by Susan Lewis
‘Mm, yes, I did,’ she said darkly. ‘And you’re a wicked boy, Robert Maxton. I hope you know that.’
‘Wicked enough to be spanked?’ he said, gazing hopefully into her eyes.
‘Almost,’ she promised.
His hands moved up to her neck, and began lovingly to stroke it. ‘Do you feel me making love to you when you read the words?’ he asked.
‘I feel everything,’ she assured him.
‘And you’re not offended?’
‘How can I be, when you write it all so beautifully?’
‘You don’t find it obscene?’
She smiled. ‘Is that how you want me to find it?’
‘I want you to let me do all those things to you,’ he said gruffly, tightening his grip on her throat.
Unfazed, she said, ‘I know. But we agreed, didn’t we, that fantasy only has power when it’s not forced into reality. And do you really want to lose what we have?’
‘Never.’
‘Then let me stand here for you, my darling,’ she murmured, paraphrasing the script, ‘so that you can imagine me any way you like, in all the positions you describe, experiencing all the lust you pour so eloquently and erotically on to the page.’
As she stepped back, away from his hands, he watched her raise her dress to her waist, so that he could see her long, slender legs with their powdery smattering of freckles, her exquisitely flared hips and the neat, fiery bush of hair that protected her most precious place. His heart began to race as she sank back on to the desk and, lying across it, opened her legs wide. His penis was an engorged mass of urgency, bursting from his pants, so ready to make the plunge into her wet, golden abyss that he could already feel it, sliding in, so big and tight, and deep …
Then someone knocked at the door, and reality slipped cruelly back into focus.
‘OK?’ she whispered, taking his hand. ‘Did it work?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Then maybe we should tell whoever it is to come in.’ She smiled. ‘And after, you can tell me what we just did.’
Chapter 13
THOUGH KILLIAN IN the sunshine was one of the most enchanting places on earth, Killian under dark, turbulent skies, which seemed so low and dense they could be dipped into like clay, had a whole other kind of charm that Rachel often found even more stirring than the storm itself, when it came. For, under this great glowering expanse of grey, as the sea turned leaden and the craggy shores seemed to vibrate with the might of the thunder, it felt as though an ungodly power was trying to break though the earth’s crust to meet a descending vengeance from the heavens above.
She knew that if Robert were with her now, gazing out of this small, bedroom window, he’d say, ‘Such glorious majesty, and monstrously wicked beauty.’ She’d always liked the description, for it captured both the visual and the visceral, while recognizing that there were forces beyond the eye, deeper than the rational mind, and even contrary to the forward journey of time. She adored the uniqueness of Cornwall, and its incredible wealth of superstition. Beanie had so many books and stories and memories that Rachel and Tim had never tired of hearing, or reading, losing themselves in swashbuckling adventure or heroic skulduggery. Yet the thrill of believing only ever seemed to happen when they were here, for once back in London it all felt so improbable and fanciful; they’d never minded that, because the magic belonged here, in this wickedly beautiful cove with its hidden secrets and chillingly restless past.
Starting as the phone bleated into the silence, she turned to pick it up from the bed behind her, where Beanie had left it, under an untidy pile of the papers they’d been sorting.
‘Hello?’ she said, stepping over the books and small boxes she’d turfed out of an old metal chest they’d dragged down from the attic.
At first no one answered, and her heart turned cold, for today was the deadline for the transfer. ‘Beanie?’ she said tentatively. ‘Is that you?’
‘No, it’s me, Laurie. Sorry, I was just paying a cabbie. How are you?’
‘OK,’ Rachel answered, breathing again. ‘A bit jittery, I suppose, but nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Are you keeping yourself busy?’
‘After a fashion.’ She glanced at the mess on the floor. ‘Beanie and I have been going through Tim’s grandfather’s things, if you call that busy,’ she said. ‘Actually, there are some interesting letters here, from a family perspective, and so many photographs and books you wouldn’t believe. But tell me what’s happening your end. Did you see Haynes?’
