Wicked Beauty

by Susan Lewis

  ‘I know you had to say that,’ she responded. ‘But I hope you’re going to keep her confidence.’

  ‘I can claim lawyer–client privilege,’ he said. ‘She can’t, but she knows that.’ He picked up the coffee that he’d allowed to grow cold. ‘I’m afraid for her, Anna,’ he said frankly.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she murmured. Then, bringing her eyes back to his, ‘You knew him as well as anyone. How do you think he made it?’

  ‘God knows, but considering the comment about his reputation it doesn’t look good. And in my profession I’m constantly being reminded of the weakness of man and the seduction of power, and I don’t think anyone would doubt that Tim was power hungry.’

  ‘But he already had it,’ Anna pointed out, glancing furtively at her watch. The talk of weakness and seduction had made her think of Robert, but remembering that Stacey Greene wasn’t on the set today, she relaxed and said, ‘Did you read the Observer yesterday?’

  Jarrett nodded.

  ‘All that speculation and they didn’t even know about the money,’ she said.

  ‘You wouldn’t have to to know that Katherine Sumner could have provided an extremely useful bridge to someone as powerful as Tim. And considering the nature of her Swiss connections … I imagine the police must be examining them quite closely by now.’

  ‘It would be interesting to know exactly what the police are examining,’ Anna responded. ‘Because for all the information they’re collecting, they seem to be giving out precious little. In fact, so little that we could easily believe they’ve made no progress at all since the day Tim died.’ Her eyes moved to Jarrett. ‘And if you believe that,’ she said, ‘you’ll believe that my husband is going to be appointed Secretary of State to replace him.’

  Ernesto Gomez’s studio was tucked away in the heart of Chelsea, on the top floor of the spacious, though sadly neglected Edwardian house where the great artist occasionally resided. But he cared nothing for material displays, or the bourgeois pettiness of domestic routine; his interest was solely in his art, and the subjects he so lovingly reproduced, on canvas in oils, or as a sculpture cast in bronze. Some were of animals, exotic and tame; while others – those that commanded the highest prices of all – were of the women whose husbands could afford it.

  This was Stacey Greene’s fourth sitting for the small, wiry man, whose trim goatee beard and flowing white ponytail had been caricatured to form the logo for a calling card that had no need of a name, for the design itself sufficed. However, few were privileged enough to receive one, which meant that they had become almost as collectable as his art, a great deal of which was cluttering the studio now, for he couldn’t always be persuaded to part with his highly stylized creations.

  The sculpture he was currently crafting, of Stacey, had been commissioned by her, as a gift for her husband, whose father, it could be said, was responsible for Ernesto’s early success, for it was he who had brought Ernesto’s talent to London, and the discerning eye of collectors. The son Ernesto didn’t know quite so well, though he was certainly a man he might envy, were he of the heterosexual persuasion, for the way his wife was posed now, standing with her back to him, legs crossed at the ankles, as she rested her elbows on a makeshift bar in front of her, was as tempting as the fourth deadly sin. The position was highly flattering to her beautifully rounded buttocks, while the tapering length of her most exquisite limbs was also enhanced by the gentle lean forward. What wife, he wondered, had the style, or imagination, to come up with such a magnificent idea – of having her legs and back cast as a bronze table in the shape of a figure 7? It was going to be a masterpiece, and he could tell how deeply it was thrilling her already, just to think of her husband’s wonderfully male hands caressing the alloy curves of her likeness as erotically as he no doubt stroked the peachy warmth of reality.

  As Ernesto worked, Petey, the dresser-cum-factotum, was perched on a stool just out of the master’s periphery, relating all the messages that had come in for Stacey the day before, while she was otherwise engaged. As she listened she occasionally inhaled on a fat, marijuana-filled cigarette, her eyes fixed on the portable TV where Tim Hendon’s funeral was currently dominating the Sky News broadcast.

  ‘So what shall I tell this writer about his script?’ Petey prompted, his narrow, sleepy eyes drifting to the TV as for the third time the commentator announced the imminent arrival of Mrs Hendon.

  ‘Tell him I loved it,’ Stacey responded. ‘Then send it to Micky Frost. He’s good with first time writers.’

  ‘But sweetie, it’s a heap of junk,’ Petey protested.

