“Please see that Mrs Agnew gets this at once. It is most important.”
“If you’ll just wait here, sir.” The man left the room and Justin settled down to wait for some sort of response. He did not have long to wait. In less than five minutes the man was back again.
“I’m very sorry sir,” he said handing back the envelope, “but there is no one of that name staying in this hotel. Perhaps you have the wrong address.” He held the door open in an obvious invitation for Justin to leave.
“She’s not here anymore?” Justin asked, standing his ground.
“We have no one of that name staying in the hotel, sir” repeated the man.
“When did she leave?” asked Justin. “Did she leave a forwarding address? It’s vital I find her.”
“I’m sorry sir, but there is no one of that name staying in the hotel. Allow me to show you out.”
“But she was here, wasn’t she? I mean she gave me this address. When did she leave?” Justin couldn’t believe that they would give him no information.
“If you’d just step this way, sir.” The courtesy in the man’s voice was unfailing, but so was his immovability. He saw Justin glance towards the reception desk further inside the hall and said again, “Allow me to show you out, sir. Will you require a cab?”
“No.” Justin snapped out the word and turning on his heel found himself out in the street again with the front door hissing closed behind him.
Chapter 25
It was when they returned from Paris that Arabella’s relationship with André began to change. Since she had moved into her new flat in an expensive part of Chelsea, Arabella herself had changed. As the days went by she grew in confidence; she was less tractable and it dawned on André that she was losing interest in him. She went out far less than she had whilst staying at the Sylvester, content to stay in her new home in the evenings and André saw much less of her. The sex, now transferred to the huge bed which graced her new bedroom, still excited her. She still responded eagerly to his initiatives, but that was all. Her dependence on him had vanished. She needed him less and less, and when André suggested that he should have a key to her new flat, she refused him point blank.
“Sorry, André,” she said sweetly, “It’s my home and I keep the key.”
“Of course you do,” he agreed, his voice reasonable. “I just thought it might be more convenient at times if I had one too.”
She had replied lightly, “For you, maybe, but not for me.”
Her refusal had angered him, and though he had smothered that anger in front of her, and accepted her denial with a casual shrug suggesting that the matter was unimportant, he had decided the time had come to act.
Andy Chambers, alias André Le Carré, had used his looks, his wits, his body and his determination to hoist himself out of an overcrowded, working-class home in Hackney and establish himself in Kensington as a suave escort to the idle rich. He was determined to become rich himself, and cared little how he achieved his aim. Naturally manipulative, he soon discovered that one of the quickest ways to easy money was befriending rich and bored married women.
He took himself off to Paris to learn his trade, and worked in the Latin quarter for a year or two. Having a quick ear, he soon picked up the language which he spoke with a strong English accent, earning him the nickname ‘L’Anglais’. The generosity of his clients quickly expanded his bank balance, and as he was accomplished at what he did, he found his services much in demand. When he returned to try his luck in smart London, one of his first clients, who thought he was French, told him with a sigh, “Ah, André, you French are so sexy…and I just adore your accent. I only have to hear your voice and whoosh!”
Whoosh indeed! Inspiration struck; in France he was ‘L’Anglais’, the Englishman, in London he would become French. From that moment he developed his French persona. His new Maurice Chevalier accent overlaid and disguised the last trace of East London. Andy Chambers from Stoke Newington was a man of the past, and with a Gallic shrug of the shoulders, André Le Carré slipped into his place.
By the time he met Arabella, he was well-established with the agency Sylvia used. He had a regular clientele, and many a satisfied customer slipped him a generous bonus, but none of them had the possibilities which he now saw in Arabella Agnew. She was something quite different. Self-conscious and naïve, she clearly knew nothing of London or London life, and yet she was obviously rich. Where her money came from, André neither knew nor cared, but glimpsing the chance of an extremely profitable relationship, he began to groom her. He saw in Arabella a pathway to the luxurious life he’d always craved; the agency had become a mere stepping stone, keeping him solvent until he had access to the wealth he was certain was hers. Determined to insinuate himself into the fabric of her life, he had kept himself free to escort her, travel with her, make love to her. Their affair burned hot and strong; for that is what it had become, an affair not a business arrangement. Once André had set out to convince Arabella that he wanted to be with her for her own sake, money was never again mentioned.
At first things seemed to be going well. She feasted on him, welcoming his attention and accepting her own need of him. Their trip to Paris had been almost decadent as they indulged in every luxury her money could provide. Arabella had spent money like water, much of it on André and he had accepted all she had offered, only occasionally allowing his greed to show, but she seemed not to notice the occasional slip. She seemed as besotted as he’d hoped, happily agreeing to whatever he suggested.
