He stood up.
‘Get the fuck out,’ he said to João, so harshly that the guide practically ran from the tent. Angel’s eyes were still glittering like a feral animal’s, his lips drawn back from his teeth.
Jesus fucking God, I’ll be lucky if those bastards just break my legs. The amount I owe them, they’ll be more likely to throw me out of my own window face first onto the railings below, like that property tycoon who crossed the Russians last year.
He remembered that man all too well: an ex-tycoon who had been caught in a vice, because he was being sued by his ex-wife for millions in child and spousal support. Her lawyers had been digging in precisely the places he didn’t want them to look – and that was what had triggered the Russians to shut him down, in case their extremely dodgy deals were exposed in the process.
It had been the main subject of gossip and speculation during the last weeks of the unfortunate man’s life, everywhere that mattered: the Mayfair casinos, the private members’ clubs like Annabel’s and George’s. Plus Cipriani and Scott’s restaurants – which might as well have been members’ clubs, given that their clientele was so exclusive and regular, their best tables allocated only to favoured customers.
The tycoon had been a walking corpse, his face increasingly grey, the meagre hair he had left growing whiter by the day, the lines on his forehead so deep they looked as if they had been made with an etching tool. And there had been plenty of opportunities to watch him disintegrate, because he’d been out every day in one of the most beautiful patches of London, the five-minute walk from Claridge’s to Berkeley Square, down Mount Street to South Audley Street. He’d stayed till closing every single night at one or other of the clubs or gambling dens in that area, knowing he was safe in company.
But he’d had to go home sometime. You always did. They’d got him in the end, waited for him in his top-floor flat off Grosvenor Square, staged it to look like a suicide to satisfy the inquest, and sent a clear warning to anyone else that when you did business with the Russians, you didn’t call down unwanted publicity on your head.
Angel’s breath was coming in spurts of fury, laced with naked fear. The thought of that short, brutal fall, the iron spikes of the railings coming up fast to meet him in the most terribly medieval of deaths, was scaring him shitless. It was a horrible reflection that Tor’s death – sliding down a gorge, unconscious, presumably to die with no awareness of what had happened to him – would be far, far preferable to what was waiting for Angel in London if he didn’t come up with a fast way to settle his debts.
Chapter Sixteen
London – the next day
Absorbed as Christine was in her work, the noise in the outer office was loud enough to make her lift her head. Doors banging one after the other, chairs pushed back; it almost sounded like a scuffle, and that was unheard of in the sedate atmosphere of the Berkeley headquarters just off New Bond Street. Christine was expecting the Countess of Rutland, who was scheduled for a mid-morning appointment to view pieces from Vivienne’s collection; but the Countess would surely not be causing this kind of commotion.
It was a much-anticipated meeting. To Christine’s delight, after she had drunk a ginger and green tea martini at the expedition launch party and steeled herself to go up to the group that comprised Lil’ Biscuit, Silantra and the Countess, the latter had been both charming and approachable. Christine had been strategic, greeting Silantra and her husband, mentioning how much she was looking forward to showing them the pieces the next day, which had naturally led to the Countess expressing interest too; as Christine had suspected, her publicist had not let her know about the gem sale.
The Countess had immediately been eager to see the jewels, but had not given any indication about what she might be looking for, which made Christine’s task much more difficult. If she had been asked to pull out the tiaras – the Countess certainly dressed glamorously enough at charity balls to be in the market for one of those – or the big necklaces, which she had the stature to carry off, that would have been a start. But the Countess had airily said that she wanted to see everything, and that was problematic, because people always tended to buy more if they were looking at a selection carefully curated for their tastes.
The eye simply became exhausted after viewing too many things, even beautiful ones. It was like eating a ten-course tasting menu: always too much, no matter how perfect the food. By the end, you felt a little sick: you pushed the last plate away, you couldn’t finish; you disliked yourself for eating everything, and the restaurant for bringing you all those plates and the matching wine pairings, no matter how excited you had been at the prospect of all that deliciousness a few hours before.
