Murder By Umbrella: (Passion) (The Nikki Sinclair Quartet Book 1)

by Jaye Rothman

  Derek Manning, my Head of Section, met my plane in Paris. There had been a leak from an unknown source and my involvement had become known to the Egyptian government. Manning had thought it inadvisable for me to return to London immediately. A seat had been booked for me on a plane bound for Tunisia, where I would holiday for two weeks. Jo Davies, a secretary from Dulwich, was my new identity. She had decided to holiday alone as her fiancé had just called off the engagement, and I couldn’t think of a more apt cover story.

  So that is my story of how I come to be propping up the bar in Hammamet. I glance in the mirror and see that she’s coming over. I follow her movements in the optics; she’s standing uncertainly behind me. Will she gather her courage and speak to me?

  She pulls out the barstool next to me and signals the bartender. “Two more of those, please.”

  He pours our drinks and sets them in front of her.

  “Thanks. Put them on my tab. Room 121.”

  Her voice is soft with an American drawl – Detroit, I think. She wants me to know her room number; this is definitely a pickup. Shall I play the game?

  She slides my drink over to me but she doesn’t relinquish control of the glass. If I want it I’ll be forced to touch her fingers, which I know she wants. I smile inwardly and reach out for the glass. Her fingers are long and the nails are short and well manicured. I look up and appraise her carefully. She smiles and blushes under my gaze. Maybe not as much of a player as she thinks she is. Her index finger slides across mine. I don’t look down because she’s expecting me to.

  “Hi, I’m CJ. I thought you might like some company. Sometimes it’s hard to find what you’re looking for in this.” She indicates the Johnnie Walker by raising an eyebrow, still smiling but not quite as confident as before.

  I continue to stare her down. She blushes again and swallows nervously but, all credit to her, she doesn’t hoist the white flag or retreat.

  “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

  I don’t want to play. The latest book by PD James, which is upstairs in my room, is looking a much more attractive option. If I’d met her in a bar in London, I probably would have given her the brush-off, as she really isn’t my type.

  “Yes, I’m sure you are,” I tell her, “but no thanks.”

  Most women would have given up, but CJ ploughs on. “It can be kinda comforting if you can find the right company, if you catch my drift.” As she says this, she smiles hopefully and there is a touch of vulnerability there – perhaps not such a player after all.

  I rise and dig my wallet out of the back pocket of my Levis, and throw a handful of dinars onto the bar. My new companion stays seated.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Doesn’t she think I’m serious?

  Then she jumps up eagerly. “Sure. Your room or mine?”

  The player has returned.

  I laugh. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

  “We’re both playing for the same team, so what’s the point?” Her fingers graze down my wrist and press the palm of my hand. My breath catches and a frisson of excitement courses through me.

  “Mine, I think.” I murmur.

  CJ was in my arms as soon as I shut the door. Her hands roamed all over my body, pushing my clothing aside so her eager fingers could gain access to my skin. Her mouth found my nipple and she ran her tongue over it, nibbling it; that elicited a moan from me. She gently pushed me back against the door, lifted my hands above my head, pinning them there with her left hand. I offered no resistance. Whatever would happen, I was past caring. My breathing came shallower and faster and CJ, with a skill born of a considerable amount of practice, I suspected, undid the belt of my Levis with one hand and very slowly unbuttoned my jeans. When she slipped her hand between my legs, I could tell from the way she moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and the knowing smile that appeared upon her face, that she had found what she had been looking for.

  Not many women in my life have had the experience or the nerve to take me like that. But CJ had.

  I could smell her perfume as she leaned into me. Diorella, I was sure, and the softness of her sun-tinged skin felt wonderful after two months of having to share my bed with a man.

  Her experienced fingers took me to the edge so many times that I gave up counting. When I thought I was going to find some relief, she would move her thumb a fraction and, for a few seconds, I thought all would be lost. CJ, of course, was far too accomplished and skilful to let this happen to me. The ascent would begin once more, until I had to plead with her to take me. I hated to surrender but the truth was, I desperately needed to be liberated from the inordinate amount of stress and tension that had built up in me in the last few months.