Recently though, there had been a distinct change. Arabella was distancing herself from him and André saw his chance of wealth slipping through his fingers. He must do something, he decided, and soon. Clearly Arabella was a wealthy woman, but she was also a secretive one. In all the time they had been together, Arabella had revealed nothing about herself or her life before André met her. His lightly probing questions had all been either deflected or ignored. If he were not to lose this golden opportunity, André thought, he had to discover her secret so that he had some sort of hold over her. Knowledge was power, and even if there was no great secret in her past, there might be something which would enable him to manipulate her more easily. But where to look?
Arabella was furnishing her flat with loving care, and had bought a small bureau for her new living room. It was a beautiful piece and André had admired it. He had also noticed that it was always kept locked.
Her secrets are hidden in there, he thought as he ran his fingers lightly over its locked lid one evening, but how do I get into it without her knowing?
He knew she carried several keys on her key-ring and guessed that the required key would be amongst them. The trouble was, as she had refused him a door key, he was unable to slip into the flat alone, and when they were there together he was usually entertaining her between the sheets until they both fell into exhausted slumber. It was watching her shudder and sink into apparent oblivion one evening that gave André the idea. All he needed was to be certain that she didn’t wake up unexpectedly. A little Rohipnol in a glass of wine should do the trick.
It was really quite easy. His chosen profession had given him access to people who could supply him with what he needed, a little something to ensure that Arabella slept so well that he could take his time to search.
The next evening they spent together André was prepared.
“I have brought champagne!” he announced, producing the bottle with a flourish. “I’ll open it and we can have a glass in bed…and then I’ll teach you a new game…one which requires bubbles…” He blew her a Gallic kiss and began to ease the cork from the bottle. His voice changed to a caress. “Why don’t you slip into something naughty while I pour the drinks?”
Arabella looked at him from under her lashes, and murmuring “It sounds fascinating,” disappeared into the bedroom.
André soon followed her, carrying two glasses in one hand and the bottle in the other.
Arabella, lying on the bed, draped
with a sheet, reached languidly for the glass he handed her and sipped the champagne as she watched him ease himself quickly out of his clothes, as if anxious to start the new game. He twitched the sheet aside and slid on to the bed beside her. Stretching luxuriously, he drank from his own glass.
“Well,” Arabella flashed him a look over the rim of her glass. “New game?”
“Another glass each first,” André teased, topping them both up from the bottle, “then we’ll begin.” He flicked a drop of champagne from his glass into the hollow of her neck and then, lazily, leaned over and licked it off. “It’s amazing where the bubbles can get to,” he murmured, and downed his glass. Arabella gave a throaty chuckle and did likewise, and before André had done more than begin to teach her the champagne bubbles game, Arabella had slipped, sighing, into deep slumber.
André took her hand and let it fall. She did not stir. Wasting no further time he slid out of the bed, pulled on a dressing gown and raided her handbag for the keys. The key to the bureau was there. With one further glance through the bedroom door to check that Arabella showed no sign of waking, André opened the bureau and peered inside.
There was not a lot to see, no untidy heaps of paper or pens, pencils, sellotape, the usual debris crammed into a desk. All the papers were stowed tidily into the upright slots and when he pulled out the small drawer in the centre it contained only a biro, a pencil and a bag of rubber bands. He pulled the drawer right out in case anything was secreted behind it, but there was nothing. Again he glanced over his shoulder towards the bedroom, but there was no sound of movement and he turned his attention to the papers.
The first pile he withdrew were personal documents held together by a rubber band. He pulled the band off and found himself looking at a birth certificate for one Pamela Anne Ford, born 3rd August 1970 in Bristol. The next was a certified copy of a signed deed poll, changing the name of Pamela Anne Smith to Arabella Agnew. It was dated 17th April 2013.
Interesting, thought André as he compared the two. Pamela Anne Ford had at some time become Pamela Anne Smith, and was now, legally, Arabella Agnew. There was no marriage certificate to account for the change to Smith, nor divorce papers annulling any such marriage, but it was clear that the papers pertained to the same person. There was also a passport, which he’d already seen on the trip to Paris, in the name of Arabella Agnew.
So, André thought as he stared down at the papers, she has become a new person, and only recently. What happened to Mr Smith I wonder?
He re-folded the papers carefully and pushing them back into their elastic band, returned them to their slot.
The next section held financial papers which interested him even more. There were letters from a firm of stockbrokers with a list of stocks and shares in her portfolio, two bank statements and a credit card bill. This last told him that Arabella had been spending fairly freely as she furnished her flat and increased her wardrobe. The bank statements showed that she had a healthy balance in her current account and more than fifty thousand pounds in a deposit account, but it was her portfolio, listed and valued that made him gasp. With shaking hands he went through the papers. Truly Arabella Agnew was a wealthy woman, and the income which she derived from her investments would certainly keep them both, and André was determined that it should be both of them, in style and luxury for the rest of their lives.
Once again he slipped the papers back inside their rubber band, and carefully replaced them before turning his attention to the next compartment. This contained a large brown envelope. He slid the contents out onto the desk top. There was a photo, a letter and a newspaper cutting.