Jewellery, fine art, sculpture: the principle was the same. If the Countess of Rutland really did try to look through the entire contents of the two safes containing Vivienne’s jewellery, she would burn out halfway through and possibly end up not buying anything. Christine needed to find a way to pre-select in advance. Having done extensive Google searches for images of the Countess out on the town, she had instructed her assistant to pull the most lavish pieces she could find, with certain stipulations. The Countess tended to wear jewels so large that, like many of Vivienne’s, they almost looked fake. Her favourite stones were diamonds, white and pink and yellow. Nothing with a cabochon cut, nothing that wasn’t multifaceted. The Countess loved glitter and shine: after all, she had spent years in the beauty pageant world, where less was never, ever more.
And no brooches, Christine had specified. Very few Americans ever understood brooches: they got confused when it was explained to them that they could also wear them as pendants, as central settings for tiaras. European royals were used to jewellery that could function in various different ways, wishing to show their loyal subjects that they weren’t being over-extravagant with the money they had amassed from conquest, ruling and intermarriage. There were entire sites online dedicated to the analysis of which royal gems a queen or princess was wearing. What was once a girdle in late-medieval times had morphed into a necklace, the pieces taken out to shrink it down turned into a pair of earrings and a bracelet; diamond drops from a button tiara could be detached and suspended on a chain to be worn around the neck. It never hurt a monarchy to show that it was using its inherited wealth wisely.
But modern Americans, much as they loved the history of their jewels, had absolutely no interest in wearing them flexibly. They wore no sashes across their dresses, unlike royalty at state events, so had no need of brooches to pin to them. Christine was running through the final list for the Countess, who was due in forty minutes, when she heard the commotion outside and realized it was headed towards her. Moments later, to her great surprise, Vivienne Winter herself swept into Christine’s office.
As always, Vivienne was impeccably dressed when she left the house, in a silk snake-print blouse and grey pencil skirt that showed off her still excellent legs, her feet shod in suede courts. Over this was thrown a charcoal mohair coat trimmed with dark green ermine, and Vivienne’s earrings were pear-shaped emerald drops set in platinum, echoing the green of the fur. Her wig today was a layered long dark bob, her make-up perfect.
Her eyes, however, were stretched wide like a frightened animal’s. The black-mascaraed lashes emphasized their unbelievable amethyst colour, but her expression was panicked, her face white under her foundation.
‘Christine!’ she panted. ‘I’ve just had a phone call! Have you seen the news? Heard anything?’
Gregory, behind her, was also visibly distressed. He was carrying Vivienne’s handbag, a grey leather Vuitton that looked surprisingly good with his slim-cut navy suit and Bond Street-slick level of personal grooming.
‘What is it?’ Christine was on her feet immediately. Something must have happened on the expedition. It hadn’t been supposed to be dangerous: it wasn’t a trek across the Arctic or an ascent of Mount Everest. But they were climbing mountains, abseiling down cliffs, racing each other for charity challenge
s. There couldn’t help but be dangers in those activities, and just because Angel had been fine on Skype yesterday, laughing with Prince Toby and Missy Jackson as they joined him in chatting to her, that didn’t mean he hadn’t had a bad fall today . . .
She dashed around her desk to take Vivienne’s outstretched hands; the next thing she knew, she was enfolded in a hug, and through the layers of expensive fabric she could feel how frail Vivienne’s bones were, how delicate. Vivienne looked so much younger than she was because of the make-up, the wigs, the animal-print shirts and dresses that looked dashing, but whose flowing lines and elaborate prints covered skin that was looser than it once had been. She was a mistress of the little tricks that women of a certain age use to camouflage their weaker points, tricks that Christine so often noticed with admiration and filed away for future use.
However, with Vivienne’s arms wrapped round her, so thin and fragile, her body so light against her, it was impossible to forget that Vivienne was in her seventies. It was a strange contrast, the glamour of Vivienne’s signature scent in her nostrils, rose and musk and pepper and orange blossom blended together by an exclusive French parfumier, the expensive fur of her cape collar tickling Christine’s cheek, and then the delicate, old-lady bones . . .
