Nicole had no idea what had actually gone down in London. All she knew was that Angel had dropped completely off the radar. It had been a frightening time, as she rang his phone over and over again, eventually getting the recorded information that his mailbox was full and could take no more messages. Sensing that something had gone badly wrong, she had packed up and left the apartment she had been renting, checking into a hotel under an assumed name.
The following day, she had taken the risk of going to his apartment building and bribing the doorman to find out what he knew The information that Angel had been the subject of a police raid, that three men had been taken out from his apartment in handcuffs and that glaziers were up in the penthouse at that moment, replacing the glass that had been smashed in by (as the doorman had been told by an excited policeman) an SAS guy abseiling down from the roof and breaking dramatically into the apartment, had been more than enough for Nicole. She had not gone this long without an arrest to her name by taking unnecessary risks.
Immediately she had decided against using her keys to sneak into Angel’s apartment and access his safe. For all she knew, they had posted an officer there or set up cameras to see if anyone would try to do exactly that. Instead she had returned to her hotel, packed up and taken a Eurostar to Paris, and thence a plane to Rio de Janeiro – travelling with a fake passport, of course.
Thankfully it was Angel, and Angel alone, who was on the hook for the theft of the rings and the pendant. Nicole, as was her wont, had been careful to avoid leaving her fingerprints on anything, literally or metaphorically. None of the gem cutters she had spoken to in Amsterdam would say a word to the authorities. She thoroughly regretted not having taken the diamonds with her to the Netherlands, but Angel had insisted on holding on to the real ones for as long as possible, wanting to wait until, hopefully, more people had viewed the fakes at Berkeley.
His reasoning had been self-protective. If several clients had looked at the diamonds and not spotted that they were substitutes – because Nicole had been assured that only the most expert, proficient gemmologist would be able to tell the difference between real and fake – Christine would have a longer list of possible suspects, and Angel would not be in the frame. He could sympathize with his girlfriend without her having any doubts about his involvement. Whereas if she noticed the fakes soon after Toby and Angel had looked at them, and told Angel about them, he would have the real ones on hand and could at least attempt to switch them back.
Still, even though it was Angel in whose possession the diamonds had presumably been found, it was definitely wisest for Nicole to leave London as soon as possible. She had to assume that if Christine and the police had discovered the jewellery substitution, they might also have connected Nicole in some way to the fakes. She had no idea for how long Angel had been under observation, whether his phone or apartment had been bugged. The only safe course was to slip away discreetly. Once she had left the country, she was fairly confident that no one would bother to pursue her.
Nicole had told Angel that the finder’s fee from Silantra and Lil’ Biscuit would be payable when the auction was over, but she had lied. The contracts were signed; as soon as they had become the legal owners of the jewels, the money had been wired to her account at the bank in the Turks and Caicos, adding to the considerable balance she had previously maintained there.
So she had no money worries, which was always pleasant, and Brazil was as friendly and welcoming as ever. She made an appointment with one of its best plastic surgeons, an international celebrity with his own private island off the coast of Rio, where his most exclusive clients were invited to recuperate. Nicole had decided that it was time for some tweaks to her appearance. She had always wanted a rounder bottom than her flat Asian one, curves that she could flaunt in a thong on Ipanema beach. Her ideal posterior, in fact, was Silantra’s, as was many women’s, but Nicole knew her smaller frame would look ridiculous with those cosmetically exaggerated cushions.
More importantly, she also needed to alter her features. It was a shame: she was very fond of her natural face. But she had a sex tape to sell of herself and Silantra together during their rendezvous in Paris, and she absolutely could not afford to be identifiable as the woman not just romping naked with the reality star, but giggling with amusement as she encouraged Silantra to speculate on what her husband was getting up to, halfway across the world, with his boyfriend. The part where Silantra, donning her favourite strap-on, told Nicole that she was going to give it to her up the ass, make Nicole her bitch just like Gray did with Lil’ Biscuit, was worth a fortune. Nicole had invested a lot of money in the spy camera built into that heavy leather tote bag she had carried to Paris, but it had definitely paid off.
