Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  His eyes drew focus on Jean Dowling, his personal assistant. She was a small, neatly dressed woman in her mid-fifties who’d been with him for over twenty years. There were few he trusted as completely, and certainly none in that exclusive little group that belonged to the intelligence gathering unit of the Ministry of Defence. Since she knew already that the call had been about Tim Hendon, he dispensed with any preamble and said, ‘Katherine Sumner’s connection to Franz Koehler is a priority. The police will be interviewing him in the next few hours. We won’t be interfering with their investigations, we will merely be taking steps to ensure that nothing, but nothing, is revealed to the press, or anyone else, before it has been through this office.’

  Jean Dowling nodded, while typing fast into the laptop computer she’d set up on the far side of his desk.

  ‘Rachel Hendon is already causing some concern,’ he continued. ‘The combination of her personal involvement and news background puts her in a high-risk category. We need to keep a close eye on her, to know what she’s doing, who she’s talking to at any given moment. It could prove embarrassing, to say the least, if she were to uncover something crucial before we did, and for the time being we’ll be working on the presumption that there is something to be uncovered. We also need to know if she’s playing a role that has so far failed to come to our attention.’

  Jean was still typing as she said, ‘Does anyone actually know where Katherine Sumner is, or might be?’

  ‘No,’ he answered.

  ‘Or why she might have done it?’

  ‘It looks like an affair,’ he responded, ‘so that’s the line they’ll be taking.’

  Jean’s blue eyes came up as she named the agents she assumed he’d want to begin briefing as soon as she could get them here.

  He nodded.

  Getting to her feet, she picked up her laptop and started for the door.

  ‘Under no circumstances is the press to find out that we’re involved,’ he told her. ‘They will surmise and speculate, of course, but there will be no confirmation.’ His eyes suddenly sharpened. ‘Get the American Ambassador on the phone,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out what he knows about Ms Sumner and her association with our friend Franz Koehler.’

  The shocking news of Tim Hendon’s murder was gripping the nation, sweeping through it in a tidal wave of horror and suspicion. It seemed everyone had an opinion and no one knew where it would end. Was it really just an affair gone wrong, or something more sinister – or both? What kind of fall-out was there going to be over this? How was the Government going to handle such a serious blow? The speculation was rife, in the media, in the street, in pubs, cafés, supermarkets and office blocks. Few were moving far from their TVs, though very little new information was coming out to accompany the shots of the large Regency house in Kensington where the murder had happened, or of the smart town house in Hampstead where Rachel Hendon was reported to be under sedation. Someone had said, a while ago, that Robert Maxton would be coming out soon to make a statement on behalf of his sister-in-law, but there had been no sign of him yet.

  In the darkened interior of a West End theatre the cast and crew of Anna and Robert Maxton’s film, whose day’s shoot had been cancelled as a direct result of the murder, were grouped around a TV that had been set up on the stage. With Tim Hendon being related to their producer and director, they were experiencing a sense of importance and involvement that, they believed, set them apart from the average pundit, even though none of them had ever met Tim Hendon in person, or had any real idea of the inside workings of his office. It was enough that he’d held the position he had, and that the whole world knew how much he’d loved his wife. At least the whole world had assumed that until today, but now it seemed that the perfect marriage had had some cracks, which the scandal of an affair was already seeping through – and what, they were all wondering with no small relish, was going to follow?

