Killer Diamonds

by Rebecca Chance

  Holding the gun by her side, she looked down at Angel.

  ‘You had better turn him onto his side first,’ she added. ‘The one that’s undamaged. Otherwise he might choke to death.’

  Gregory, shuddering at the sight of Angel, did as she instructed. Then he placed an arm around her back for balance as they walked slowly from the boudoir.

  Louison slunk out from under the chaise longue. But she did not follow her mistress, nor did she jump back onto the piece of furniture and curl up once more in the cushions that were warm from Vivienne’s body. Instead she padded over to Angel’s body, sat down beside it and hooked out one white paw, dabbing with curiosity at the blood that was slowly oozing from the bullet wounds onto the pink carpet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Geneva – New Year’s Eve

  ‘Three hundred million dollars!’ Christine exclaimed in delight. ‘Well, nearly – two hundred and eighty-seven million dollars! That’s nearly two hundred million pounds! More than double what the Elizabeth Taylor auction made. Vivienne will be over the moon – you know how badly she wanted to beat her!’

  ‘I’m happy we have good news for Vivienne,’ said Tor, and he and Christine, for a moment, exchanged a glance that had nothing at all to do with the triumph of the jewellery auction.

  Around them, the roar and bustle was so loud that Christine had been almost shrieking to make herself heard. Hundreds of overexcited guests, released from the solemnity of an auction at which they had watched records being broken, seen one legendary jewel after another, and rubbed shoulders with royalty, film actors, A-list musicians and reality TV stars, were hitting the champagne and screaming in ecstasy at one another.

  They were celebrating not only their purchases but the fact that they had been present at one of the most sought-after, exclusive events of the year. The Berkeley publicists had been so besieged by demands for tickets to the auction of Vivienne Winter’s jewels that they had decided to move the location from their own auction house to the ballroom of the five-star Bel Lac hotel on the Quai du Mont Blanc, requiring a stratospheric surge in the security budget. Armed guards were stationed at regular intervals around the room and on the lakefront terrace outside, which had been cordoned off from access both to hotel guests and auction attendees. Until the jewellery was safely transported back to the safes in Berkeley’s offices, a few streets away, the stunning panorama of Lake Geneva and the snow-covered slopes of Mont Blanc by night could be viewed only through the glass French windows of the ballroom.

  Tor’s allusion to Angel’s shooting by his grandmother was rare; he and Christine did not talk too much about that shocking day. Angel had been taken to hospital, where they had patched up his shoulder as best they could, but the nerve damage was so extensive that he had lost most of the use of his right arm. Given this circumstance, Vivienne had reluctantly arranged a deal with the Bolivian authorities, who had dropped the extradition attempt in return for a large donation to a high-ranking official’s favourite ‘charity’. She could not face the prospect of her grandson, now partially disabled and physically unable to defend himself, spending decades in prison there.

  The situation with the British authorities had been vastly helped by the fact that Angel, when he came round to full consciousness, had suffered a complete mental breakdown. He was psychotic, raving, threats of violence against his grandmother, Christine and Tor flowing non-stop from him; there had been no question that he needed to be sectioned. Spoilt for his whole life, indulged in every whim, used to getting everything he wanted by virtue of his money, charm and beauty, he had awoken to find himself in a place where all of those advantages had been ripped away.

  With his right shoulder wrecked and his arm partially useless, Angel no longer had the effortless physical ease he had always relished. A drugs screen had revealed the amount of legal and illegal substances he had been taking and the hospital had put him on a strict regime of non-opiate painkillers, which were failing to do the job. Having never been taught self-control, patience or stoicism as a child, Angel experienced this deprivation as a total outrage, and his furious, foul-mouthed protests against the hospital treatment regime had only confirmed the diagnosis that he was a danger to himself and others.

  With her extensive contacts and stable of high-priced lawyers, it had not been difficult for Vivienne to have Angel declared unfit for trial and arrange for him to be taken care of in a private mental facility that, for a very large fee, specialized in the kind of difficult cases that required both sensitivity and discretion. Ironically, like the Chateau Sainte-Beuve, it was a last-chance saloon for the spoilt children of celebrities and aristocrats, a holding cell into which the scions of the rich and famous were dumped when they could no longer be allowed to roam free.