  That was what she had been waiting to hear, and take me she did. The descent into ecstasy was incredible. Waves of intense pleasure rushed through me as she continued to touch me until I was physically unable to orgasm any longer.

  During this encounter no words were spoken. When I slowly opened my eyes, my legs were shaking and I felt strangely disorientated. Her face was buried in my shoulder and I could feel her warm breath on my skin. We stood there, linked together; I don’t think either one of us wanted to break the spell.

  “Thank you. That was amazing.” I whispered in CJ’s ear.

  She lifted her head and smiled shyly. “You were amazing. It was my pleasure, Nikki.”

  In a second, the sweat that coated my body dried to ice. How did she know my name? Did she realise her error? Who was she working for?

  I needed to know who she was. I ran my hands up both sides of her body and over her breasts. I could see in her eyes that she thought I was going to repay the favour. In one fluid motion my hands gripped her neck and I pressed down on her windpipe. Her eyes looked terrified. I increased the pressure.

  “Why did you call me Nikki?”

  She was struggling for breath and her eyes pleaded with me to stop. A powerful flashback of Amisi’s last moments shot through me. I loosened my grip.

  “How did you know my fucking name?”

  CJ tried to shake her head.

  “Tell me.”

  I let go of her throat, and she coughed and spluttered, gasping to get some much-needed oxygen into her lungs. “It was Manning. He sent me. I’m from London and I’ve just been transferred from the Canadian office. He instructed me to keep eyes on you.” She continued to cough, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the tips of her fingers.

  “Did that include fucking me?”

  CJ bit down on her lip; perhaps she could see how this might play out. “No, no. Of course not. I figured it would be a good way of keeping you close.”

  I surmised that CJ hadn’t been a field agent for very long. “What did you do before this?”

  “I was a cop in Canada.”

  “A word of advice, CJ. You’re way out of your league. Go back to playing cops and robbers.”

  Her hand reached for the door handle. “You might think about wearing a scarf for a couple of days.” I pointed to my finger marks on the side of her neck; the bruises were already beginning to show.

  CJ looked directly at me. There was no fear in her eyes this time. “You didn’t have to take pleasure in humiliating me, especially after we made love like that. What kind of woman are you?”

  I answered the closing door. “One that stays alive.”

  Her words stung me. I could easily have left her with her pride intact. I could have taken her to bed and held her, especially after the way she had made love to me. Instead I had chosen to crush her. What kind of a woman had I become?

  I didn’t sleep well that night and, in the morning, I knew I had to make restitution. I ate a solitary breakfast without tasting it and wandered out to the swimming pool, claimed a sun lounger by throwing my towel on it and dived into the pool. The water was cool and I decided to work on my underwater swimming, focusing on how long I could hold my breath. I made two lengths. When I finally emerged from
the pool, the sun was bearing down and it was nearly 11 a.m. I liberally applied sunscreen and lay down on the lounger. When I raised my eyes she was there, opposite me. Her head was buried in a three-day-old copy of the Daily Mail. I saw that CJ had taken my advice, and a chiffon scarf concealed my fingerprints. I continued to watch her for over an hour, but she appeared oblivious to my presence. After last night it was hardly surprising – what did I expect?

  I decided to ask CJ to have lunch with me and to apologise. My body cast a shadow over her but she still didn’t look up.

  “What do you want?” Her voice was cold. Again, what did I really expect?

  “I came to apologise for last night. I’m so sorry I hurt you. Please come to lunch with me.”

  “Sorry! Are you crazy? You strangled me half to death and now you tell me you’re sorry. Interesting.”

  I blustered, “What do you mean ‘interesting’?”

  CJ still didn’t look at me. It was as if my presence was offensive to her, which it probably was.