  ‘Says you. Someone else might not think so.’

  Rolling his eyes at her inability to crush anyone’s ego, no matter how minimal their talent, Petey duly noted his instructions, then moved on to the next. ‘You’ve been invited to take part in a sponsored run, for breast cancer,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d be interested, because it’s a celebrity thing.’

  ‘No, because it’s for a good cause,’ she corrected.

  Knowing he’d got it right first time, for she absolutely adored the idea of being famous, which she wasn’t in any big way, just in a West End-ish type of small time, he said, ‘It’s on the second Sunday of next month. Currently you’re available, but we might find ourselves shooting that day, now we’re falling so behind in the schedule.’

  ‘Then explain the situation to the organizers, and if they’re happy about me giving an answer last minute, sign us up,’ she told him, taking another puff of her cigarette.

  ‘You’re on your own, ducky,’ he told her. ‘I don’t run.’

  Laughing, she tossed her long wavy tresses back over her shoulder and returned her eyes to the screen. ‘Ah, there’s Robert,’ she purred, as the camera panned to him getting out of a funeral car. ‘Remind me to tell him how distinguished and dignified he looked,’ she said to Petey. Then tilting her head to one side, she said, ‘What an absolutely darling man he is. And there’s Anna. Oh my, she looks so tragic, poor thing.’ Her heart contracted as Rachel Hendon, all in black, stepped out of the car and tried to keep her face averted from the cameras. ‘Can you imagine how difficult this must be for her?’ she said soulfully. ‘You did remember to send flowers, didn’t you, Petey? Good boy,’ she said when he gave the thumbs up. ‘To Robert and Anna too?’

  Petey’s thumb stayed up.

  Her eyes remained full of tragedy as she turned back to the screen where the camera was now following Robert as he joined the pallbearers ready to receive the coffin. ‘He looks so tired, doesn’t he?’ she said. ‘I think he was genuinely very fond of his brother-in-law. Who’re the others carrying the casket, do you know?’

  ‘If you listen, darling, they’ll probably tell us,’ Ernesto piped up from behind her.

  ‘You just concentrate on my ass,’ she scolded playfully.

  Chuckling, he reached out for his own joint, inhaled deeply, then returned to smoothing out the clay curves of her cheeks. ‘This is excellent dope,’ he told her. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Petey, didn’t we bring Ernesto a special little box?’ she said.

  ‘He’s already given it to me,’ Ernesto assured her. ‘And I’ve put in an order for a dozen more. Tell me, where did you find those darling boxes? The carvings are superb.’

  ‘They’re hand crafted by one of the locals, near our country home,’ Stacey told him. ‘Divine, aren’t they? So perfect for gifts.’

  ‘Especially when they’re full of the finest hashish this side of Bangkok,’ he commented wryly.

  Laughing, she threw a kiss over her shoulder, then returned to the TV as Petey answered her mobile.

  ‘Stacey Greene’s message service,’ he announced. ‘Who’s calling please? Oh, I’ll see if she’s available,’ and putting a hand over the receiver, he said, ‘Gloria Sycophant.’

  Slanting him a reproachful look, she said, ‘I take it you mean Sullivan,’ and trying not to laugh at the way he mimicked Gloria’s pouty expression, she beckoned f
or the phone and put it to her ear. ‘Gloria, darling, how are you?’ she gushed, ignoring Petey’s pantomime throw-up.

  ‘Oh I’m fine, Stacey, how are you?’ Gloria responded eagerly.

  Stacey’s eyes returned to the TV. ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.

  ‘Well, actually, I’m having a bit of a problem with the scene we’re supposed to be shooting at the end of next week,’ Gloria confessed. ‘The big one, you know with the mirror, and transitions …’

  ‘I know the one,’ Stacey said.

  ‘Well, I was wondering, hoping, that we might go over it together, in advance, if you have some free time.’

  ‘If I haven’t, I’ll make some,’ Stacey promised. ‘Petey will call you by the end of the day to set something up. Is there any time that doesn’t work for you?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’ll fit in around you,’ Gloria assured her.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Stacey said, smiling sweetly, and without saying goodbye, she passed the phone back to Petey. ‘Try my husband’s mobile again,’ she said, not taking her eyes from the screen. ‘Oh my goodness, has she collapsed?’ she gasped, as those flanking Rachel Hendon closed in around her.