  Angel’s theft of the gems had been hushed up, his injury explained as an unfortunate accident while he had been checking his grandmother’s gun for her to ensure that, all those years after she had fired it in The Letter, it was still in working order. All gossip about the truth of the tumultuous events of that day had been ruthlessly suppressed. It had been thoroughly impressed upon the police officers who knew about the attempt to arrest Angel, plus their backup team, that any leaks to the newspapers would be traced back and punished with extreme harshness. George and his two thugs had been arrested for a variety of offences, including distribution of illegal narcotics, running illegal betting syndicates and match-fixing, and Angel’s testimony had not been necessary to press any of those charges; his name would not be mentioned at their trial.

  There was no statute of limitations for attempted murder in Britain. If Angel were released from the facility, he could be prosecuted for trying to kill Vivienne. This, at least, was what he would be told – although, with the theft having been covered up, along with the fact that Vivienne had fired at him in self-defence, it would be a difficult case to bring. Angel, however, would not be informed of this. His doctors would hold the threat over his head while attempting to gradually engage him in the therapy he so clearly needed, once the drug withdrawal and psychotic symptoms abated. It would, they had told Vivienne, be a lengthy process. She had raised not the slightest objection to this, despite the fact that it was costing her a small fortune. The facility was extremely secure. For a considerable amount of time, Angel would be going nowhere.

  Vivienne had rung Christine the day after the dramatic events that had culminated in her shooting of her grandson. With great dignity, she had apologized to Christine for Angel’s theft of the jewels, assured her that the sale would be continuing as planned with Christine at the helm, and promised her that Angel was safely contained where he could not hurt anyone; not even himself.

  Naturally, this had been a huge relief to Christine. And then, when she had arrived in Geneva to set up the auction and tackle the complicated logistics of using the ballroom of the Bel Lac Hotel, Vivienne had invited Christine for tea at the Montreux villa, where she had taken up residence immediately after Angel’s committal. She was putting the Park Lane apartment on the market. As she had watched Angel’s body being carried on a stretcher through the hallway, she had known that she would never be able to enter her boudoir again. Gregory had organized overnight bags, and they had slept in the Grosvenor House Hotel that night; it was practically next door. They had flown to Switzerland the day afterwards, while the best moving company in the country started the long, carefully supervised process of packing up Vivienne’s possessions.

  Over Earl Grey and Fortnum’s shortbread at the villa, Vivienne had given Christine a beautiful pearl and diamond necklace, presenting it as an apology for everything that had happened with Angel. Christine had made an attempt to refuse the gift, but it had been impossible to say no to Vivienne. Besides, the necklace had been perfectly chosen. Christine was wearing it at the auction, and it made her simple black dress look as if it had cost ten times its actual price.

  Vivienne had also dealt with the subject of Tor during that visit. Without quite admitt
ing that she had told Christine that Tor was a married womanizer, Vivienne had indicated that she felt, in retrospect, that she might have misled Christine about him. She had been misinformed about his character by ill-wishers, she said, and was retracting all the negative comments she had made. She had then indicated that she would take no offence if Christine and Tor found themselves becoming close after Angel’s disappearance. This had been a huge relief to Christine, as it was exactly what had already happened.

  ‘I need to go and tell Vivienne the fantastic news,’ Christine said now, fizzing with triumph. ‘Wow, this is so amazing! We went over the estimated value on every single piece!’

  Vivienne had not been present in the ballroom during the auction. She would have been overrun, swamped with fans and admirers wanting to pay homage; it might even have distracted attention from the business of bidding for her jewellery, with people gawping at her rather than raising their paddles. Besides, in the wake of Angel’s disappearance from the social scene and the lurid rumours surrounding it, Vivienne had withdrawn from any public appearances, not wanting to fan the flames of publicity.

