Table of Contents
Also by Charlotte Lamb
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Charlotte Lamb
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Also by Charlotte Lamb
Walking in Darkness
In the Still of the Night
Deep and Silent Waters
Treasons of the Heart
About the Author
Charlotte Lamb was Mills & Boon’s top-selling author. Her novels have been translated in many languages and are bestsellers around the world. She died in October 2000.
ANGEL OF DEATH
Charlotte Lamb
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK Company
This Hodder eBook edition published in 2013
Copyright © Charlotte Lamb 2000
The right of Charlotte Lamb to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 978 1 444 77031 5
Paperback ISBN 978 0 340 76731 3
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
Praise for Charlotte Lamb
‘A potent mixture of murder, mystery and intrigue . . . you simply won’t be able to put the book down’
Woman’s Realm
‘Interesting characters and a satisfyingly structured story, as polished as ever’
Bolton Evening News
‘Her novels are rip-roaringly, mind-bogglingly . . . heart-poundingly successful’
Radio Times
‘One of the secrets of [her] phenomenal success is her magnificent moody heroes’
News of the World
Prologue
Miranda knew she was dreaming, at one level of her mind, and tried to wake up, but was held too deeply by the dream. Her body was heavy, as if she were paralysed.
A tumult of dark green, marbled, foam-flecked water carried her along, turning her this way and that, upside down, then right side up, weightless, flotsam crashing helplessly along. The sea, she thought, smelling salt. She was in the sea.
She could hear someone else, nearby, gasping, choking.
He called out to her. ‘Miranda! Where are you? Miranda! Help me!’
He had never been a strong swimmer, whereas it had always been her favourite sport.
Her heart leapt in dread and anguish.
‘Tom, I’m coming, hang on!’ Fear for him made her fight harder. She struggled against the waves but she couldn’t see him.
‘Tom, where are you?’ she screamed, and with a final effort surfaced.
But not in the sea. Awake now, she realised she was in bed, in a strange room – a narrow, boxlike little room. Her body was damp with sweat. The sheets stuck to her. Blankly, she stared around. Where on earth was she?
There was very little furniture; just the bed she lay in, a low cupboard next to it, on which stood a jug of water and a glass, and against the wall a wooden chair. The walls were white. Beige blinds covered the small window. There was a lamp on a table by the door, casting a veiled light, and somewhere she heard muffled footsteps. Her nose wrinkled – there was that familiar institutional scent of wax polish she remembered from school, from public libraries, but mingled with a pungent, antiseptic smell. Disinfectant? Was she in a hospital?
What was she doing here? How had she got here?
Panic rose up inside her. The sea. She remembered the dream, or had it just been a dream? She had been in the sea. How long ago? Tom. Where was Tom?
She had fought to reach him, then someone else had appeared, had grabbed her by the shoulders to turn her over on to her back.
‘Leave me alone,’ she had yelled, trying to break free of him. ‘I’ll be OK. My husband. Save Tom. He’s in trouble. He isn’t a good swimmer, he needs help.’
He didn’t answer, and she couldn’t hear Tom any more. Fear made her desperate, but the powerful hands wouldn’t release her. He began towing her through the water. When she screamed at him water sloshed into her mouth, half-choking her.
He seemed tireless, breasting the waves while he dragged her behind him, up on to a beach. At last he let go of her and she lay, face down, salt water spewing out of her, hurting her throat, her body shuddering and heaving. Rough sand had grazed her frozen skin, she saw blood smears on her legs.
The man who had saved her knelt, massaging her back and shoulders with firm fingers. He raised her and put his arms round her to keep her warm against his body. She tried to push him away, but he would not let go. She was too tired to fight. She sat rigid in the circle of his grasp, hearing his body, his breathing, his heartbeat.
She hated him. He was alive. Tom was dead.
She turned her head to look down the beach at the dark, devouring sea. There was no sign of the yacht. It must have gone to the bottom.
Her eyes closed to shut out the sight. Images of Tom’s blond hair filled her head. It was so alive; it moved constantly, curling strands spread out in the water, floating away from the face with its closed, blind eyes, and she saw little blue and silver fish darting in and out of the curls.
Shuddering, she refused to think any more about that and drifted away like Tom on a remorseless tide.
How long had it been before rescue arrived? By the time it did, she must have been unconscious. She could remember nothing of what happened next.
All she knew was that she was here, in this silent little room. Alive and alone. Tears filled her eyes. Oh, Tom, Tom – how could she go on living, without him?
A sob broke out of her. She wished she were dead, too. She should have drowned out there, with him. She would have done if that man had not dragged her away.
In the corner of the room something moved. Her heart seemed to stop. Her head swung in shock.
‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.
He got up from a chair and came towards her. She recognised him at once. All in black, as usual – tieless shirt, trousers, jacket. His hair almost the same colour, springing back from a widow’s peak, short at the side, the back curling into his nape.
He stood beside the bed and she looked up with dread into his pale, cold face. His eyes were the colour of a grey winter’s day.
‘I was afraid of you the minute I first saw you,’ she said. ‘Now I know why. You’re the angel of death, aren’t you? You took Tom. Have you come for me now?’
He put a hand out towards her, long, tapering fingers curling to take her and she shrank away.
‘Don’t touch me! I couldn’t bear it if you touched
me!’ she screamed.
Outside in a corridor footsteps quickened into a run. The door was flung open. Lights blazed in the room.
A nurse hurried over to her.
‘What’s wrong? Are you in pain, Mrs Grey?’
‘Get him away from me!’
‘Who?’ The nurse looked round the room.
It was empty. There was nobody there. Miranda lay down again, trembling violently. Had she still been dreaming, after all?
The nurse gave her an injection. Miranda went back into her dream; into the cold, green sea. The angel of death was waiting for her there. That night and for many nights afterwards.
But she never saw him again when she was awake.
Chapter One
Until three years later.
Miranda drove down to Sussex one bright May morning feeling better than she had for a very long time. It was a lovely day and she was pleased with the way she looked in her new pale mauve suit. She had given herself a little more height by buying high-heeled white sandals. It would be a mistake to try to walk far in them. She knew she was a little unsteady on them but their delicacy and style made her feel really elegant, and what she needed was a boost to her self-confidence, which had been at an all-time low for a long time.
It had surprised her to be invited to the engagement party of her boss’s son. She barely knew Sean, who was eight years younger than her; a good-looking, very sophisticated twenty-one-year-old who already knew it all, judging by his manner and the condescending way he spoke to her, as if she was a halfwit, or an old granny.
She had a sneaking feeling Sean did not even know she was on the invitation list. Her boss had sent out the invitations – to personal friends of his own, or Sean’s buddies, or friends of the new fiancée, and, of course, to relatives from either side. There was a lot of excitement in the firm about who would be invited and who would not, but Miranda had not expected to be on the list.
She had accepted, of course – how could she refuse? Only later did it dawn on her that she had nothing to wear except clothes she had already worn to work and it would never do to wear any of them.
It was years since she had taken any interest in how she looked, but for a party like that she had to have something really good. People might notice. Her boss certainly would. He noticed everything; sharp as a tack, as her mother would say. So, last week she had taken a long lunch hour and gone to Oxford Street. After wandering from shop to shop, walking for half an hour, she had finally seen this suit. The soft colour suited her own pigmentation. She was no beauty, but she knew she had fresh, clear skin, a loose brunette swirl of shoulder-length hair and light hazel eyes. She had not inherited her mother’s stunning looks. As a girl, she had kept hoping her hair would turn that shiny golden blonde colour, that her eyes would go grass green, that she would somehow acquire the ability to make men’s heads turn, but she had her father’s colouring and features, and the magic transformation had never happened. Life was full of disappointments.
In one of those odd coincidences she had spotted the shoes in a shop right next door and known at once that they would be the perfect match. She had been back at her office more or less on time, after all, and had eaten a yoghurt and a pear at her desk before starting work.
She had got a job with the firm six months after Tom’s death. She suspected – no, she was certain – Terry had offered it to her out of a sense of guilt. Tom had worked for Terry’s firm. They had been on the yacht at Terry’s invitation – he had chartered it as a floating conference centre and brought on board a dozen of his top executives, with their wives and girlfriends, as well as some of his best customers. The others had all been saved when the yacht broke up on rocks. Only Tom had drowned.
She had been ill for months afterwards. When she was sent home she found she had lost her post with a large public relations firm. They were apologetic, but explained that they had not been able to keep her job open for ever, especially as they had no idea how long she would be kept in hospital.
The uneasy expression on their faces had told her they thought she was going to make trouble. That she was possibly a bit nuts. And maybe she had been, at first.
But she was back to normal when she left hospital and, after she had spent a fortnight convalescing with her mother down in Dorset, she was calm and rational. She saw there was no point in arguing or protesting. Her firm did not want her back.
She started applying for jobs at once, without much success at first, until, a few days later, Terry had visited her, heard about her predicament, and asked her to take on his firm’s public relations.
‘We haven’t had a PR department, before, but we’re growing, fast, and I think we probably need one now, to handle advertising and dealings with the media.’
Neither of them mentioned Tom’s death. She had looked into Terry’s warm, brown eyes and decided she liked him. They had first met on the yacht and she barely knew him, but she sensed he was a good man.