  ‘No, she just staggered a bit,’ Petey responded, pressing out the number. ‘I wonder what her eyes are like behind those dark glasses. Mashed beetroot, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Poor, poor woman,’ Stacey murmured. ‘What a way to find out her husband was having an affair.’

  Petey handed the phone back. ‘It’s ringing,’ he told her.

  Taking it, Stacey listened, then smiled and moaned softly as Ernesto came up behind her and ran his hands over her buttocks. ‘Oh darling,’ she said into the phone as her husband answered. ‘At last. You’re proving very hard to get hold of these days. Are you still in Switzerland?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘And it doesn’t look as though I’ll be home by the weekend, if that’s why you’re ringing.’

  ‘You read my mind,’ she told him, pouting with disappointment.

  ‘Actually, you left a message last night,’ he reminded her.

  She gave a sultry smile. ‘Did it excite you?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you think? Where are you now?’

  ‘At Ernesto’s. He’s fondling my bottom, as we speak, and I rather think he’s enjoying it, the old rascal.’ Laughing as Ernesto spanked her, she said, ‘So when will you be home?’

  ‘Monday or Tuesday. Are you filming those days?’

  ‘I think so, which means I’ll be in London. I might go down to the house for the weekend, though. Now you’ve spoiled me with all my new equipment, which apparently has finally been installed … Maybe I can talk Ernesto into coming to give me some lessons. What do you say, Ernesto? Can you teach me to be an artist like you? I’ve got a brand new studio, completely kitted out …’

  ‘Impossible, darling,’ he told her loftily. ‘And I’m not free this weekend.’

  ‘Such a grouch,’ she commented.

  ‘Look! Look!’ Petey suddenly declared. ‘It’s the Prime Minister!’

  Stacey looked up. ‘We’re watching Tim Hendon’s funeral,’ she told her husband. ‘It’s so tragic. His poor wife looks utterly wretched.’

  ‘I read in the paper this morning that someone’s claiming to have seen Katherine Sumner in Milan,’ he said.

  ‘Milan?’ she repeated. ‘Not quite as far afield as Manila, which was where she was supposed to have been two days ago. Seems she’s having quite a little globe trot, doesn’t it? By the way, I didn’t realize she was an ex-girlfriend of Franz Koehler’s, did you?’

  ‘Mm, yes I did,’ he answered.

  Opening her mouth to receive the truffle Ernesto was popping in, she said, ‘Have you ever met her?’

  ‘Once or twice. It was a while ago.’

  ‘What’s Franz saying about it?’

  ‘Not much, actually.’

  Swallowing her truffle, she changed the subject: ‘I’m considering keeping you a prisoner so that I never have to miss you or share you with anyone, ever again.’

  ‘You’d soon get tired of me,’ he laughed.

  ‘Never,’ she assured him. ‘Tell me you love me.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘That you never look at other women.’

  ‘There is only you.’

  ‘Come home as soon as you can,’ she murmured softly, and rang off.

  Behind her Ernesto had returned to his model, while Petey was still glued to the TV. ‘You always have to tell him what to say?’ Ernesto queried. ‘Does he not know how he feels? Or is it you who doesn’t know how he feels?’

  Stacey’s eyebrows arched dangerously as she cast a look over her shoulder.

  Chuckling, he said, ‘I believe I have hit a nerve.’

  ‘No, just a wrong note,’ she responded. Then with a sudden restlessness she said, ‘OK, that’s enough. Can we finish for today?’

  ‘Sure, we finish whenever you like.’

  Immediately Petey jumped up with her clothes.

  ‘Here,’ she said, passing him the phone, ‘call Gloria back and invite her down to the house at the weekend. She’s right, it’s a big scene and we do need to rehearse, especially now Robert’s got so much on his mind. We should do our bit to help him by making sure we’re prepared.’

  As Petey made the call she tied a tan georgette skirt around her waist, then pulled a beige silk vest over her head. After fluffing out her hair she was about to check her reflection in the mirror, when the TV commentator announced that Robert Maxton was now stepping up to the podium to read from the Gospel of St John.

  Dutifully she listened to the solemn timbre of his voice as it resonated around the cathedral, carrying solace to the bereaved and spiritual comfort to those who believed. She wondered how much it was helping Rachel Hendon, or was it Robert himself who was giving her more strength?