Christine looked over at Gregory and met his eyes, which were full of concern for his employer. Vivienne was gulping for breath against Christine’s shoulder, not exactly crying, but clearly trying very hard not to do so.
‘Vivienne . . . is it Angel?’ Christine asked, her heart racing. ‘Is he all right?’
‘It’s not Angel!’ Vivienne pulled back, fixing Christine with those marvellous eyes. It was surreal to see her in this entirely genuine state of emotion, when Christine had watched her on screen so often acting fear and anguish. It did not make Christine doubt Vivienne’s sincerity – instead she felt as if she, Christine, had been whirled into a film in which Vivienne was starring.
‘It’s Tor!’ Vivienne babbled. ‘He’s missing! They’re searching everywhere, but he went off by himself for some reason yesterday and never came back – he didn’t tell anyone where he was going, so they don’t really know where to look – he could have fallen, he could be lying at the bottom of a cliff with a broken leg – starving, dying of exposure, knocked out so they can’t hear the search party calling him . . .’
‘Oh no!’
Christine’s knees buckled. She had been holding Vivienne up, taking her slight weight, more than she realized; when she crumpled, Vivienne did too, and it was only the desk behind her that saved them. The loyal Gregory rushed forward to take Vivienne’s waist, steadying her, and as Christine started to cry, Vivienne did too.
‘Get them some water!’ he snapped at Nathan, who was standing by Christine’s office door, agog. ‘And shut the door.’
Gregory guided Vivienne to the big Chesterfield leather guest chair as Christine sagged against the desk, both hands clutching its mahogany frame. Vivienne collapsed into the Chesterfield, her coat puffing out around her; Christine’s fingers were gripping the edge of the desk so hard that they left marks on the leather set into its top.
‘The more time that passes,’ Vivienne said softly, lowering her hands, twisting them nervously in her lap, her rings glinting marvellously, ‘the longer it takes them to find him . . .’
‘Oh, don’t! They must find him soon!’
Christine was finding it impossible to believe that Tor could have made a mistake catastrophic enough for him to disappear like this. She had seen pictures of him on a daily basis in so many of the photos and videos released by the expedition; Tor’s team was highly sophisticated technologically, crucial nowadays for fundraising and satisfying the sponsors. They not only employed a photographer/videographer on staff, but the expedition members were all required to post photos and clips to Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Vine and Snapchat, enabled by the latest in satellite phones.
The images had been joyful. Laughing faces framed in fur hoods; Missy Jackson, looking so stunning completely make-up-free that she would be swamped with lucrative offers to endorse skincare products; short action videos; photos of the camp food, all helmed by Tor’s calm, smiling presence. Tor was the quiet alpha, the centre of the group. As Toby, Missy and Angel, the glamorous popular kids, clowned around together, staging silly shots of themselves pulling faces at the food or ‘rescuing’ each other from dire emergencies, Tor could usually be seen in the background, checking kit, talking to staff, working away.
There was a wonderful video of him coaching Toby up a steep climb, shouting encouragement, giving him confidence, yelling at him not to give up when he slipped and hung from the rope; Tor had abseiled down from the top of the cliff to show Toby the way, swarming up with ease, demonstrating where the hand- and footholds were, giving Toby the nerve to start the ascent again. Once more at the summit, Tor had leaned over the edge and reached down a hand so that Toby could use it to pull himself up the last couple of feet; and, having dragged himself up, Toby had hugged Tor as fervently as if he were a long-lost brother, slapping him on the back, unashamedly thanking him and swearing enough in his relief at having made it that the videographer had had to blur some of the words he used.
Christine had watched that clip over and over again, thinking muddled and tangled thoughts about Tor that made her feel horribly conflicted. During the later part of the launch party, Angel had barely left her side; but there had been a moment when she had been waiting to retrieve her coat from the cloakroom and he had slipped away for a minute to arrange something with Nicole, who was apparently taking Silantra on to a club. It was then that Tor had found her, having waited patiently for his opportunity.
