They all stood and Rob began to lead Emma back to his room.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ said the detective. ‘Don’t go anywhere, either of you. No sudden business out of town or trips abroad.’
Emma looked at him incredulously.
‘Are you saying that we’re suspects?’
Sheldon’s face was impassive.
‘Until we get to the bottom of this mess, Ms Bailey, we just want everyone to co-operate.’
61
The newspapers went into overdrive with the story. Monday was a slow day for news and the Milford party made a big splash in every paper on the stand. The broadsheets reported the fire that almost killed ‘top magazine editor Cassandra Grand’. The tabloids went heavy on Clover Connor and Blake Brinton’s steamy affair, claiming the couple were having ‘red-hot sex as media superstar Cassandra Grand was burning to death’, and the story was accompanied by lots of flashy photographs of the famous party guests, including, to her horror, one of Stella.
News of Cassandra’s ‘critical injuries’ were overstated. Cassandra spent the night in the John Radcliffe Hospital, suffering from smoke inhalation, a cracked rib and a sprained ankle from the fall. She had been furious to be papped leaving the hospital in a pair of royal blue jogging bottoms her mother had brought to the hospital for her, but the humiliation was slightly sweetened by the fashion industry’s unexpected volte-face upon hearing of Cassandra’s ordeal. Within forty-eight hours she had received extravagant blooms from every major fashion house. Isaac Grey sent a muffin basket. Gwyneth texted over the number of her Pilates teacher and everyone wanted to treat her to lunch or supper when she had fully recovered. By Tuesday Cassandra was beginning to feel much better.
Emma was one of the first visitors to come and see Cassandra after she had discharged herself from hospital and gone home.
‘What beautiful flowers,’ said Emma, admiring an arrangement of one hundred pale pink roses.
‘Everybody has been coming out of the woodwork,’ smiled Cassandra cynically. ‘Fashion loves a crisis, darling. If I’d died I’d have been named as Editor of the Year and some designer would have named a handbag after me.’
Emma looked over at her, lying regally on her long beige sofa. Somehow she looked smaller, less scary. Not that she had changed entirely. Her ankle was strapped and propped up on a pile of cushions and Emma couldn’t help but notice her immaculately painted toenails. Priorities, thought Emma with a smile.
‘So how are you feeling?’
‘I’d have preferred Hervé Léger to do the bandage,’ she said pointing at her foot with a small smile. ‘But what about you? Did you manage to salvage any of your stuff?’
Emma shook her head. ‘Everything’s gone except the things I had with me at the party. A credit card and a lipstick.’
‘What colour?’ asked Cassandra automatically and they both smiled.
‘Do you know anything more about how it happened?’
‘The police strongly suspect it was arson,’ replied Emma.
‘Yes, some tiresome police inspector was around for over an hour yesterday: very rude, terrible haircut,’ said Cassandra. ‘He wanted to know if I had seen or heard anything that evening.’
‘Did you?’
Cassandra shook her head. ‘No, at least nothing I can remember. And before you ask, it wasn’t me. I didn’t smoke, light a fire or touch anything in the kitchen.’
‘The fire officer thinks it was deliberate.’
‘How can they tell?’
‘By the patterns and intensity of scorching around the house, apparently. They think something came through the letterbox.’
Cassandra nodded thoughtfully, pausing before she spoke.
‘Emma, I should probably tell you the police inspector was asking lots of questions about you,’ she said finally.
Emma felt a small rush of fear.
‘What questions exactly?’
‘He knew that there’s been some animosity between us.’
‘So what are they thinking? That I torched my own house with you inside it?’ said Emma incredulously. She looked at Cassandra warily. She felt terrible about what her cousin had just been through but it didn’t mean she entirely trusted Cassandra. What had she been saying to the police?
The truth was that the fire had really frightened Emma and in actual fact she had desperately wanted Cassandra to have been responsible. A careless cigarette down the back of the sofa perhaps, or a candle left too close to the curtains. The alternative, well, the alternative meant that someone really did want her dead.
