No Opposition bench for Tim Hendon. His seat would once again be beside the Prime Minister, as a member of the Cabinet – maybe even as the youngest, and possibly most controversial, deputy leader in the party’s history. Such an elevation for the thirty-eight-year-old Hendon would, it was claimed by some, only happen over certain dead bodies, but Tim’s supporters weren’t too concerned about that. Politics was a divisive and dangerous business, with dirty tricks, jealousy and rabid ambition forming the major opponents in the game.
Rachel was nearing the door. Poppers and blowers continued to explode and trumpet with the laughter. Those who needed to express their joy were still circling her, elbowing their way through the crowd to clutch her hands or embrace her. No one noticed the children’s drawings and poetry pinned to the walls, or the gold and silver stars that gleamed around them. The everyday purpose of this school hall meant little tonight.
Across the room she could see Tim being interviewed by John Wakeham, a reporter she knew well. After John would come Janet Crispin, then Steve Chalmers, then … The list was endless, and she didn’t want to think about it now. She wanted only to slip away quietly, with Tim, so that they could indulge in a celebration of their own.
But that couldn’t happen tonight.
‘Rachel! Tell us how you’re feeling right now.’
‘You must be thrilled!’
‘How certain were you of victory?’
‘It was a landslide.’
‘Have you spoken to the PM?’
Scores of reporters, well-wishers, party members. Was there anyone here she didn’t know? A few maybe, but not many. She felt profoundly moved by their loyalty; and blessed by their friendship. It was no hardship to give them the sound-bites they needed, or to return their embraces with as much affection as they offered. She did it willingly, joyously, and not a little emotionally.
Katherine Sumner was with Tim now, taking part in one of the interviews. His arm was loosely round her shoulders as they both leaned in to the mike and shouted over the din. As campaign manager Katherine had done an excellent job. It had been Rachel’s decision to bring her in, even though Tim hadn’t thought it necessary, considering the safeness of the seat he was standing for. But Rachel wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Her husband’s enemies could be lethal and Katherine’s reputation, on her own side of the Atlantic, had been right up there with Stephanopoulos and Carvel, before she’d left the States – and politics – to start a new life in Europe. This would be her last campaign, only agreed to as a favour to Rachel, whose powers of persuasion were as irresistible as her frankness, Katherine had declared, and as admirable as her belief in her husband. So Katherine’s new life had been put on hold until after the election, when she intended to embark upon a journey that was still a secret to most.
From the corner of her eye Rachel watched Katherine step back to allow Tim the limelight, in much the same way as Rachel often did herself. Katherine’s stylish blonde hair and perfectly formed features reflected her inner poise as effectively as the cameras captured her beauty. There was nothing in her manner now to suggest the anger she’d shown earlier, when she and Tim had appeared, from the distance Rachel had been at, to be arguing quite violently. Rachel still had no idea what it had been about, she’d had no chance yet to ask, but whatever it was, they seemed to have made up now. Indeed, at the moment the results had been announced it was to Katherine Tim had turned first; after Rachel, of course. Rachel wanted to be over there with Tim now, but working the room was expected of her in a way it wasn’t of Katherine.
Then Katherine was coming towards her, face glowing with delight, arms outstretched for yet another embrace. There was so much noise around them that probably no one else heard as Katherine said,
‘This is as much your triumph as anyone’s, Rachel. You’ve been an inspiration to us all. I really want to thank you for talk
ing me into it.’
‘It’s for me to thank you,’ Rachel replied, returning the pressure of her hands.
Katherine’s expression was softened by affection as she gazed down into Rachel’s face. Her height almost made her ungainly next to Rachel’s petite femininity, yet Rachel felt diminished by it. And there was a radiance to her blondeness that seemed to dazzle Rachel’s duskiness into uneasy submission. ‘You’re very special,’ Katherine said, her words issuing sincerity. ‘You and Tim both. I’m really going to miss you.’
‘We’ll miss you too,’ Rachel assured her. It wasn’t a lie, but nor was it meant in quite the way Katherine presumably thought.
‘I hope we stay in touch,’ Katherine said, and after pulling Rachel into another embrace, she turned back into the crowd.
For a moment Rachel watched her, tall and slender, confident almost to the point of arrogance, graceful almost to the point of regal. In many ways she was a shining ambassador for her nation, generous of heart and spirit, lively of wit and dedicated to her cause, which, for the past three months, had been the re-election of Tim Hendon. There was no doubt she had captivated them all with her zeal, as well as her willingness to adapt to their ways. She had, in fact, very quickly become an integral part of the team, which was certainly going to feel incomplete once she’d gone, but Rachel wouldn’t be sorry to see her go.
She was very close to the door now, so close that it was possible to reach out and touch it. She was still smiling. No one would know that behind her mask of laughter and delight was an exhaustion she could barely support. It was making her dizzy, almost nauseous. How long had it been since they’d slept for more than three hours at a stretch? At thirty-four she should have the energy to withstand the pressure and lack of sleep. During her time as a news producer it had been almost a way of life.
Catching Tim’s eye, she mirrored the raise of his eyebrows and felt the warmth of their connection reviving her. It was one of the ways they spoke, when words weren’t possible. Katherine, she noticed, was talking to a reporter from CNN. The rest of the core team, sporting their colourful rosettes and ‘Vote Hendon’ T-shirts, had spread out through the hall, filling paper cups with champagne and happily donning the Union Jack hats and garlands that were being passed round the room.