‘Can I see you when we come back from the Andes?’ he asked. ‘Just – to talk?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Christine had said at once. ‘I’d love that.’
Then she’d realized she’d accidentally used the word love, and been unable to say another word; while Tor, nodding, had backed away as swiftly as he’d seized the opportunity to snatch a word with her. It had been odd and awkward and stealthy, because there should have been no reason for Tor to speak to Christine behind her boyfriend’s back, and they both knew it.
Christine had kissed Angel with extra passion that night. She would be working the next day when the expedition left, and wouldn’t be able to attend the press conference or wave him off at the airport. She had felt guilty, torn, stupid: after all, she had been Angel’s girlfriend for nearly two months, loved his company in and out of bed, while she had hardly spent any time with Tor at all. She barely knew him. He was a fantasy, an action man who had walked out of the sea; but that was why it was impossible, now, to imagine serious harm coming to a man as physically fit and competent as Tor.
Instinctively, she dropped to her knees on the carpet in front of Vivienne, once more taking the older woman’s hands.
‘They’ll find him, Vivienne,’ she said, her voice not quite steady. ‘They’ll find him, I’m sure. Every one of them will be looking for him, and they won’t stop until they do.’
‘He’s my godson!’ Vivienne said in a cracked little voice. ‘He’s my godson, and he’s so very like his grandfather Arnvald . . . almost the spitting image. Oh, Arnvald as a young man, I remember him so well . . .’
After the revelation that Vivienne had lied to her so smoothly, so convincingly, about Tor’s marital status and his attitude to fidelity, Christine naturally viewed Vivienne in a different light. Happily, she no longer needed to work in Vivienne’s Mayfair apartment, in close contact with her; she had been as professional and efficient as always, while avoiding any one-on-one contact with her.
Now, however, Vivienne was neither scheming nor lying. She was a weeping old lady, the grandmother of Christine’s boyfriend, and it was impossible for Christine not to comfort her. Gregory was pulling tissues from Vivienne’s bag, handing them to Christine, and the two women dabbed their eyes. Nathan returned with the water and Gregory intercepted hi
m, drawing a side table over next to Christine and placing the glasses on it, the perfect assistant, trying to render every aspect of his employer’s life as smooth as possible, even the grieving process.
‘You should have seen Arnvald!’ Vivienne was saying as she patted round her eyes, trying not to smudge her make-up. ‘Such a strapping, wonderful man, so full of life and health – just like Tor turned out to be. Tor could have been his double. How can he be gone? How is it possible? Dear God, this is bringing back so many memories of Arnvald in his glory days . . . how heartbroken I was when he died! It was like a part of me had gone with him! That’s what happens, you know – because when they’re still alive, you can reminisce about the wonderful times you had together, but once they’re gone, you feel so lonely because you can’t share those memories any more . . .’
Christine slid her eyes sideways at Gregory, who was now standing by the closed door, guarding it from incursions. His expression was as deferential as usual, showing not a flicker of surprise that Vivienne had managed to turn the focus of Tor’s disappearance to herself.
‘What exactly happened, Vivienne?’ Christine asked, breaking through Vivienne’s self-absorbed stream of consciousness. ‘What did they tell you? Have you talked to Angel?’
‘He rang me,’ Vivienne said. ‘Just now. He said that he hadn’t wanted to worry me before, but they’d been searching for Tor since yesterday evening, when he wasn’t back in camp for dinner. They’ve called in the Bolivian air force for helicopters for a search – it’s going to be on the news and he wanted me to know beforehand. The helicopters will be there as soon as the sun’s up . . .’
The UK was four hours ahead of Bolivia; it was mid-morning here, which meant dawn should have broken there by now.
‘Let me see if I can get him on Skype,’ Christine said, standing up and going round her desk to her computer.
Killer Diamonds Page 29