Still, once Lil’ Biscuit found out that Nicole, after taking a huge finder’s fee, had betrayed him and Silantra so badly, his wrath would be mighty, and Nicole had no intention of living in seclusion for the rest of her life. She wanted to party in LA and New York, in Miami and Tokyo and Antibes, without constantly looking over her shoulder for him or one of his minions ready to wreak revenge. And in order to be sure she could do that, she needed to be unidentifiable.
Her plan was to offer the video directly to Biscuit and Silantra. She had briefly considered selling it to an online website, but discarded the idea, because if the tape became public, Lil’ Biscuit would undoubtedly hunt her down like a dog. The rap scene was not a safe place for women who kissed and told. Rumours still swirled about another mogul married to a very famous singer; his secret girlfriend had allegedly threatened to go to the tabloids with all sorts of gossip about their setup, only to die shortly afterwards in mysterious circumstances.
Going public was, therefore, not an option. Certainly, blackmailing Lil’ Biscuit and Silantra would make them extremely angry, but they would pay her an extortionately large sum of money as long as she signed a cast-iron confidentiality agreement that would both bankrupt her and send her to prison if she ever sold the video to anyone else. Stabbing them in the back, on the other hand – by selling it to TMZ or a porn site – that would be grounds for the same fate as the secret girlfriend had suffered.
So Nicole’s eyes would become more angled. The surgeon was intrigued by her request to deepen the epicanthic fold, as clients invariably wanted it reduced, not exaggerated. That in itself would be enough to make her much less recognizable; no one would suspect that someone with Chinese heritage would undergo surgery to emphasize it, since the prevailing fashion in Asia was to make oneself look more Western, not less so. Her chin would become more defined, her cheeks less full. Subtle alterations, but ones that would change her face sufficiently so that, if she had the bad luck to bump into Silantra or Lil’ Biscuit, post-surgery, she would not be recognizable as the Nicole who had had vigorous sex with Silantra and then sold them the evidence.
It truly had been excellent sex, Nicole thought rather wistfully. But opportunities for a large score were finite, while those for sexual pleasure were, in her experience, positively infinite. Look at this evening: the charming and handsome Venezuelan businessman had been eager to assure her of the many other attractive guests who would be attending. There was a hot tub on his roof terrace, the cocktails would flow, and other substances, the businessman had assured her, would be readily available; the perfect way to spend New Year’s Eve. Nicole was fresh from a thorough waxing by the hotel’s beautician. All she had to do was rub gold-flecked oil into every crevice of her body, don her tiny Eres bikini, slip on a silk Agent Provocateur cover-up and glide upstairs, ready to watch the midnight firework display as she created some explosions of her own.
She missed Angel. God knew what he was going through in the upmarket mental facility in which Vivienne had incarcerated him. But, Nicole reflected, finishing her caipirinha, she had seen Angel arrive at the Chateau Sainte-Beuve a comparatively naive fourteen-year-old, only to take to the regime there more eagerly than any student before or since. She would certainly not put it past him, after a whi
le, to have the medical staff of the loony bin eating out of his hand, willing to certify him as fully recovered in return for being initiated into the very specific and delicious games that Angel knew so well how to play.
Regretfully, she reached round to rub her bottom, which no longer bore any marks from Angel’s various activities. She did hope, for his sake, that he was managing to convince someone to spank him every so often. She was crossing her fingers that tonight she might find a sexual partner whose tastes were more chilli than vanilla . . .
Christine and Tor were on screen together now, clinking glasses with the director of Berkeley Geneva and the chief executive of Vivienne’s charity foundation. The image switched to a shot of Vivienne, draped in diamonds and white sable, being escorted through the lavishly appointed corridor of the Geneva hotel, crowds lining the passageway, applauding her and calling her name as she graciously smiled from side to side, her bearing even more regal than ever.
