Sleeping Cruelty

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Bullshit! Newspaper magnates are high in the social pecking-order. I want to meet him,’ he said pettishly, ‘but on my terms. I want that son-of-a-bitch to want to meet with me.’

  ‘Right. Come hell or high water, I will arrange for you to do that. But please pay me, William, and let me get out of here. Otherwise we’ll end up hating each other and I honestly don’t want that.’

  He took out his cheque book, and dangled it in front of her. ‘You get me to Humphrey Matlock. Forget everyone else.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘Have you tried picking up the phone and calling him? You’re on the front page of every bloody glossy magazine, some of which he owns. Meryl Delaware’s been working overtime for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pay her and she’d work for Jack the Ripper – she even works for Matlock but she can’t get close to him either. She’s never met him.’

  ‘I want him to want to know me,’ he said again, thrusting out his lower jaw.

  Sylvina looked at the cheque book, and bit her lip. ‘Okay, I’ll arrange it. I’ll see if Meryl Delaware can help, but it’ll cost.’

  Two days later an innocuous piece in one of the gossip columns said that all seemed to be going well for the new ‘golden couple’, Sir William Benedict and Countess Sylvina Lubrinsky. Shortly afterwards, William received a gold-embossed invitation to a midsummer fête at the Matlocks’ country home. He propped the invitation on the mantelpiece and stood looking at it, his hands stuffed into his pockets. When Michael walked in, William pointed to it. ‘What a two-faced piece of shit, eh?’ Michael took the invitation down to read it. ‘That’s the son-of-a-bitch who ran filth about me for months. Every one of his papers ran lies about me, and now, a year later, he invites me to his home.’

  Michael shook his head in disgust, and replaced the invitation. ‘So you won’t be going, sir?’

  ‘You accept, Michael, and send a bouquet of flowers to his wife. Then, nearer the date, you can telephone and say I have been unavoidably detained.’

  Michael gave a quizzical look, but noted down his latest instructions. They were getting more bizarre every week – and he had detected a frosty atmosphere between Sir William and his countess.

  Sylvina was looking ravishing, and William thanked her for the scrapbook of press-cuttings she had sent him.

  ‘It was really just to make a point,’ she said. ‘All that coverage was hard work, and sometimes I thought you didn’t know how much time it took.’

  William smiled and passed her a white envelope. ‘You’ll find a cheque inside, certified, of course, plus a list of the extra expenses that I did not agree to pay. I have deducted them from the fee we agreed.’

  Sylvina gasped. Three hundred thousand pounds had been deducted from the million-pound payment. Even the solitaire diamond engagement ring had been charged to her. He had a funny crooked smile on his face.

  ‘You fat bastard!’ she snarled.

  ‘Maybe I’m fat but I’m not stupid. Not stupid enough for you to rip me off anyway.’

  After Sylvina left, still cursing, she phoned Justin and at last managed to speak to him.

  ‘Hi, gorgeous, how’s things?’ he drawled.

  ‘My cheque was short. The mean bastard deducted three hundred thousand grand.’

  ‘He’s got some sense, then?’ He laughed.

  ‘Soon you might be laughing on the other side of your face too,’ she said angrily.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I said. He’s back doing business again like a demented kid. Every time I got him invitations from those wretched names on his pitiful list, he did nothing about it.’

  ‘Did you get to Matlock?’ Justin asked sharply.

  ‘Yes. He’s going to some function at the man’s home. That’s why I’m out of here.’

  ‘You’re leaving London?’

  ‘I’m on my way to the airport right now.’

  ‘He’s going to Matlock’s?’

  ‘I just told you so. He’s got the invitation, squeezed out of Matlock’s prune-faced wife. What a dull woman she is.’

  ‘Shit,’ Justin hissed. Sylvina laughed. ‘Goodbye,’ she said, as she switched off her phone. She leaned back smiling. She had just made herself a tidy sum and could look forward to enjoying herself. She certainly had the wardrobe for it, and all the press she had engineered for William had benefited her too. Life was good.