  Instead, they had worked out a compromise that would allow her to enjoy the excitement of the sale at close quarters, sequestering her in a private sitting room a few doors down from the ballroom. She had watched the proceedings on a video link organized by the hotel. Christine was due to head there to congratulate her on the success of the auction, and prepare her for meetings with some of the winning bidders.

  ‘Oh hey, Christine,’ someone drawled above her, and she looked up to see Lil’ Biscuit, diamonds gleaming in his ears and at his neck, wearing a superbly cut cobalt suit.

  ‘Hi!’ Christine had never resolved the issue of what to call Lil’ Biscuit. She gushed instead, avoiding using any name in return. ‘Hasn’t it been such an amazing experience! I’m so glad you and Silantra could be here. I wish we could have convinced you to bid, but of course you’ve secured your fabulous pieces already . . .’

  ‘Well, that’s just what I wanted to discuss with you,’ Lil’ Biscuit said in his deep boom of a voice, and Christine panicked for a split second, before reminding herself firmly that his contracts were iron-clad and notarized. There was no way he could pull back from his agreements to purchase any of the various necklaces, parures and tiaras he had bought for Silantra.

  ‘Uh . . .’ she began, but Biscuit was already continuing:

  ‘So you pulled in two hundred and eighty-seven mil,’ he observed. ‘Nice, but three hundred mil would be an even better number, wouldn’t it? Good and round.’

  ‘Of course,’ Christine said, her brain whirling. ‘That would be fantas—’

  ‘So here’s what I’m thinking,’ he interrupted. ‘It was a real pleasure for us to meet Ms Winter in London, and that was the deal – we wouldn’t pay that much money not to meet her in person, right? But Silantra and I have a good friend who couldn’t be there, and it’d be super-cool if he could get to take some photos with her, now we have the chance.’

  He gestured to the man by his side, who was even more strapping than Lil’ Biscuit, in a very different style: he looked like a mixture of Scottish and German genes, pumped up by American protein and a great deal of weightlifting.

  ‘Gray Macfarland,’ the man said, proffering an enormous hand and enveloping Christine’s in his. It made her feel like a five-year-old meeting a giant. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

  ‘What I was thinking,’ Biscuit continued, ‘is that we agree to negotiate on something extra to purchase from Ms Winter’s collection. Something special enough to cost thirteen mil. You get to say you made three hundred mil, Silantra and I get our extra piece, and Gray gets to meet Ms Winter.’

  ‘I’m her biggest fan!’ Gray said. ‘I’m sure everyone says that to you, but I really am! And also Randon Cliffe’s! God, what a handsome man.’

  He looked hopeful.

  ‘I was thinking – is there anything that Randon might have worn? I would just love that. A watch? Cufflinks? I wouldn’t care at all if the style was dated. Just to own something that was once his, that Vivienne Winter had kept . . . wow, that would be amazing!’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ Christine said, thinking quickly: any items Vivienne possessed that had belonged to Randon Cliffe had not been part of the sale. She had no idea whether they existed – or whether Vivienne might be prepared to part with them if they did. ‘But even if there isn’t something of Randon’s, I’m sure we can work out something suitable for a man to wear.’

  Vivienne still owned a great deal of jewellery that she had told Christine she would never wear again – items they had decided not to list in order to avoid the auction becoming unduly repetitive. Brooches and tennis bracelets, in particular; the former were much less fashionable than they had been, the latter simply not that distinctive or interesting. There was plenty of raw material to work with.

  ‘Nowadays there’s a big trend to reset pieces of ladies’ jewellery into cufflinks or shirt studs, for instance,’ she continued. ‘It often happens with family jewels, when they’re willed to a male heir who wants to wear them himself. I’m positive that we could come up with some pieces that were gifted to Vivienne by Randon Cliffe that we could repurpose to be worn by you, Mr Macfarland. Then you’d have the link between Vivienne and Randon that you’re after.’

  ‘Gray, please! And wow, that would be just wonderful!’ Lil’ Biscuit’s ‘good friend’ exclaimed with a beaming smile.