I really hope they’re not letting Angel watch the television in that hospital Vivienne’s put him in, Nicole reflected. Because if he sees this, he’ll pick up anything in his room that isn’t nailed down and throw it right at the screen.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Montreux – New Year’s Eve
As Nicole readied herself for that evening’s party, back in Switzerland the three occupants of the back seat of the lavender Rolls were happily drifting off to sleep, lulled by the smooth motion. Worn out by the excitement of that evening, they had all closed their eyes as soon as the car had pulled away, quite understanding that they were merely postponing their delightful gossip until the next day, over brunch. It was an hour’s drive back to Montreux, on the far side of Lake Geneva, and Vivienne, Eugene and Franco were fast asleep as the Rolls swept through Lausanne, not waking as the great car reached the town of Montreux and began to climb into the hills above it.
Fifteen minutes later, the car came to a halt on Vivienne’s driveway, and Gregory, seated beside the chauffeur, opened the panel behind him. The sound of soft snoring was the only sound that greeted him. He gave several loud taps on the glass, hearing the occupants shuffle and stir themselves; then a couple more taps, just to make sure they were all awake. He got out of the car, his movements unhurried, giving them time to collect themselves, stretching his arms and rolling his neck, eventually opening the door for Vivienne.
‘We’re home, Madame,’ he said, glancing briefly, tactfully, inside the now-illuminated interior of the Rolls. Vivienne was letting out a yawn as she adjusted her wig – Franco was doing much the same with his toupee – and composed her expression to full alertness. The three passengers kissed each other, and Eugene offered, as one or other of the elderly men always did when saying goodbye on New Year’s Eve:
‘Darling, you’re very welcome to come to us tonight, you know. The guest suite’s ready and waiting for you, and Gregory can bring you anything you need from here.’
And Vivienne smiled and gave the accustomed response:
‘You’re so sweet, darling. But no, thank you, I prefer to sleep in my own bed and wake up in my own house. I’ll see you for brunch at noon.’
‘The budini di riso came up from Lugano today!’ Franco piped up. ‘So delicious, I’m tempted to have one before bed tonight . . .’
‘You should, my love,’ Vivienne said, taking the hand that Gregory had extended inside the car to give her enough help to pull herself out. ‘Treat yourself. We’re not going to be around for ever, are we?’
‘Good night, carissima!’ Eugene said.
‘So much to talk about tomorrow!’ Franco added happily.
A retainer less established than Gregory, less familiar with Vivienne’s ways, might have expected Vivienne to go straight to bed after such a busy day. But tonight was New Year’s Eve, and this was a very particular anniversary for Vivienne. It was the night that Randon had died, flying his Cessna while insanely drunk, heading across the Channel in a doomed attempt to see her by midnight.
Days previously, their second divorce had been finalized. They had both agreed, utterly exhausted, that they had nothing left to give; they had spent the previous two years tearing away at each other. When they were apart on film sets, they had thrown themselves into well-publicized affairs in an attempt to torment one another; when they were together, they had spent their evenings drinking their way through San Lorenzo’s wine cellar before staggering out, screeching at each other in the middle of Knightsbridge as they made their way tipsily back to Brompton Square, nearly causing a series of late-night bus and taxi crashes.
But none of that, in the end, had made Randon and Vivienne decide to divorce again. It was the realization that the revenge affairs had followed the same pattern; the words they were yelling had been spoken hundreds of times before. Even the drunken lurches across Knightsbridge, horns blaring, brakes squealing, drivers sticking their heads out to curse at them and then yelling in amazement when they realized who they were – even those had happened so many times that suddenly, one evening, as Randon banged on the front door of the Brompton Square house, shouting at Vivienne, who had made it home first, to undo the double bolt and let him in, he stopped abruptly in the middle of a string of curses, sank to the doorstep and closed his eyes. And Vivienne, slumped in an armchair in the living room, didn’t realize for several minutes that he had stopped yelling, because her ears were ringing so loudly with the echoes of her own shouts back at him.