In the penthouse of the St Martin’s Lane Hotel, Stella finally relaxed, her photo shoot for W magazine over. Still wearing the Milford aqua chiffon cocktail dress she had posed in, she quickly gathered up her things and made for the door.
‘Are you sure you don’t need a car?’ asked the art director as Stella said her goodbyes.
‘No thanks, I’ve checked in at the hotel tonight,’ she said grate fully. It had been a snap decision an hour earlier; she was so exhausted she didn’t think she could make the journey back to Oxfordshire. She had barely stopped to take a breath for weeks-no, months – running at full pelt to get the womenswear line finished in time for the show and then there was all the press to deal with. That meant endless photo shoots and interviews along with all the draining attention of the blood-sucking journalists on the tabloids. As Stella pushed open her door, all she wanted to do was sleep for a week. Her room three floors below wasn’t as impressive as the penthouse but its sleek lines of wood, Perspex and sexy lighting were still beautiful. But Stella was too tired to take it in; she just flopped onto the bed and was about to drift off to sleep when her mobile rang.
‘Hello,’ she said groggily.
‘It’s Tom.’
‘Oh, hi there,’ she smiled propping herself up with a pillow. She was surprised at how pleased she was to hear his voice. There was a pause as if Tom was unsure about what to say next.
‘So … heard any more about the cause of the fire?’
‘You probably know more about it than I do,’ said Stella. ‘I’ve hardly been to Milford since that night.’
‘Well, I just wanted to call and say that my mother has finally arranged a meeting with Walter Maier about your dad’s exhibition. He’s very busy, very important, and very German. He’s invited us for drinks tomorrow – schnapps, most likely. Can you make it?’
‘Of course I can make it,’ said Stella, perking up considerably. ‘I’m in London tonight actually so I’ll just stay another day. Will you come with me?’
‘If you ask nicely,’ and she could hear the smile in his voice.
‘Look, I have to go,’ said Tom quickly. ‘I have to be in Charing Cross Road by 8 p.m. for a gig.’
‘I’m at the St Martin’s Lane Hotel,’ she replied. ‘You should pop in and say hello.’
‘In that case, what are you doing in a hour?’
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Meet me in the lobby. Don’t dress up.’
Something had troubled Emma all the way back to Winterfold. Why had the police been so interested in why Cassandra and Emma didn’t get on? How could they possibly think that Emma would want to torch the Stables with Cassandra inside? It was inconceivable. Yes, Cassandra had resented her and tried to sabotage the company, but she had failed – the roaring success of the show and the party were proof of that, so what possible motive could people think Emma would have? She drove slowly back through the estate. The soft, woody smell of smoke was still hanging in the air. Her hands trembled on the wheel as she thought back to the events of Saturday night. Nothing seemed real except the rather obvious certainty that she now had nowhere to live. All her earthly possessions were to be found in the small handbag that she had borrowed from the factory, which was presently sitting beside her on the passenger seat. Rob had insisted she move into Winterfold but she had felt uncomfortable and had asked to stay in the guest suite. He hadn’t complained and
instead had sent his assistant to go shopping for Emma. So Emma had found her wardrobe already full of jeans, T-shirts, white shirts and a black Jil Sander trouser suit. She’d really appreciated the gesture.
Emma parked her car and walked through the house and into the kitchen. It was Morton’s afternoon off and the house was ghostly quiet. She wandered around noticing for the first time how much it had changed. It felt more homely, peppered with photographs of Rob’s family and friends. She was looking at them, wondering who the women in the pictures were when she heard footsteps in the corridor behind her. Emma quickly moved away from the photos and was sitting on the sofa looking nonchalant when Rob clattered in carrying a big stack of pizza boxes.
‘I picked these up from the village,’ he said from behind the boxes. ‘I didn’t know what you fancied, so I pretty much got everything.’