  Suddenly, a vivid image popped into Christine’s mind. It was of Vivienne’s photograph of Randon’s erect penis with the long strand of pearls wrapped around it, the strand that had sold tonight for nearly a million pounds, though without the photograph rights attached; much as Vivienne had been amused to see that picture, she had not given her consent for it to be made public.

  Looking from Lil’ Biscuit to Gray, however, Christine realized wistfully how much she could have negotiated from these clients in a private sale for the pearl necklace together with that photograph and a very strict confidentiality agreement never to have it reproduced. No question at all, these two men would have paid an absolute fortune, and they were clearly very used to keeping secrets. Gray might never have worn that pearl necklace in public, but she was sure that he and Lil’ Biscuit would find plenty of uses for it in private.

  Reluctantly, she pushed aside speculations of how much extra she could have made from this very particular sale. She could charge a great deal for whatever she did sell to them.

  As with the Elizabeth Taylor auction, the costume jewellery pieces in particular had tonight raised sums way beyond anything they would normally have fetched. A charm bracelet given to Vivienne on the set of Nefertiti – just a silver chain hung with different Italian-themed trinkets as a memento of her stay in Rome, possibly a gift from a producer but so trivial by Vivienne’s standards that no one could even remember – had gone for eight thousand pounds, rather than the five hundred at which Christine had set the reserve.

  She glanced at Lil’ Biscuit. ‘Of course, our valuation will be influenced by the price inflation we’ve seen at the auction,’ she pointed out. ‘Clearly, buyers are putting even more of a premium on Vivienne’s pieces than we realized.’

  Lil’ Biscuit inclined his head towards her, a silent appreciation of her bargaining skills, acknowledging that she had just told him that what he would be buying for that thirteen million dollars would, considering the book value of the gems in question, seem distinctly overpriced.

  ‘And we can meet her now?’ Gray asked with unrestrained enthusiasm. ‘This is so exciting!’ He was clasping his hands together. ‘Wow, I can’t believe I’m going to meet Vivienne Winter! James, I’m so excited!’

  Lil’ Biscuit shot him a glance in which ‘Cool it!’ and ‘Honey, you’re so sweet’ were equally mingled.

  ‘Okay, we have a deal,’ Lil’ Biscuit said. ‘As long as Gray can take photos with her.’

  ‘Same rules as before – no sel
fies, but we have a photographer,’ Christine said. ‘We’ll be happy to provide you with several images once Vivienne has approved them.’ And had them retouched and Photoshopped to her specifications, of course.

  As Christine and Lil’ Biscuit negotiated, Silantra had slinked over to Tor’s side. This was the only possible verb one could use to describe the way she moved in her chosen outfit. Auction guests, still in shock at her appearance, goggled at her unashamedly; Silantra, as always, maintained enough Botox and fillers in her face to look as serene and aloof as her body’s rampantly sculpted curves were highly sexualized.

  ‘Hey,’ she said to Tor. ‘Uh, cool that you’re alive.’

  ‘I think so! I certainly prefer it to the other option.’

  Tor grinned at her, keeping his eyes firmly on her face. By now, he had had plenty of time to process the presence of a woman covered in what looked like sheer netting, thickly sewn with diamanté, worn over a 1950s-style silver bandeau bikini; but even so, the sight of her abundant cleavage would distract anyone who had a pulse.

  ‘That whole shit that happened to you was crazy,’ Silantra drawled. ‘Like something out of a soap opera! You know, getting knocked on your head and forgetting who you are for a whole, like, month. And the local peasants finding you and nursing you back to life.’

  Once it had become necessary, for Vivienne’s sake, to conceal what Angel had done, this had been the cover story to explain Tor going missing for so long. It was, as Silantra correctly observed, far-fetched, but no one had been able to come up with anything better. She wasn’t insinuating that it wasn’t true, however; as the most famous reality star in the world, she was expressing appreciation for a truly spectacular real-life plot point.

  ‘In a soap, though,’ Silantra was saying, ‘there would be this gorgeous girl looking after you, and you’d fall in love with her. But then you’d have a wife back home, and when you remembered her, you’d forget the other one. I saw an old black and white film like that. It was, like, really romantic but sad at the same time.’