Rory chose the wine, a deep claret, and Arabella, after a glass or two, felt herself beginning to relax. Their companions were delightful company and before long they were all laughing and Arabella actually began to enjoy herself. The food, as Sylvia had promised, was superb, and as Arabella ate her way through flambéd prawns with a ginger coulis followed by a tournedos rossini, she realised she had never eaten such amazing food before. She was enjoying the wine too, and although she had no palate, even she could tell it was excellent, and, she imagined very expensive. Her inborn frugality made her worry about the cost, but with a sudden burst of wonder at her own new circumstances, she pushed aside such considerations and drank at least her share.
From the restaurant they went on to a club. Arabella had never been to a night-club before, and wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting, but Domingo’s, the club Sylvia had chosen, was softly lit with tables round a tiny dance floor and high-backed booths set at angles to the room, thus maintaining privacy whilst affording a view out. Rory and André installed Sylvia and Arabella in one of these and summoning a waitress ordered more wine.
Sylvia had chosen Arabella’s first night-club with great care. She had not wanted her friend to feel uncomfortable in one of the more outrageous clubs. Here there was an intimacy which was private without being claustrophobic. The music was gentle and seductive and the bodies of the couples on the dance floor melded as they moved to its easy rhythm.
When the wine came, André poured them each a glass while Rory and Sylvia got up to dance. As she moved out on to the tiny floor, Sylvia looked back over Rory’s shoulder and saw André move to sit close beside Arab.
Well, she’s on her own now, Sylvia thought, I’ve done all I can. She felt herself relax properly for the first time that evening.
Rory felt the change in her immediately and said softly, “That’s better. You’ve been on edge all evening, not like you.” He ran his hand over the bare skin of her back and felt her shiver. “Just leave her to André,” he murmured into her hair. “She’ll be fine. It’s your turn for a little attention now.”
“Mmm,” Sylvia agreed and allowed herself to respond to the music, the closeness of his body and the fingers which were running caressingly up and down her spine.
Arab watched Sylvia and Rory for a moment or two, and then looked about her as if fascinated by all she saw. André had moved closer to her on the banquette and she was very aware of his proximity. She reached for her wine and took a sip. Though she was quite sure she’d had more than enough already she had to do something with her hands, to look busy so that she didn’t have to think of anything to say. She found herself wishing she smoked, simply to give herself something to do now that Sylvia had abandoned her.
“Would you like to dance as well,” André asked her softly, reaching to remove the wine glass from her hand.
Arabella hesitated. “I’m afraid I don’t dance…” she began, but André silenced her with a finger to her lips.
“Of course you do,” he murmured, his French accent soft and strong. “Come, I’ll show you.”
Reluctantly, Arabella allowed herself to be led on to the dance floor. Still holding her hand in his, he slipped his other arm round her waist and drew her gently to him. André had received very definite instructions as to how he was to treat this particular client. She was never to be rushed or pushed into anything that she didn’t want to do….well that was, technically the same for all the clients, but in this case, he had been told, he was to be particularly careful. André knew he wasn’t the original choice of escort. Sylvia had asked for Jasper, but from the way the money had been flowing this evening he realised that this was a client who would be worth holding on to. She was nervous, that much had been apparent from the start of the evening, and André wondered why. She was passably good looking, not in the first flush of youth, but then which of his clients were? Many of them were a good deal older than either of the women with them this evening, and a good deal less attractive. So, he decided to exert himself to set her at her ease, to seduce her without her even realising the fact until it was too late and her capture was complete. He was experienced in the art and did not doubt for one minute that he could do it.
He tightened his encircling arm a fraction and smoothed the soft skin of her hand with his thumb. They moved slowly about the dance floor, Arabella stiff and awkward in his arms, André using each turn to draw her closer. At last his cheek was against her hair, and he felt her relax a little. Though his hand still held hers, Arabella was closer to him than she had ever been to a man before, except Roger of course. The very thought of Roger made her tense and she heard André whisper in her ear, “Relax, Lady Arab, we’re only dancing…” there was a smile in his voice, “people do it all the time!”
She heard his amusement and leaning away from him a little, she looked up into his face for the first time to find him watching her quizzically.
She managed a smile. “So they do,” she agreed and allowed herself to be drawn closer. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, and the faint scent of his aftershave. The hand that had been holding hers disengaged and slid round her gently grasping the back of her head and cradling it against his shoulder. Such a simple action, and yet Arabella had never felt so protected. Protected? The word came unbidden to her mind and she found herself considering it before giving herself a mental shake and thinking, Good God, I must be drunk! She didn’t pull away, however. The strength of André’s arms and the feel of his body against hers was warm and comforting. Arabella felt herself relaxing, the tension draining out of her body, leaving her feeling deliciously light and soft.
André felt her become pliant in his arms, but he was too seasoned a campaigner to move on yet. Arabella had to have time to accept the new, languid feel of her body. He needed her to enjoy the closeness of his, so that when he withdrew it she would miss it, and want him close again.