‘Yes, I’ve just come from there. Sorry about all the noise. Can you hear me? I’m in the foyer of our apartment block, where they’ve got the floor up for some reason. I’ll be indoors in a couple of minutes, so bear with me. Are Anna and Robert coming for the weekend?’
‘Anna and the children,’ Rachel corrected. ‘Robert has to stay in London.’
There was a brief pause before Laurie said, ‘Well as long as you’re not on your own.’
‘No, I won’t be,’ Rachel replied, and closing the bedroom door behind her she walked along the narrow, book-lined landing, ducked beneath the ladder that led up to the attic, then started down the stairs.
‘Is Beanie there with you?’ Laurie asked.
‘No, she’s popped up to the post office at Roon Moor. Why? Do I need her to be?’
‘No, I was just wondering.’
‘Then please don’t keep me in suspense any longer,’ Rachel responded, pushing open the door at the bottom of the stairs and stepping down into the sitting room. ‘What did Haynes say?’
‘Sorry. OK, I’ve got everything now, so let’s start with Xavier Lachère. The answer to my question was yes, they have heard of him, but they’re claiming to have no idea who he is. They’re also adamant that every sighting of Katherine to date has taken them down a dead end, and I suppose we don’t have any choice but to believe it. There was one in Madrid at the weekend that they got quite excited about, but it came to nothing.’
‘Would they lie about Katherine?’ Rachel asked. ‘I mean, do you think they might know where she is, and this whole manhunt thing is just a massive front of some kind?’ She was already shaking her head, for it defied logic.
‘A front for whose benefit?’ Laurie said. ‘Who would they be hiding her from, except themselves? Though I have to say, I’m pretty damned certain that this entire investigation, as far as the rest of us are concerned, is running on parallel tracks to the truth. However, this time when I asked who had reported the murder there was no hedging or stalling, he told me right out that the call had been made direct to Special Ops at nine-fifteen in the morning, which, as we know, is about four hours after it happened. They haven’t been able to trace where the call came from, it was too fast, and they don’t know who it was either, except he did tell me it was a woman. Of course everyone’s thinking Katherine Sumner, though your guess will be as good as anyone else’s as to why it would be her.’
Rachel didn’t feel quite steady, for the thought of Katherine alerting the police to a murder she herself had committed, or at least been involved in, was too disturbing to comprehend. ‘Did this woman have an American accent?’ she said, asking the obvious.
‘Apparently they couldn’t tell, but she could have been disguising.’
‘So what did she say?’
‘She told them there had been a shooting at the address we know is Katherine’s, and that she believed someone important had been murdered.’
The blood was draining from Rachel’s face.
Laurie took a breath. ‘This next bit you need to brace yourself for,’ she cautioned. ‘Are you sitting down?’
Rachel sank on to a chair next to the table.
‘I thought, instead of telling Haynes that I knew about Gustave Basim, I’d ask instead if any progress had been made in identifying the third set of prints at Katherine’s flat, if there were any suspects or leads. He said there was nothing.’
Rachel hesitated. ‘So he lie
d?’ she said.
‘I’m afraid so.’
Rachel’s eyes moved to the window: the rain and wind was now lashing against it like an evil force trying to break its way in. It was frightening her, because it felt unreal and unstoppable, just like what she was hearing, for there was simply no knowing who Haynes and his team might be trying to protect, or exactly what they were being protected from. ‘Why would they lie about that?’ she said quietly.
‘I don’t know, but it could just be that they want to be sure there’s a connection before they go public.’
Rachel nodded. It made sense, she supposed. Her eyes were focused on nothing, as her hand moved distractedly to the keyboard of her laptop. She hardly knew what she was thinking or feeling now, as she double-clicked to go on line. ‘This search Franz Koehler’s supposed to be conducting,’ she said. ‘If it’s genuine … Does that mean this Gustave Basim character was supposed to have killed her too, and somehow she got away? But if that is the case, why doesn’t she just go to the police?’
‘Both very good questions,’ Laurie responded.
‘Has Elliot ever met Franz Koehler?’
‘No,’ Laurie answered. ‘Not in person.’