When she eventually got up and opened the door, finding him collapsed on the entry step, half snoring, she looked down and said simply: “We’re on a terrible merry-go-round, Randon, my sweet. It’s time to get off.’
‘I was thinking “ancient rep circuit”,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘Like being trapped in hell, forced to act in the same awful play night after night with no way out.’
‘We’re cliches,’ she said, as he heaved himself to his feet. ‘I think I saw camera flashes tonight, but we’re not the draw we once were.’
‘My God, no! In the old days we’d have been followed home by a positive cloud of paps!’
Randon was on his feet, swaying, his eyes blurred with alcohol, his jaw sagging. Propping himself against the door-jamb, he extended one hand to Vivienne.
‘We had a great run, didn’t we?’ he said. ‘Best play ever, when it was good. Our own Private Lives. But yes, it’s over now, Viv, my darling.’
He stuck his hand out; it shook visibly as he extended it.
‘“Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part,”’ he said, quoting a famous sonnet as he took her hand, planted a kiss on it and let it fall. Turning, he walked unsteadily away down the black and white-tiled walkway, back to the Brompton Road. And Vivienne watched him go without saying a word to bring him back.
It was quintessential Randon to choose a dramatic exit rather than come inside the house and sleep it off in a spare bedroom. He told her later that he had trudged through Knightsbridge to Piccadilly, staggered into the Ritz, demanded the best suite available and passed out there for two days, refusing to let the cleaners enter, sustaining himself entirely on the contents of the minibar.
The divorce, however, had been easy enough. They had no fight left in them, and their lawyers’ attempts to stir them up in order to generate more billable hours had fizzled and failed. Having divorced once before, their property had been divided up already, their assets portioned. They had each left the second marriage with exactly what they had brought into it. When the decree nisi came through, Vivienne was in Nice with a lover and Randon in Devon on his estate there, where he had apple orchards and made lethally strong cider and apple brandy every year.
Two empty bottles of the brandy were found on his kitchen table the next day, evidence of how much he had put away before he rang Vivienne at nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve and announced that he would be landing in Nice in a couple of hours. He was clearly in no condition to fly a plane. Vivienne, sobbing, had implored him not to do it; she had called the local police
station to tell them what he was planning, rung friends in the UK and begged them to ring 999. But Randon’s mansion was twenty miles from the closest village. By the time a police car reached it, the Cessna had already taken off from his private airstrip.
He had gone off the radar twenty minutes after leaving the English coast behind, and in his transmissions to air traffic control he had been slurring his words so badly that it was hard to make many of them out. In answer to their increasingly horrified instructions, all he had done was to repeat, over and over again, the same words:
‘I’m going to see Vivienne. I have to see Vivienne . . .’
Those recorded transmissions had been played endlessly in the years after his death, torture for Vivienne; every time she heard them, in a snatch of a television programme or radio broadcast, they brought back all the horror of the few hours that had followed, the worst of Vivienne’s life. Her great fear, of course, was that Randon would crash his plane and kill others as well as himself; and even when, after a while, she realized that he must surely have cleared the British coastline, there was still the possibility that he would manage to cross the Channel, make landfall in France and wreak havoc there.
She stayed up all night and most of the next day, waiting to hear of a Cessna wrecked in some remote area, a witness who had seen a plane go down over a mountain range. Eventually she passed out with exhaustion. When she awoke, the lack of news meant, as everyone knew, that Randon’s plane must be at the bottom of the sea.
Although they had seemed as alike as two peas in a pod, Randon and Vivienne had turned out to be radically different. He was stuck in his pattern of wild living, had continued to drink like a fish after their break-up, while Vivienne found that whenever they were separated, her alcohol consumption became much more moderate. A naturally addictive personality, Randon had added Vivienne to the list of things he could not do without. Vivienne had eventually outgrown the relationship, but he had not. With a clear, cold eye, Vivienne had assessed her situation and realized that as long as she stayed with Randon, she would be trapped in chaos with him.
Killer Diamonds Page 42