‘Just what I need, comfort food,’ said Emma, clapping her hands.
They sat on the rug in the library and Rob lit a fire. As it crackled, Emma felt herself thaw emotionally. For the first time since her belongings had gone up in smoke she felt at home, felt like she had something to hold onto. Outside it was dark and raining heavily. The pizza gone, Rob dimmed the lights and brought a mountain of cushions over to the hearth.
‘I went to see Cassandra today,’ said Emma as she lay in Rob’s arms, his fingers stroking her hair.
‘How was she?’
‘She looked fabulous,’ she smiled.
‘I’m not surprised. I’m sure she’s quite enjoying all the attention.’
Emma was quiet for a moment, playing with Rob’s cuff.
‘Rob, do you think someone wants me dead?’ she asked quietly, turning to look at him.
‘Honey, let’s not go through this again,’ he said gently. ‘Let the police work it out.’
‘But will they?’
‘Chances are that the fire was started by kids.’
‘Just like it was joyriders who pushed me off the road. I guess I must be pretty unlucky.’
‘It was still probably pranksters.’
‘Petrol was poured through the front door.’
‘You’re just feeling vulnerable. It can make people a little paranoid.’
She pushed herself upright and looked at him. ‘Well how’s this for paranoid? Basically there are two possibilities: somebody wanted to kill me, or somebody knew Cassandra was staying at the Stables and wanted to kill her.’
Rob thought about it for a while and decided to run with it.
‘Well, I know Cassandra is pretty unpopular in some areas, but who would want to kill her? Surely she was suffering enough already at that point?’
‘Yes, I know. It’s unlikely, isn’t it, but I’m still convinced the accident in Gstaad was a deliberate act.’
She saw Rob frown, chewing it over.
‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘Let’s go with this one for a moment. Who wants you dead and why?’
Emma had spent the last forty-eight hours thinking about it fanatically, her forensic brain sifting through the many scenarios. Her mother would inherit Emma’s shares on her death; and she felt sure that in that instance Virginia would want to get rid of them rather than keep hold of the shareholding. The other shareholders could get them at a preferential rate which meant that Roger, Julia, Ruan or Stella could, in theory, benefit from Emma’s death. (She refused to believe that her own mother would try and kill her.) But in Emma’s mind there was only one obvious person with both motive and opportunity: her uncle.
‘Roger has hated me from day one,’ she told Rob slowly. ‘He thinks I’ve sidelined him from the company, which of course I have. He seems to have lost interest in Milford in the last few months and over Christmas was pressurizing me to have a meeting with a luxury goods conglomerate and he seemed desperate to sell. It’s logical: because of terms in the shareholders agreement, he’ll get more for his shareholding if we sell the entire company to an outsider than if he sells his shares to me.’
‘So what’s his motive?’
‘Money,’ said Emma frankly. ‘Roger owns 20 per cent of the company. With me dead, the shares pass to my mother. She’d definitely sanction a sale if he asked her. Twenty per cent of fifty, a hundred, million pounds is a lot of money. Even for Rebecca.’
She looked out of the library door and, as she did so, images of Saturday night’s party came back to her with clarity.
‘Roger thought I was going back to the Stables. He offered me a lift back in the taxi right there,’ she said, pointing to the curve of the stairs they could just see through the doorway. ‘I told him I was getting the next taxi. His house is five minutes drive from the Stables through the East Gate. He could have waited half an hour, then gone to my house, saw the lights were on, and well …’ her voice tailed off and suddenly she felt uneasy looking at the fire in front of them.
Rob put his hand over hers. ‘How about we have an early night?’
‘It’s only seven.’
‘I can think of ways we can while away the time,’ he said, taking her hand.
She felt her body freeze. She’d barely let him touch her since the fire; she couldn’t bring herself to be close to anyone; it was as if she had physically and emotionally shut down. She couldn’t explain it, didn’t want it, but it was as if some instinct of self-preservation was trying to protect her by making her stay isolated and distant.