  Meanwhile, far from feeling relief at Sylvina’s departure, William felt seedy and foolish, and more so when he considered that he had instigated the madness of the past year. But for what? He thought of other men who had been publicly vilified by the press: Profumo, Lambton, Archer and, of course, Aitken, now released from his prison sentence. Admittedly, the scandals in which they had been involved were more sensitive than his. In fact, he hadn’t even been involved in a scandal. He was innocent, but he wondered if those others felt as he did. Had they at some time wanted revenge for the way they had been treated, or had they simply accepted it and got on with their lives? The public hounding as journalists dug into their families’ lives must have hurt each of them, just as it had hurt him.

  William looked at the array of invitations to high-society functions that had come in daily while Sylvina was at his side. How ridiculous to have coveted such meaningless things. He knew that if he continued to lavish money on certain charities he would remain on their lengthy, highbrow guest-lists, but he no longer cared. Maybe that was what he had learned from Sylvina: all it took to penetrate the higher echelons was money and ‘face’. He had been a self-made mega-rich tycoon with one fatal flaw: his need for social acceptability. Now at last he realized how hollow that had been. How could he find a real purpose in life?

  William, too, placed a call to Justin. He asked, uninterestedly, how the work was coming along. Justin assured him that everything was going according to plan, that the game would soon be ready to begin. William told him quietly that the game was off. It was pointless. Sylvina had gone, and as soon as Justin was finished with the refurbishments he was to go, too. Justin flew into a rage, but knew better than to show it. When William hung up Justin let out a furious scream.

  ‘I’m off home now, sir,’ Michael said, popping his head round William’s study door.

  ‘Goodbye.’ His employer’s voice sounded empty.

  Michael stepped into the room. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ he asked, with some concern.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine. Goodnight.’

  ‘Will the Countess be coming back?’

  ‘No, she won’t. She’s gone.’

  William gave a small, sad smile. ‘Not much luck with the ladies. See you in the morning.’

  Michael closed the door quietly. He could think of nothing to say.

  If he had seen William opening his locked desk drawer and taking out a Luger pistol, he would have been more than concerned. William placed it on his leatherbound blotter and stared at it. The awful loneliness had something to do with Sylvina’s departure but more to do with him. He contemplated ending it all. All he had to do was pull the trigger. But that was easier said than done. The pistol had belonged to his father. It had not been used for thirty years, and the firing pin was bent out of shape. He held it to his head as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, and remembered the discovery of Andrew Maynard’s body. Had he really died of heartbreak … or through fear of his private life being exposed? Suddenly William focused on Humphrey Matlock’s invitation. He lowered his useless pistol and tossed it back into the drawer. A spark of anger ignited amid his spiralling depression. ‘I want to get that bastard,’ he muttered.

  William decided then that, after all, he was going to fight back because he was an innocent man. He had not stolen, lied or destroyed anyone in his climb to success yet he had been vilified. He was still wary of Justin’s plan, but the dream of revenge on Matlock had pulled him away from the edge.

  In the middle of the night, an enraged Justin placed a call to
Meryl Delaware. She was about to launch an angry tirade at him for waking her at such an hour but he didn’t let her get a word in. Speaking in a low, urgent voice, he gave her a front-page scoop. It concerned a young actress called Sharee, and her relationship with Countess Sylvina Lubrinsky, Sir William Benedict’s future wife.

  Two days later, as William was sitting down to breakfast, he was surprised to hear Michael arrive and tap on the door. ‘I’m sorry, sir but I couldn’t have blanked it. It came right out of left field.’

  William looked up expectantly. ‘Blanked what?’

  In an exclusive that seemed exclusive to every tabloid paper in Europe, Sharee had disclosed her sexual relationship with William’s fiancée. The headlines were beyond belief – ‘Britain’s Bad Boy Falls Prey to Sex Goddess’ – but the articles were explicit, and accompanied by photographs of Sharee either in a sexy pose, pouting, tits to the fore, or as an angelic baby ‘used and abused by lesbian temptress’.