When André finally led Arabella back to their table, it was to find Sylvia and Rory drinking wine, their heads together in murmured conversation. Arabella sat down opposite them and picking up her glass and drank a little wine. She was supremely conscious of André beside her, and stole a covert glance at him. He was leaning forward to say something to Sylvia and Arabella was able to study him for a moment. He was very good looking, his features strong and determined. His dark eyes were the first thing she had noticed, but now she could see that his face was slightly asymmetrical, which made it more attractive than more classical good looks would have been. His dark hair, though short, was thick and springy, cut in a curve above his ears. Arabella suddenly found herself wondering how it would feel under her fingers, and had to restrain herself from reaching out there and then to touch and see.
Good grief, she thought, as she hurriedly put down her wine glass, what are you thinking of woman? He’s only about twenty-seven and you’re forty-three. No more wine for you this evening.
That resolution lasted all of two minutes as Sylvia raised her glass and said, “Here’s to a wonderful evening, may it be the first of many.” Arabella, thinking what the hell, downed her wine and felt decidedly light-headed.
Then they were dancing again, and this time André held her tightly against him, so that she could feel the strength of his thighs against her own, his hips gently massaging hers as they moved, and the warm security of his arms enfolding her. Her own arms were round him and her cheek rested on his shoulder. The strange and unknown sensations that were coursing through her body made her feel weak and she clung to him in a way that he found entirely satisfactory.
When they finally returned to the Sylvester, Arabella felt sleepy and not a little light-headed. She had drunk far more wine that she would have believed possible and yet still be standing up, but she didn’t feel drunk, simply released. Rory and André accompanied them up to their suite, where, with a sweet smile, Sylvia bade them goodnight and taking Rory’s hand, disappeared into her bedroom. Arabella stared after her, feeling abandoned with thi
s strange young man. How was she to get rid of him? The evening was over and she wanted him to go. She put her bag down on the table and drawing a resolute breath, she turned to say goodnight.
André, however, was not waiting to shake hands politely and leave, he was already at the music centre pressing play on a CD. The room was flooded with soft music and seeing her hesitation he treated he to his most seductive smile and said in his soft French voice, “I thought we might have just one more dance before I go, hein?”
“Well, I’m a bit tired…” Arabella began, but he had already dimmed the lights to a warm glow, and crossing the room took her into his arms once more. They danced as they had in the night club, only this time they hardly moved about the floor. André’s hand were caressing her neck as before, but this time his other hand slid under the loose lace of her top and stroked the smooth skin of her back. A shiver passed through her as his fingers caressed her and she felt the length of his body moving irresistibly against her own. Her skin seemed to burn under the touch of his hand, and when he trailed a finger forwards to smooth the soft skin under her arm she gave an involuntary gasp.
Slowly and with infinite gentleness, André continued to stroke her, his fingers ranging more widely so that their burning trail began to consume her whole body. All pretence of dancing was gone now as, with experienced ease, he aroused Arabella to a state of desire she had never felt before, had never conceived of feeling. She clung to him, moving her body instinctively against his.
This woman is aching for it, André thought as he finally raised her face to his and began to kiss her. For a fraction of a second he felt her withdraw, almost pulling away, but his hands continued their soothing work as he continued to kiss her and then he felt her response and knew that his evening had not been wasted. With an arm round her, he supported her toward the bedroom, and Arabella, now completely dizzy with a desire she had never known one could feel, allowed herself to be led. She had no idea what she should be doing, but that didn’t seem to matter. André knew.
Chapter 17
It was three weeks later that they found Roger’s car. The report came through from the Belcaster police. The car had been found by two lads, dumped near a disused and flooded quarry. It was to be examined by forensics.
Crozier studied the report and then rang his opposite number in Belcaster, Inspector Ian Howard.
“Tell me exactly what you’ve found?” he said when he’d explained why he had called.
“Two boys found the car hidden in the quarry near Spar Hill Lookout. It’s a local beauty spot.”
“Any idea how long it had been there?” asked Crozier.
“No, not really, sometime, though the boys say it wasn’t there last time they were, which was in the Easter holidays.”
“Has the car been retrieved yet?”
“No, not yet. One of my men went out to take a look at it. There’s some blood-stained clothing in the vehicle, and the upholstery on both front seats has blood on it. With the quarry so conveniently by and suspicious evidence, we’ve cordoned it off and left it in situ till forensics have had a look at it. What else do we need to know?”
“We’ve a missing person down here,” replied Crozier. “The wife of the owner of the car. She hasn’t been seen for some time, and her disappearance is causing some concern. Can you let me know exactly what forensics find? I’d like to follow things up this end.”
“Sure. I’ll keep you informed,” Howard said, “as soon as we know anything more.”
Gavin Crozier sat back in his chair and thought hard. He had logged his visit to Roger on the Monday evening three weeks earlier, but there had been only been one further police contact with Roger Smith since then. Roger had phoned to be reminded of the crime number allotted to his stolen car for his insurance company.
Time for another visit, thought Crozier. He picked up his coat and, calling DS Grant to come with him, went to see Roger Smith at Attlebury Antiques.