  “You think you’re so shit-hot and have the right to trample on people’s feelings as if they don’t matter. Well, listen up, Sinclair. I’ve been ordered to watch over you and I’ll do it because that’s my job. But that doesn’t mean I have to like you and have to eat my meals with you.”

  I knew I had badly hurt her feelings, and tried again. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had a tough time in the last few days,” I said lamely.

  “Well join the bloody club! I’ve had to spend a month with O’Brien in the basement translating SB encryptions from three years ago. Do you think that’s been fun?”

  O’Brien was the resident Polish expert at Broadway. All the agents avoided him. He was a nervous little man who smoked incessantly. His sole interests in life were Hornby train sets and his widowed mother.

  “Oh dear. That probably felt never-ending.”

  There was no response from her. It had been ages since I had been given the cold shoulder. On my way to lunch, I had an idea. Stopping at the hotel florist, I ordered three dozen pink roses, hastily scribbled on a card and, for a few extra dinars, asked the clerk to deliver them to room 121. Would that have the effect I desired?

  It was 5 p.m. according to my watch when a light tapping on my door wakened me. I took my stiletto from under my pillow and put it in the back pocket of my Levis. Who knew I was in? Who had been watching? Had I been made?

  I opened the door slowly with my hand holding the reassuring handle of my knife. CJ stood there. She wore a blue halter-neck dress that revealed a considerable amount of cleavage. She smiled. “Thanks for the roses. They were gorgeous.”

  “Am I forgiven?” I asked hopefully.

  She stepped into the room, closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. “That kind of depends on you, Nikki, because I think it’s time you reciprocated what I gave you last night. Don’t you?”

  I burst out laughing. “I couldn’t agree with you more.” I closed the gap between us and kissed her tenderly on the lips. CJ looked momentarily startled as if she hadn’t been expecting gentleness from me.

  Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear, “Take your clothes off.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE DIRECTOR GENERAL’S BRIEFING

  The plane’s wheels bounced off the tarmac twice, causing the passengers to gasp out loud and grip their armrests in preparation for an eminent emergency evacuation. I did not show any reaction or emotion; my eyes did not leave the page of my book. But then again, I wasn’t actually reading it.

  Eleven days ago it had been deemed too dangerous for me to return to England, and today Manning had summoned me home. CJ had woken me in the early hours of this morning and informed me we had to leave today on the 10 a.m. flight to Heathrow. Had the danger diminished? Probably not, but my services were needed again in the service of my country. How did I feel about returning to the field? Would I be able to aim and fire a weapon? Could I take another’s life?

  I felt CJ giving me an anxious glance, but I chose to ignore it and I didn’t speak.

  Manning had arranged for us to be fast-tracked through passport control and customs. A large, sleek anonymous Rover was waiting to take us to Broadway, the London offices of MI6. As the car purred softly towards its destination, neither of us spoke.

  We didn’t even sit close to each other; a large expanse of black leather seat physically separated us, rather like the gulf that had opened as soon as we had embarked on the flight to London. We hadn’t talked, and had made brittle chit-chat spasmodically for four hours.

  Perhaps both of us were regretting the intense intimacy that we had shared during our time together. I had been loose tongued and had confided – much to my embarrassment and discomfort, as I always did when I had drunk too much – some of my darkest fantasies. CJ had listened eagerly to them, and of course the inevitable had happened: she had encouraged me to fulfil them. It had seemed so incredibly exciting and thrilling at the time….

  Now, back in London, I berated myself for my stupidity, and I was well aware that CJ could use this damaging Intel about me to her advantage. Would she do this? I didn’t know. What would I do in her situation? Keep me very close, I surmised.