  The nightmare began again. William’s home was surrounded by pressmen. He couldn’t move outside without cameras flashing and microphones being thrust under his nose. The press regurgitated all his past indiscretions with hookers, and his ex-wives’ quotes were rehashed. The onslaught was relentless. This time Michael was impressed by the way William handled it all. He remained composed and quiet. His demeanour when he left the house was sad, resigned, and that belied his abject humiliation. Eventually he decided to give a press conference. The battery of cameras and television crews with reporters fighting for front-row positions was sickening, all for some ridiculous article that might titillate a few readers.

  Fortified by a few glasses of wine, William walked out to face the baying mob. He read a short statement he had written himself, and felt his anguish rising. Eventually he broke down. The flashbulbs popped. On returning to his house, he felt that the press conference had been the straw to break his back. He was appalled that he had lacked such self-control, and refused to watch any newsreels or read another paper. Now he was seriously contemplating ending it all.

  Then everything changed. The fickle world turns on a fivepenny piece. The press began to depict him as a wronged lover and the public loved it.

  Michael hired a PR agent, who played heavily on William’s shock and trauma at the revelations. William was amazed by an avalanche of sympathy letters and articles. He was now seen as a man seduced by a gold-digger who had betrayed him. The débâcle went on long enough for William to be sickened at first then amused that without making any effort himself he had come out smelling of roses.

  Sylvina and Sharee had unwittingly given William a new public image, and to Justin, this turn of events was a gift from heaven. He had dropped the scoop to Meryl to spite William for dropping the plan. But the miraculous turnaround also meant that William’s putative guests would be sure to accept an invitation from such a popular media star. He called William to talk him into leaving London to visit the almost completed paradise island.

  ‘I can’t right now, Justin,’ said William, tired from all the interviews and phone calls.

  ‘Right now is the perfect time. William, are you there?’ There was a pause. ‘I want you to think about our plan,’ Justin began.

  ‘At the moment I can’t think about anything.’

  ‘But you have to.’

  ‘Justin, I can’t talk now. Call me later.’ He hung up.

  At the other end of the line Justin’s face twisted into a paroxysm of fury. Then, in a fit of rage, he smashed the receiver to pieces against the wall. He berated himself for acting too rashly.

  He had been sure that the exposé would make William even more eager for revenge, but it seemed to have had the reverse effect. ‘Will this idiot never come to his senses?’ Justin muttered to himself. Gradually he calmed himself. It was just a setback. He’d leave it a day or so then call again. The fish was still on the line, he assured himself, just wriggling dangerously. Justin would land his quarry, even if it meant drawing him out to the island and slitting his throat himself.

  Chapter Eight

  Afew days later Justin called William again.

  William was surprised to feel genuinely pleased to hear from him, but with the Sharee story, he was desperate to get out of London. He couldn’t face going to work. ‘I’ll get the next flight out,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Justin asked loudly.

  ‘I said I’ll be flying out as soon as I can.’

  ‘Oh, fantastic. By the way, I’ve ordered four jet-skis, and I told you about the speedboat, didn’t I? Expensive, but out here it’ll be an eye-popper. Hopefully it’s arriving today. Let me know what time your flight gets in, and I’ll have a boat fixed up to collect you, if yours hasn’t been delivered. Hello? Are you still there?’

  ‘I’ll have Michael call you, Justin.’ William hung up and pressed the intercom. ‘Michael, arrange a flight for me, would you? I want to leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘Where to, sir?’ came Michael’s clipped tones.

  ‘The island. So get Mrs Thingy to pack enough suitable clothes for a fortnight.’

  ‘You have board meetings the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Cancel them.’

  Michael accompanied William to the airport, ostensibly to take notes and instructions, but his boss seemed distracted.

  ‘The new mechanical toys are ready for you to test, sir. Do you want me to send them out to you on the island?’

  ‘What toys?’ William asked.

  ‘The fox and hens, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, just go ahead.’

  ‘What about the patent?’ Michael asked, aware that they had been copied from some William had bought in Paris.