The shop was empty, and Roger was in the back office, but the bell over the door summoned him into the shop. When he saw who it was he stifled a moment’s panic and said, “Oh, it’s you, inspector. Have you found my car?”
“Good afternoon, Mr Smith,” Crozier said blandly, though he had again seen the flicker of something…nervousness…fear even, in the man’s eyes. “Yes, I’m pleased to tell you, your car’s been found.”
“About time,” Roger said aggressively. “So, you’ve found it. Where was it?”
“It’d been dumped, sir,” Crozier replied. “They often are.”
“So, where was it?”
“Near a beauty spot called Spar Hill Lookout, in Belshire.”
“Burnt out?” Roger sounded almost hopeful.
“No, sir. Just dumped, near a disused quarry.”
“You don’t know who took it?”
“No, sir, not yet, but we are continuing to make our enquiries.”
Roger shrugged and said in a resigned voice, “Well, you won’t get far, will you? Not after all this time.” He didn’t like the police being here in the shop, even if they had only come about the car, and he wanted them to leave as soon as possible. He forced a smile and said, “Anyway, thank you for coming to let me know it’s been found.”
The inspector did not take this as his dismissal, but said, “There are some lines of enquiry which we shall be following up.”
“Such as?” asked Roger. The last thing he wanted was for the police to discover that it was Pam who had made off with the car. That would mean his insurance claim would not be met; nor did he want the car back as he had already bought a replacement in anticipation of his claim being settled and his new Honda was a great improvement on the old Peugeot.
“There were some items found in the car that may be of help to our investigation, sir.” The inspector turned to Grant and said, “Remind me what they were please, Grant.”
Grant, who had been wandering round the shop, looking with interest at the goods for sale, turned round and taking out a notebook from his pocket and read out, “Some blood-stained clothing, sir. A shirt and a fleece jacket….and the upholstery in the two front seats was blood-stained as well.”
“When did you say your wife left home?” asked Crozier, suddenly.
Roger was startled by the change of tack and said, “My wife? What has my wife to do with this?”
“Just answer the question please, Mr Smith. When did your wife leave the marital home?”
“She left at the end of February,” Roger said testily, “but what has that to do with my car? She left several weeks before that was stolen.”
“Have you heard from her since she left?”
“No.” Roger snapped out the answer angrily.
“Not even a phone call?”
“No. Look what is all this?
“Did she have a set of car keys, sir?” asked Grant
“No, she did not. It was my car and she only used it occasionally.”
“She didn’t have a car of her own, sir?”
Roger looked from one officer to the other as if trying to decide which would be the more easily convinced. “No, she didn’t. When she needed a car I lent her mine. She didn’t like driving much.”
“But she did have a driving licence?”
“Yes, of course she had a licence. Look, inspector, just what is all this about?”
“We are wondering where your wife is, Mr Smith,” replied Crozier smoothly. “She hasn’t been seen for several months, and now your car turns up dumped the other end of the country, with blood-stained clothing in it. You can see why we are concerned for her welfare.”
“But my wife isn’t missing,” blustered Roger. “She just left me that’s all. It happens all the time, wives leave their husbands and run off with other blokes.”
“And is that what happened, sir?” asked Crozier. “Did your wife leave you for another man?”
Roger looked defensive. “Yes…no…I don’t know. She may have.”
“Because if
you know who this man is,” Crozier continued smoothly, “we can simply visit him and check that your wife is alive and well. Do you have a name?”
“No, I don’t. There may have been someone, I don’t know. I certainly don’t know where she is. If I did, I’d tell you.”
“She hasn’t approached you about getting a divorce then, sir?” asked Grant, suddenly joining the conversation. He turned from his study of a leather-topped writing desk and gave Roger a long, level look. The way Grant had been walking about the shop was beginning to unnerve Roger. He knew he had none of the stuff from Gord on display, but he still did not like the attention the sergeant was giving to various other pieces of whose provenance Roger was not quite sure.
“No, I told you, I’ve heard nothing from her since she left.”
“Don’t you find that a bit odd, sir?” asked Grant. “I mean if the marriage is over, surely she’d want a divorce. You didn’t report her missing,” he added when Roger didn’t reply, and this last was a statement, not a question.
Roger sighed wearily and said, “No, I didn’t. She left home, she left me. I don’t know where she is and quite frankly, sergeant, I no longer care.”
“However, she has been reported missing by another concerned person,” said Crozier. “So we do have to take her disappearance seriously…in the circumstances.”
“In the circumstances!” echoed Roger. “What circumstances? Just what exactly are you accusing me of?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything, sir…”
“You think I’ve killed my wife,” Roger said suddenly, amazed. “That’s what you think!”
“No, sir,” replied Grant, “we simply need to ascertain that Mrs Smith is safe.”
Crozier cut in smoothly, “Well sir, thank you for your time. As soon as the Belshire police have finished with your car, we’ll let you know. We shall need you to try and identify the clothes in the car at some stage. Good afternoon, sir.”
A Dish Served Cold Page 15