  I shot a glance at her, but she was staring out of the window and appeared engrossed in her own thoughts. It would be down to me to close the wide chasm that divided us. I shifted my body towards her, and my thigh fell against hers. She turned to me with surprise, and I whispered to her in French, as I didn’t want Manning’s driver to understand. Immediately there was a transformation: her face lit up with a radiant smile, and she nodded shyly. A slow sigh of relief escaped from me – I had been granted a reprieve for now. I gently hummed the Stevie Wonder classic Don’t You Worry ‘bout a Thing.

  In the lobby at Broadway I nodded at Nobby Clark, the thin-faced ex-fusilier who operated the lift. I didn’t know how long he had worked at Broadway – probably since before I was born – but he never seemed to age or change. He was the model of discretion, and that was probably why he had survived five DGs. The doors slammed shut and the old metal lift clanged its way up to the fourth floor where the Director General’s office was located.

  His assistant, Carol Jackson, was an attractive brunette in her early fifties and had served the DG for many years. There had been a rumour that she had been his mistress when she was younger but that he had tired of her. Why was it always the women who were dispensed with? The latest gossip, according to CJ, was that the DG was banging a new entrant to MI6 who worked on the Balkan desk. She must have been hoping for a meteorological rise to her career, as I couldn’t imagine any woman choosing to share the DG’s bed without some reward. He always reminded me of a lizard, lying quiet and still and then striking out when it was least expected.

  There were no fewer than two government ministers, plus the DG and Manning, waiting for me. It was a Top Secret briefing, and it was in connection with the Umbrella Murders.

  I glanced in the mirror and although I had changed into a black pinstriped suit, I knew I didn’t look very presentable. My blue checked shirt was crumpled and didn’t match my suit, and I could have done with a visit to the hairdresser’s.

  While in Tunisia I had seen a copy of the Daily Mirror. The headlines had screamed, “The Umbrella Murderer Strikes Again!” [and the front-page story had outlined the gruesome murders in graphic detail...]

  The press was enjoying an increase in circulation as the British public demanded daily updates and was anxious for any new piece of information, or any scandalous tit-bits pertinent to the investigation. Even the broadsheets had climbed onto the bandwagon, but they were reporting it from a purely economic point of view. Members of the public were frightened to shop in Oxford and Regent Streets because of the risk of being stabbed by a murderer wielding a large black umbrella. The managers of the larger department stores had lobbied the government in protest as their profits had plunged. Last night on Newsnight, the popular BBC current affairs prog
ramme, the Home Secretary had been grilled on the issue and the damage it was doing to tourism and to public morale.

  Carol whispered that the Foreign Secretary had highly recommended, and specifically asked for, my involvement after the completion of the mission in Egypt.

  She gave me a reassuring smile as I stepped toward the lions’ den. I knocked on the door and heard a gruff “Enter.” The DG was sitting at the head of the highly polished rosewood table; he was immaculately dressed in a black pinstripe suit (which, unlike mine, was probably tailored in Savile Row) and a crisply starched white shirt, and wore his school tie with pride. He was an old Harrovian and this had served him well in the intelligence service, particularly when the Conservatives had been in power.

  Braithwaite, the prematurely white-haired head of MI5, was sitting three chairs away from the DG. He’s been dropped down the pecking order, I thought. He didn’t look particularly pleased to be there, and probably wasn’t. MI5, and especially Braithwaite, would be in the firing line if the Umbrella Murderer continued to evade them.

  Manning was in his early 60s, and the last few years hadn’t been kind to him. His brow was deeply furrowed, and he was now completely bald. It was rumoured that he wouldn’t see out the year as head of section, as his health had started to fail him. He was chain-smoking his usual Woodbines and his eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. He had probably been up most of the night.

  “Sinclair, please take a seat.”

  The DG appeared pleased with himself, as if he had won a coup. He adjusted his tie and began.

  “You know Alan Braithwaite, of course … and this is Dyfan Jenkins, Home Secretary … and Harry Brown, the newly appointed Minister of Defence.” The DG said this with a slight distaste. He was a staunch Conservative and was not a great admirer of the Labour Party, which had been in power since 1974.