  In the shadowy emptiness of the stalls Stacey Greene stifled a yawn. It wasn’t that she had no interest in the murder; on the contrary, she was probably even more fascinated by it than her colleagues, for unlike them she had actually met one of the key players in this tragic ménage. However, a few moments ago Katherine Sumner’s position at the front of her mind had been usurped by an urge to speak to her husband, whose lovemaking the night before was still rippling through her body like the tremors of an aftershock. As it turned out, his mobile was turned off, so she merely sat for a few moments, ignoring the intrigue on the stage, while admiring her magnificent sloe eyes in the light-ringed mirror of a compact. She narrowed them slightly, which seemed to fan the lashes and increase the sensuality that exuded from the mesmerizing depths of their colours. They were a deep, smoky grey, flecked with mauve and cerulean blue. In certain lights they glinted like amethysts. Running the tip of her tongue over the luscious fullness of her lips, she watched the light playing on the amber waves of her hair, turning it into rivers of flame that cascaded to the tops of her perfect breasts. Like small buds in a forest, her nipples protruded through the tresses; while pale as a snowy landscape her skin warmed to the headiness of her exposure. Had anyone noticed? She had no idea, nor did she particularly care.

  Closing the compact, she slipped it back into her bag, refastened the buttons of her blouse and stretched out her long legs to rest them on a chair back in front. Ordinarily she’d have been irritated at having the day’s filming cancelled so abruptly, but today it would be singularly inappropriate to be thinking of herself, not to mention insensitive, for how could her own mild inconvenience even begin to compare with what poor Rachel Hendon must be going through now? And poor Robert and Anna Maxton too, who were only just into their second week of directing and producing this screen version of Robert’s stage play, The Geddons. Obviously this terrible business was going to cause havoc with the schedule, but what could that possibly matter, when Anna’s sister had been so cruelly bereaved? Actually, it was only in recent weeks that Stacey had learned Rachel and Anna were even related, for Anna had never mentioned it before. Still, whatever silliness had caused the rift between them, it was apparently behind them now, thank goodness, because Rachel was surely going to need Anna in the weeks and months to come, in a way she’d probably never needed anyone before.

  ‘So where do you suppose this leaves us?’ she said to Bryn Walker who was playing Arnie Geddon, as he came to sit down beside her. ‘Without a producer, is my guess.’

  ‘We probably won’t be seeing quite so much of her,’ he agreed. ‘But there’s always someone waiting in the wings, just dying for the chance to shine.’

  Stacey’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you think one of the financial backers will try to step in?’ she mused.

  He shrugged, and scratched his lightly bearded chin. ‘I don’t even know who they are, do you?’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘Only vaguely. I wonder how Robert’s going to find it, not having Anna to keep him grounded, and on schedule.’

  ‘The production managers will do it,’ Bryn assured her. ‘If they need to. We still don’t know what’s going to happen yet. Did you ever meet Tim Hendon, by the way?’

  ‘No, but I was hoping to, at Robert’s fortieth party.’

  ‘He was there.’

  ‘I heard, but he and Rachel arrived after I left. Weren’t they on a late flight from Scotland, or somewhere?’

  ‘Bryn!’ the art director shouted from the stage. ‘Are you out there?’

  ‘Over here,’ Bryn shouted back.

  ‘Is this your mobile?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Bryn replied, getting up. ‘Answer it, will you?’

  Stacey watched him trot down the aisle and swing back up on to the stage. Then taking out her own phone, she dialled her husband’s number again. Not really expecting to get through, she left her buttons fastened, though idly stroked her nipples through the thin flowery chiffon of her blouse as she waited.

  ‘Darling,’ she murmured in surprise, when his voice came down the line. ‘At last.
I’ve been trying for hours. Where are you?’

  ‘Going through some tricky terrain,’ he responded, ‘so I might lose you.’

  Her voice was a soft, guttural sound from the base of her throat as she said, ‘You know you’ll never do that.’ Letting her head fall back, she increased the pressure of her fingers and imagined they were his. ‘You didn’t kiss me before you left this morning,’ she chided gently.

  ‘You were asleep.’

  ‘Then you should have woken me. What time did you go?’

  ‘Around five.’

  ‘And we probably didn’t get to sleep until two. You must be exhausted.’

  ‘Exhilarated,’ he corrected.

  She laughed softly. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘In a few days.’

  ‘I wish you were here now,’ she grumbled. ‘Filming’s been cancelled, and I’m just in the mood to expand on last night.’