  ‘Well, I reckon we can get away with it. I’m sure I remember seeing some designs for a similar toy done by one of my boffins years ago. If they do decide to take on the Benedict Corporation, which I’m sure they won’t, we’ll be able to pass it off as ours anyway. In fact, Michael, get my lawyers to look into the company that made that cat-and-mouse thing and root out our old files. Maybe we can sue them!’ With that, they arrived at the airport.

  The speedboat’s engine was cut and it cruised into the small, immaculate dock. It was late afternoon and still blisteringly hot, but a sea breeze kept the air fresh. Justin, deeply tanned, was wearing cut-off blue jeans, a white T-shirt with torn seams and a faded pair of flip-flops. His gold Rolex wristwatch glistened in the sun, and a pair of black Armani shades hung from the neck of his T-shirt. A boy in white shorts and dirty sneakers was at the controls. He jumped deftly out of the boat on to the quay, and Justin hurled him a coiled rope, which he tied around a wooden post.

  William was sitting in the small harbour café with a whisky and soda. He had landed in Miami, then booked the Cherokee two-seater to taxi him to Tortola, the adjacent island; his own had no airstrip. Another seaplane landed at the same time, and William was irritated to see Count Frederick Capri, whom he recognized from Justin’s villa in France, greet the disembarking passengers.

  His mood darkened as he watched the lithe, handsome Justin strolling towards him. He seemed to know everyone who passed, waving and laughing, speaking fluent French one moment, Spanish the next. William sipped his drink and squinted into the sun as Justin made his way towards the café veranda and leaned against the railing. ‘You made it,’ he said, smiling, his white teeth dazzling against his dark skin.

  His hair had grown quite long since William last saw him and he wore it combed back from his high forehead. It was bleached almost white.

  ‘The boy’ll get your cases,’ Justin added, slipping on his shades and checking his watch. ‘We shouldn’t leave it too long, there’s a bit of wind and it might get choppy. Besides, I want you to see the island in the best possible light – when the sun is just slipping down.’

  They walked to the quay, got into the boat and surged off. William pressed his back into the leather seat. Justin sat next to him, tilting his face to catch the last rays of sun. ‘So the Countes
s buggered off,’ he said.

  William shrugged. He could smell Justin’s sun-oil, and glanced at the small diamond ring he wore on his little finger.

  Justin hooked his arm around William’s shoulder. ‘This is nerve-racking for me. It’s been almost eighteen months, did you know that?’

  ‘Time passes quickly,’ William said, uneasy with the man’s closeness.

  ‘I have created a paradise,’ Justin said, tightening his arm. ‘Sometimes it was hard for me to remember that I was creating a place for you, not me. I’ve grown to love this island with a passion.’

  William would never forget the next few moments. The boat cut through the water, passing between two jagged rocks. A mist began to sweep towards them, blurring the ocean and the sky, creating an illusion of nothingness. Then the island appeared, like a mirage. White turrets, boundary walls, white cliffs and sparkling latticed windows. As they drew closer, the mist parted, and William made out undergrowth, trees and shrubs in a blaze of different colours.

  The quayside, jetty and pathways leading to the mansion were as white as the turrets. Large Chinese lanterns hung from ropes, swinging gently in the wind, and the tinkle of wind-chimes and bells echoed across the water. William half rose, his lips parted, as they cruised past man-made beaches and cascading waterfalls. The perfume from the lilies was so strong that the heady smell wafted over the water like incense. The boat passed hidden coves equipped with small jetties and lines of jet-skis, sailing dinghies and windsurfers. Sunbathing terraces, covered with brilliant white canopies, rows of polished sunbeds and picnic tables, jutted out from the rocks; diving boards reached out into the sea. As the boat curved inwards to the main landing, jetty-boys in white blazers and shorts stood like sentries waiting for their arrival. The boat-boy eased into the jetty alongside a sleek cruiser covered in white tarpaulins and a small, elegant launch. Five white golf carts were parked nearby.

  Justin climbed up on to the jetty, speaking in French to the boys, who then assisted William from the boat, collected his luggage and stacked it on a golf cart. William stood still, taking it all in. ‘Stunning,’ he said, in awe.