‘Em, please,’ he said quietly. ‘I know what’s happened has been awful but you don’t need to put yourself in deep freeze.’
He reached over and she let him kiss her softly on the lips.
‘Let’s take it slowly? Please?’
‘At least sleep in the bedroom tonight.’
She hesitated and was about to speak when there was a knock on the door.
‘Were you expecting anyone?’ she asked Rob, suddenly on edge.
Rob got up and walked to the front door. Emma listened to the male voices that floated into the house.
‘Em. It’s Inspector Sheldon,’ said Rob, returning to the door of the library with a frown on his brow.
Sheldon extended a hand. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed anything,’ he said looking around the hallway. ‘I heard you were staying here, Ms Bailey. I’m afraid we need you down at the station to answer a few more questions.’
‘I feel as overdressed as Joan Collins at a Hell’s Angels convention,’ whispered Stella, still wearing the aqua chiffon dress in the small dark basement of the Helter Skelter record shop on Denmark Street.
Tom laughed. ‘I said don’t dress up. Don’t worry. No one comes here to people-watch,’ he said, aware of the irony that every man in the room had been clocking Stella, luminous in some wisp of a shimmering blue dress, since the moment she had walked in.
‘Shit. They’re coming on,’ he nudged her as four guys in black T-shirts and jeans walked onto a makeshift stage so small it was more like a podium.
‘Who are they again?’
‘Red Comets. A student band from Kings College. I think they’re brilliant: the new Coldplay. I’ve given their CD to a few people.’
Tom didn’t hold out much hope that Ste Donahue would do anything for the band, especially as he had so many problems of his own, but he was secretly excited about Rob Holland. He’d sent Rob a copy of the CD and he’d promised to give it a listen; if anyone could give the band a leg-up, it was Rob.
‘If they’re so good why are they playing in this record shop?’ asked Stella, keeping her voice low.
‘They’ll get spotted at the Helter Skelter. The owner has incredible taste in music’
The band was playing an acoustic set. The lead singer’s voice was deep, rich and wistful; the guitars were haunting, filling the air with beautiful melancholy. Stella took a deep breath; she was surprised by the power and emotion of the music and the lyrics.
She turned to watch Tom as he gazed at the band with the same love and wonder as she experienced when she watched a fashion show. He turned and gave her a smile, his eyes b
right blue in the dimly-lit room.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. She had heard of love at first sight but this was something else. A moment of clarity, a connection between two people binding them together with more than mere physical attraction.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, moving closer to her side. As their bare arms touched she melted.
‘I think I like it here,’ she replied. She rested her head on his shoulder, unable to stop herself. It felt like the most natural thing to do.
She felt his arms drop to his side and carefully, cautiously, he took her hand.
‘Come on,’ he said quietly after the end of the second song. ‘I’ve seen them loads of times before.’
They walked back out of the basement and through the record shop. And against a rack of old LPs he kissed her, filling her with such a sweet light-headedness she thought she might float all the way back to Chilcot.
Although he was hiding it well, DI Sheldon was a little flustered. He was not at all used to sitting opposite such an attractive woman in the police interview room. In his line of work, it was usually street punks on GBH charges or pub brawls over money or women, not arson and attempted murder involving famous magazine editors and luxury goods companies. He knew he was lucky to be assigned the case and was desperate to make his mark. He wanted to join the Met within the year at the level of Chief Inspector.
He had spent the last three days making phone calls and talking to as many people who had been guests at the party as he could track down.
A joint investigation between police, fire and forensic services was pointing towards arson. The intensity of heat and burning around the kitchen door was almost conclusive that petrol, most likely diesel-oil fuel used in motorbike engines, had been poured through the letterbox.
The gravel approach to the Stables had been contaminated by rain and the water used to extinguish the flames and from the emergency vehicles that had turned up at the Stables so that the SOCO officers had found no useable foot or tyre prints.
Guilty Pleasures Page 53