  ‘Why’s the filming cancelled?’ he asked.

  ‘You haven’t heard the news? Where are you? On Mars?’

  ‘The landscape does seem unfamiliar,’ he responded drily. ‘So what’s happened?’

  ‘Stand by for a shock,’ she warned. ‘Tim Hendon’s been murdered.’

  Silence.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she said.

  ‘I take it we’re talking about the same Tim Hendon,’ he said. ‘Secretary of State …?’

  ‘… for Defence, yes. And Robert and Anna’s brother-in-law, which is why the filming’s been cancelled. They’re saying Katherine Sumner did it, the campaign manager. You might remember seeing her on the news. The American woman.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said. Then incredulously, ‘She murdered him?’

  ‘That’s what they’re saying. Shot him in the head, apparently.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ve got another call.’

  As she waited, Stacey let her mind roll back over the brief but memorable encounter she’d had with Katherine Sumner at Robert Maxton’s fortieth birthday. Evidently Katherine hadn’t been in Scotland with the Hendons that day, or she’d managed to get an earlier flight back. Whichever, she’d certainly arrived before them, and alone, as Stacey recalled, though she couldn’t really be too sure about that. What she did know was that they’d hit it off immediately, and would probably have quite happily discussed their mutual passion for the artists Max Ernst and Jackson Pollock all night. But they’d just reached the point of envying Peggy Guggenheim, who’d had the means to mentor such talent, and who had obviously been as turned on by it as they were, when Anna had thrust someone else on them, forcing them to mingle. However, the conversation, as well as the woman herself, had lingered in Stacey’s mind for days after, until finally picking up the phone, she’d called Katherine to invite her down to the country house for a weekend, once the election was over. They’d made an arrangement to drive down together, this weekend in fact, which Stacey had quite been looking forward to until this morning, for it was clearly highly unlikely to happen now.

  ‘OK. I’m back with you,’ her husband said.

  ‘I wish you were,’ she sighed, sliding further down in her chair. ‘I miss you when you’re gone. If it weren’t for the reunions, I swear I’d never let you go. Which country are you in?’

  ‘Switzerland,’ he answered, surprising her more by the fact that he’d told her, for he generally didn’t, than by how fast he’d managed to get there. ‘When are you likely to start filming again?’

  ‘We haven’t heard anything yet, so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens. What are you doing in Switzerland?’

  ‘Running a test.’

  ‘Which means absolutely nothing,’ she responded, yawning, and waving to Bryn as he broke from the group on the stage and disappeared into the wings. ‘Next time you call, be naked,’ she murmured to her husband.

  There was silence from the other end, telling her they’d been cut off, so she cleared the line, then stared down at the phone, trying to decide whether or not to call Robert. Would it seem intrusive? Or merely genuinely concerned, which she was. She wondered if Bryn had tried to call, since his friendship with Robert went back to Robert’s break-out success with Donna Jean in Paradise. She doubted it though, for knowing Bryn he’d be boasting about it by now. And she was certain that Gloria, who was playing the third lead, wouldn’t have tried, for she’d only just joined the production, having been cast at the last minute, after the actress who’d played Alma Geddon in the stage run had, quite literally, broken her leg.

  In the end, realizing how unlikely it was that she’d get through, she dialled the number anyway, and began rehearsing a message.

  ‘Robert Maxton,’ his voice said after the second ring.

  ‘Robert, darling,’ she purred into the line. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve just heard. How utterly terrible for you all.’

  ‘Stacey,’ he said, sounding extremely tense. ‘It’s good of you to call. I’m sorry I’ve had to let you all down today.’

  ‘Oh darling, please. Your sister-in-law needs you. How can any of us possibly matter? How is she?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. She’s taken it hard.’

  ‘And who can blame her? Such a dreadful, dreadful thing to happen. Please send her my condolences, and if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all …’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. But listen, I’ll clear the line now, because I’m sure you’re expecting much more important calls than mine.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he told her.