Big, muscled, with a pleasantly ugly face which was angular, bony and confident, he had a strength and cheerfulness which was instantly likeable. His very short, brown hair curled all over his head in little curls like the horns of a small goat. His grins and barks of laughter aroused answering smiles from most people he met.
He wore casual, light suits, in shades of blue or cream, with coloured shirts, pink or turquoise, and expensive silk ties. Conventional businessmen in striped grey city suits found his outfits worrying. Could he be serious when he dressed like that?
The success of his company was sufficient answer. Terry Finnigan was an electronic genius and understood both what he sold and how to make money selling it. He had founded his company ten years ago with a small legacy from the sale of his dead father’s house.
Miranda wasn’t sure how he had made a living before that. She had the idea that he hadn’t been well off. Everything in his house was new, oddly impersonal in spite of being bright, modern, and very expensive.
Today, the company was worth millions, and Terry owned a majority of the shares. He also owned a large country house, a number of very expensive cars, and leased an office complex in which he had a flat that he and his son used when they were in London. Divorced, Terry dated quite often, but did not seem interested in marrying again, although he liked women.
His preference seemed to be for tall, curvy, showbiz girls, curiously similar in type to his first wife, Sandra, a nightclub singer. Maybe men always picked the same sort of women?
Sandra was now living in Spain with her second partner, to whom she was not married.
‘A crook,’ Terry always said of Jack Lee. ‘And a cheap crook at that. You could buy him outright for a packet of crisps and a glass of beer. What does she see in him?’
Miranda never attempted to reply, she knew he was talking rhetorically, but she imagined Sandra liked Jack’s party-going attitude to life. He joked, laughed, took nothing seriously, and he had a rough sort of sexuality, an instinctive body language with women.
He was, Miranda had decided long ago, very like Terry except that he didn’t have Terry’s brains or aptitude for business. So perhaps women also chose the same type, too? It wouldn’t be surprising – it was all based on character, wasn’t it? Everyone saw through their own eyes, and chose a partner accordingly.
Jack had money, and spent it with a free hand – but it was never clear how he made it. Maybe Terry was right. Jack might well be a crook. Was that why he lived in a villa somewhere in Spain? Miranda had heard the stories about British criminals migrating to Spain to spend their loot outside the reach of the British police.
She had only met Jack and Sandra a couple of times. They were both deeply tanned, wore a lot of gold, bracelets on wrists, necklaces around throats, rings on fingers. They glittered when they moved, and they hated the cooler temperatures of southern England.
‘They can’t wait to get back to Spain,’ Terry commented, last time they were in London and called at the firm. ‘Thank God. The less I see of
them the better. If she wasn’t Sean’s mother I’d never let her through the door.’
Sean, though, seemed very fond of his mother. His taste in girls reflected this – he clearly liked the showy blondes his father did. Yet the girl he planned to marry was very different.
Nicola was nineteen, tiny, fragile, sweet; with sleek black hair which framed a heart-shaped face dominated by big, wide, innocent, blue eyes. She was the only child of a wealthy merchant banker, Francis Belcannon, whose bank had been very involved with Terry’s company from the beginning.
Wearing an elegant blue and white organza outfit which made her look like a Barbie doll, she met Miranda at the front door of Terry’s country house, Blue Gables. Behind her the rooms swirled with people in beautiful clothes, talking, laughing, drinking champagne.
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Nicola said with such warmth that Miranda almost believed she meant it, except that they had only met a handful of times and Nicola probably hadn’t even known she was invited.
She handed over the silver-wrapped box of wine glasses she had bought and Nicola eagerly unwrapped it, held one of the glasses up to the light to watch it sparkle.
‘Oh, they’re gorgeous, so classy – thank you so much, I love them. Sean will adore them too.’
She looked round and waved a hand at one of Sean’s friends, a great hulk of a boy with cropped gingery fair hair and features set in concrete.
‘Georgie, will you get Miranda a drink and take care of her for me?’
‘Sure,’ George Stow growled. He might look like a stone wall but Miranda saw from his glance at Nicola that he worshipped the girl. She was so very much his opposite – tiny, where he was huge, gentle where he was tough, articulate where George was barely able to utter a word.
Miranda hoped Sean loved the girl that way, but she wouldn’t bet on it. She had a sinking feeling that Terry had put the idea of marrying Nicola into his son’s head because it would be so very convenient for the business. Nicola was going to inherit a great deal of money one day, and meanwhile her father was vital to the firm’s finances. Medieval as it might be, the idea of the marriage made a lot of sense – but would Sean make Nicola a good husband?
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