‘Does he think Phraxos might have infiltrated the British system more than we realize?’
‘He hasn’t found too much evidence of it yet,’ Laurie replied. ‘Just the expected type of shareholdings in companies like British Aerospace and GEC. Nothing untoward, but they’re working on it.’
Rachel was thinking of all the people she knew in government, and those who advised them, the dozens upon dozens of grey suits who peopled the Janus Conventions, as Tim used to call them, the covert meetings that plotted the annihilation of their political enemies, controlled policies, buried or spun scandals, manipulated the law – there was no end to the iniquity or the power of those men. She’d put nothing past them.
‘Have you managed to talk to Gordon or Dennis yet?’ she asked. ‘Tim’s senior aides.’
‘No, but I’m seeing Dennis tomorrow. I’ve also got a meeting with a professor from the London School of Economics, who’s a bit of an expert on Phraxos and their style of investing. He’s an American who’s been over here for about ten years. George Monheit. Ever heard of him?’
Rachel thought. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she answered.
‘Well, there’s a good chance he could be quite helpful, so I’ll let you know how it goes. Just give me a minute now while I run through my notes to see if there’s anything I’ve missed.’
As Rachel waited she gazed blankly at the screen in front of her, barely registering the list of new emails as she tried not to think of how everything seemed to be closing in on her like an ugly, chanting crowd: Haynes, Koehler, Basim, Katherine, Dennis … She shifted restlessly, then focused on the messages to escape her thoughts. There were at least a dozen. One in particular caught her eye, at the same instant as it caused a horrible twist in her heart. Taking the cursor to it, she clicked it open. As she read it her eyes dilated with shock.
‘Laurie, listen to this,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve got an email here from the woman who manages the villa on Virgin Gorda – the one Tim and I were supposed to be staying at. She’s saying she’s sorry she hasn’t been in touch before, but she hopes we enjoyed our stay, and that she’s put the things we left behind in the mail so we should be receiving them soon.’
Laurie was stunned into silence.
‘Lucy cancelled the holiday,’ Rachel said, her heart pounding with unease. ‘I remember her doing it.’ Her voice turned shrill as she cried, ‘Well, obviously we weren’t there. How could we have been?’
‘OK. Don’t worry,’ Laurie said quickly. ‘It’s probably just a mistake. Forward the email to me, and make sure the villa’s address and phone numbers are there too, because its ownership has just gone to priority number one.’
As Rachel hit the send button she was praying with all her might that it didn’t turn out to be Franz Koehler. ‘It’s on its way,’ she said.
‘Good. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Fine. Just a bit … shell-shocked.’
‘When’s Anna arriving?’
‘She called from Truro about an hour ago, so any time now.’
‘And how long’s she staying?’
‘Just until Sunday. The girls have to go to school on Monday.’
Which left Rachel alone on the day the transfer issue could turn crucial. ‘Tell me,’ Laurie said, ‘have you thought about confiding in someone down there? I mean, someone who’s got a bit more testosterone than Beanie.’
Rachel didn’t answer straight away, because the truth was, she had considered it, several times, though she couldn’t even begin to imagine why someone like Chris Gallagher would want to be burdened with the problems of a grieving widow whom he barely even knew. ‘I could talk to Nick,’ she said tentatively.
‘I’ll let you be the judge,’ Laurie replied. ‘Just make someone aware of what’s happening, so that they can be on the lookout for any strangers who might start hanging around, or … Well, I don’t want to spook you any further. You know what I’m saying.’
‘Yes,’ Rachel responded, wondering if Laurie was thinking about Chris Gallagher too, though he could hardly be termed a stranger when Beanie, and everyone else, knew him so well.
‘OK, well I’d better crack on here,’ Laurie said. ‘I’ll speak to you in the morning.’
After putting the phone down, Rachel got up to turn on the lights. The main thrust of the storm seemed to be dying now, but it was still dank and gloomy outside, and the air in the cottage felt chill. She stared at the wide inglenook hearth. It seemed disheartening to light a fire at the beginning of July, but the children would enjoy making toast in the flames, and there was something reassuring about a real fire flickering away in the background that might still the restlessness inside her.