  ‘Any time. You know where to find me,’ and after sending him an affectionate kiss down the line she rang off.

  The next mobile number she tried was Katherine Sumner’s, but this time she didn’t get through. It would have more than surprised her if she had, so dropping the phone back into her bag, she took out an emery board and glided it gently round her already perfectly manicured nails.

  ‘So, dear Katherine, dear Katherine,’ she hummed quietly to herself, ‘where in this big, bad world are you, my dear?’

  ‘Talking to yourself, sweetie?’ a voice said behind her.

  Smiling she let her head fall back on the seat and stretched up her arms to Petey, the pale skinned, ebony-haired androgyne, who was her very own dresser-cum-personal assistant-cum-personal masseuse. ‘Mmm, the very person,’ she responded, as he stroked her arms. ‘My husband’s away, and now faced with all this free time …’

  ‘Speak your heart’s desire,’ he said gallantly, ‘but before you do, remember the words of the great Sir George, “There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.”’

  Her eyes were suffused with humour as she gazed up at him, and twirled her fingers around his face. ‘And tragedy, as we know, requires testicles,’ she responded.

  Laughing delightedly he said, ‘Voltaire,’ then bowing the gesture for her to walk on ahead of him, he was about to pick up her bag and follow when Gloria Sullivan called down from the stage,

  ‘Stacey, Robert’s about to make a statement. Don’t you want to hear it?’

  Stacey turned back. ‘Of course,’ she responded, and moments later she was folding her willowy frame into the space the pretty young Gloria had made for her in the group around the TV. She smiled her thanks, then turned to the screen, masking her distaste for Gloria’s flushing cheeks and shyly lowered lids. As far as she was concerned the jury was still out on the cute little starlet, though right now she was more interested in their director, who was looking extremely tired and overwrought as he stepped up to the bank of microphones that had been erected outside his sister-in-law’s elegant house in Hampstead.

  It was now almost three hours since the news of Tim Hendon’s death had been made public, so it was hardly surprising that Robert Maxton, standing on the threshold of the Hendons’ home, should find himself facing such an enormous and voracious crowd of cameras and reporters. The house’s proximity to Hampstead Heath allowed for a great deal
more parking – albeit illegal – than many other locations might have, so in both directions, as far as the eye could see, were countless numbers of news-gathering vehicles, satellite dishes and all manner of broadcast paraphernalia from the world over.

  Since this was going to be the first statement from the family, Robert’s appearance was causing quite a stir, though he knew that despite having a job to do, many of those he was confronting had a genuine and personal concern for Rachel. They’d want to know how she was, and in some cases what they might do to help. Of course, they’d all prefer it to be her standing here now, but he guessed that none had really expected it.

  As the police helped to get everyone into position he talked quietly to Chief Inspector Bartle from the Met. Apparently the inspector was now in charge of the case, so quite where Haynes and Flynn fitted into the picture, Robert was no longer sure. The various ranks and departments of Scotland Yard and its affiliates always had been a mystery to him, and he was quite happy for them to remain so, just as long as they did their jobs and solved this terrible crime.

  Before coming out here he’d spoken briefly with Rachel, then separately with Haynes and Flynn, to decide what should be said. Haynes and Flynn had left now, but would return tomorrow to speak to Rachel again. In the meantime, she’d gone up to the bedroom with Anna, not wanting to take any more calls, even from the various ministers of Tim’s department, or other Cabinet members, in fact not from any government officials at all. As of an hour ago not even close friends were managing to get through, which was making poor Lucy’s life more hellish than ever, so he could hardly blame her for the outburst he’d happened to overhear, when she’d screamed at someone down the line that if they could see how devastated Mrs Hendon was, they’d understand why it simply wasn’t possible for her to deal with anyone right now.

  ‘OK, it seems everyone’s ready,’ Bartle said, next to him.