  ‘I imagine he’s been like a saviour to her,’ she murmured, as Petey came to stand next to her.

  Petey arched his carefully plucked eyebrows, then lifting her glorious mane of golden red hair he began lovingly to brush it. ‘All set with Gloria,’ he told her. ‘I think she peed herself with excitement when she heard she was being invited on to hallowed ground.’

  Stacey’s eyelids went down. ‘Did you find out if she’s having an affair with that rather gorgeous young spark?’ she said.

  ‘Apparently he’s dumped her,’ Petey responded.

  ‘Mm, pity. We could have invited him too.’

  Petey looked surprised. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got designs on him?’ he said.

  ‘Not me, darling,’ she replied, ‘but I know you have. I’m totally faithful, remember?’

  He grinned. ‘Tell that to Robert Maxton,’ he responded, then quickly ducked as she spun round to cuff him.

  Stacey’s husband was sitting in the driver’s seat of a rented Audi Quattro, surveying a small airfield on the outskirts of Zurich. His dark, sunken eyes conveyed only wariness, though the shadows around them, and the rough stubble on his chin, were those of a man who’d hardly slept in days. He was parked just inside the airfield’s perimeter fence, about two hundred yards from the customs check-in, and an equal distance from the runway. It was just coming up to two in the afternoon. Conditions were clear. The flight, he’d just been informed, was due to arrive on schedule.

  Because of his connections to the art world his partner, Rudy Forester, who was elsewhere in the airfield, seemed to gain some pleasure from naming him after a different artist each week. This week he was Vincent, as a tribute to Van Gogh, which Rudy, having been educated in America, pronounced Van Go. Last week, Rudy had chosen Pablo, and no doubt by next week he’d have delved back into his A–Z of artists’ names, to come up with something maybe mildly less predictable, such as Corot or Lievens.

  He continued to look around. Everything appeared as it should. There was no reason for anything to go wrong, but things always could. Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, he charted the progress of an armo
ured bank van as it entered the airfield and headed towards customs. The walkie-talkie in his left hand abruptly squawked into life.

  ‘Do you see what I see?’ Rudy said.

  ‘I see what you see,’ he confirmed, ducking his head to look up at the sky.

  ‘I see it too, if anyone gives a shit,’ another voice said.

  ‘No one does,’ Rudy told him.

  There was a chuckle, then everyone fell silent as an S500 Mercedes entered the airfield and began heading towards the bank van.

  ‘Is that Dexter?’ Rudy asked, over the airwaves.

  ‘Looks like it,’ he answered.

  ‘It had better be,’ Rudy said, ‘or we’re fucked.’

  ‘It’s him. He’s making contact.’

  All went silent again as two customs officials came out of their terrapin hut carrying clipboards and two-way radios. The bank van pulled up in front of them, the Mercedes right behind it.

  A few minutes later Rudy said, ‘Here she comes.’

  Van Gogh’s namesake looked up at the crystal clear sky, and after a moment he too saw the moving black dot that was starting to emerge as an aircraft. He turned on a short wave radio on the seat beside him, and listened as the Lear was given clearance for landing.

  ‘Did you get confirmation of how many are on board?’ he asked Rudy.

  ‘Two, plus the pilot,’ came the answer.

  By now the plane was no more than a couple of hundred feet off the ground. The landing gear was visible, the nose tilted up ready for contact. Confirmation had been received hours ago that the cargo was safely on board, so no last-minute hitches were expected there.

  The jet made a perfect landing, speeding along the runway and coming to a halt five or six hundred yards from where the bank van and Mercedes were waiting.

  For several minutes nothing happened. He could feel the tension like steel in his limbs. Apart from the Mercedes and bank van no other vehicles had driven in or out of the airfield in the last twenty minutes. No other planes had landed or taken off. All attention was now focused on the Lear jet, as they waited for the passengers to deplane.

  Finally the door sprang open, and a stairway was lowered. He put on his sunglasses and reached for the ignition key. He wouldn’t start the engine until the people were clear. A minivan from airport ground services was heading towards him, then suddenly it veered off and carried on towards the plane. A flash of humour shone in his eyes, as he pictured the minivan’s driver.