With so much wood, stacked up as high as the cloam oven, it didn’t take her long to fill the cast iron basket, and she was on the point of putting a light to the scrunched-up newspaper under the logs, when Beanie came bustling in the back door.
‘Anna’s just pulled up,’ she called out. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’
Rachel grimaced at the surge of relief she felt, then reaching for the bellows to help things on their way, she said, ‘I was thinking, Bean, should we invite Chris Gallagher over for dinner tomorrow night?’
Beanie came to stand in the archway, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘Oh, a fire, lovely,’ she declared. ‘Just the season for it.’
Rachel smiled. ‘So what do you say?’ she prompted.
‘I’d say it’s a lovely idea,’ she replied, ‘but I haven’t seen him all week. I think he went over to Mousehole, someone said, then he was going to Falmouth to take his boat out. Or was he going to Fowey? Can’t remember. But we can always try calling his mobile.’ She beamed happily. ‘If he can make it, I reckon he’d love to come.’
She’d barely finished speaking when the door burst open and everything seemed to happen at once: as the girls threw themselves at Rachel, the phone started to ring and the kettle to whistle.
‘I’ll get the kettle,’ Anna shouted from the kitchen.
‘I’ve got the phone,’ Beanie shouted, from the table.
‘And we’ve got Auntie Rachel,’ Emily and Justine giggled, grabbing her round the waist.
Laughing, Rachel embraced them, while at the same time listening anxiously to Beanie as she took the call.
‘All right. All right,’ Beanie was saying. ‘Yep. I heard. Oh, sorry, yes, it’s brilliant. Well, you know I think that about everything you do. OK. She’s here. I’ll pass you over,’ and handing the phone to Rachel, she said, ‘It’s our Nick.’
‘Nick,’ Rachel said, into the receiver. ‘How are you?’
‘Flush,’ he answered. ‘I just had a call from Chris’s gallery over in Fowey, they’ve only gone and sold one of my paintings for nearly a thousand quid. So what do you think o
f that, then?’
‘Nick, that’s fantastic,’ she cried. ‘Congratulations. We always told you you were a genius.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ he said modestly, ‘but I’m calling because we’re going to have a bit of a celebration when Chris gets back on Sunday night. He’s going to bring the loot with him, so we thought you and Bean might like to join in, if you’re free.’
‘Of course. Just tell us the time and the place and we’ll be there.’
‘We’re still working that out. I’ll talk to Jen and give you a call back.’
As she put the phone down Rachel was still smiling at Nick’s news, and feeling suddenly less tense now that Anna was here.
‘Auntie Rachel, I can feel your bump, it’s getting big,’ Justine declared, running her little hands over Rachel’s tummy. ‘Does it kick yet?’
‘No. Not yet,’ Rachel said, smiling as she covered Justine’s hands with her own.
‘I can’t wait for it to be born,’ Emily announced. ‘I hope it’s a girl.’
‘Me too,’ Justine sighed.
‘But what if it’s a boy? Won’t you want it then?’ Rachel teased.
‘Oh yes, yes,’ they cried.
‘OK you two, on the phone to Daddy and tell him we’ve arrived safely,’ Anna instructed, coming in with a tray of tea and a bag of sugary doughnuts. ‘Are you all right?’ she said to Rachel. ‘You look a bit flushed.’
Rachel frowned. ‘Do I? It must be the fire. Or these two, getting me excited about the baby,’ she added, ruffling their hair.
Anna spun them round by the tops of their heads and pointed them in the direction of the phone. ‘Daddy first, then doughnuts,’ she told them.
‘Peppermint or camomile?’ Beanie said to Rachel.
‘Isn’t there any more peach?’
‘I’ll go and check.’
‘No, I’ll go.’
‘No, you just sit down there.’
Rachel looked at Anna as she dutifully did as she was told. A moment later her smile faded at the expression that came over Anna’s face as Emily said crossly, ‘He’s not at home and his mobile’s switched off. He said he’d keep it switched on.’