André looked at the photo first. Bingo! There, with the date printed digitally on the back of it, was a photo of Arabella and the woman who had been with her when they had first met at the Sylvester. They were standing together, champagne glasses in their hands, and Arabella was holding up a cheque.
The newspaper clipping was an article from some provincial rag André had never heard of, but it was about a local, mystery woman who had won the jackpot in the lottery. Under the headline MYSTERY WINNER! there was rather grainy picture of a woman. It had clearly been taken with a long lens, but there was no doubt in André’s mind that it was Arabella; not the well- dressed Arabella he knew, but Arabella none the less. Interesting, he thought. He might be able to find out more if he approached this Belcaster Chronicle. He made a mental note of the name and turned to the letter.
This came from the lottery company, addressed to Ms Agnew, inviting her to come to their regional centre to claim her win of £8,001145.
André stared at the letter. Bingo! Double Bingo! Eight million pounds.
It was some time before he put the photo and the letter back into the envelope and pushed it back in its slot. The last bundle of papers, also secured with an elastic band were bills and receipts, most of them utility bills and none of which interested him much. He was about to return them to their place, when a new idea struck him. Taking the documents out again, he spread them out on the table and, using his mobile phone, took a photograph of each. He checked the quality of each picture before moving on to the next document, so that he was sure that when they were downloaded onto his computer, they would be quite legible. When he had finished, he carefully replaced the documents and locked the desk. Slipping the keys back into her handbag, André stripped off the dressing gown and slid back under the sheet beside the quietly snoring Arabella. No need for him to exert himself tonight, he thought. When she woke up, Arabella wouldn’t remember if they had made love or not, but from now on he must do everything possible to make their relationship permanent. Eight million pounds was worth a lot of effort.
The information he had gleaned from the papers in the desk was stored away in his mind and once he had printed out copies of the documents, he would consider what use he might make of them. He was sure that in time they would prove extremely useful. At least now he had some idea of what she was worth. She must have spent a large chunk of her money on her new flat, such places didn’t come cheap, but there was still enough left to make her an interesting proposition…and now he had a hold…leverage…André was exuberant.
In the meantime, he decided regretfully he’d have to continue with the agency. He needed to stay on their books, at least for the time being. Until he had Arabella sorted, he needed the money. They had been using him less frequently in the past few weeks. He had been turning them down to ensure he was free for Arabella, and now that she too, called on him less, there were too many evenings that he wasn’t working.
It was one such evening he was spending moodily at home in his flat, that he switched on the TV and began to surf the channels. He found Crimewatch in mid-programme, not a programme that interested him, and he was about to flick the remote again when he heard a name, and that name registered. Pamela Anne Smith.
“The Avon and Somerset Police are interested in the whereabouts of Pamela Anne Smith….”
Pamela Anne Smith. André upped the volume so that the policewoman’s voice spoke loudly into the room.
“She’s not a criminal,” the woman was saying, “but she has disappeared. Mrs Smith left her home in Bristol in February and was last seen in the middle of April. She hasn’t been seen since and there is concern for her safety. It is possible that she is suffering from amnesia and anyone who thinks they may have seen her is asked to phone us here at Crimewatch or to get in touch with their local police.”
For a moment there was the picture of a middle-aged woman on the screen and then it was gone and the programme moved on to something else. André stared unseeingly at the television, trying to re-visualise the face which had appeared so briefly on the screen. Was that Arabella? It could have been. It looked a bit like her, but he needed to study it properly.
Pamela Anne Smith. That was the name he had seen on the deed poll, but there must be thousands of Pamela Anne Smiths in London alone. How could he tell if the one they were looking for was Arabella? André thought ba
ck to what he had heard. Who had been looking for her? The Avon and Somerset police. The Pamela Anne Ford named on the birth certificate had been born in Bristol…was that in their area? Could Arabella be the woman they were looking for?
The programme continued with the reconstruction of some crime, but André’s mind was racing. If the Pamela Anne Smith they were looking for was Arabella, and she did not come forward, then he was in the secret; he had the hold he’d been looking for. He pressed record on the sky-plus box and recorded the last few minutes of the programme, just in case they showed the picture again. He was rewarded with another chance to look at her, and this time her image was captured. He could freeze it and study her at his leisure.
As he finally switched off the television André was smiling. It was indeed Arabella, he was sure; not quite as she looked now, but the same face with the same rather sharp nose and, more important, the same eyes. He had gazed into those often enough to be quite certain. Arabella was the missing woman. Arabella was in hiding, and he, André, knew her secret.
Chapter 26
Justin returned to Belcaster, angry and frustrated. The stone wall he had encountered at the Sylvester Hotel had infuriated him. His reporter’s instinct told him there was still a story to ferret out, but he couldn’t see where to go next.
“It was ridiculous,” he raved at Emma as he flung himself round her flat. “I couldn’t even get into the lobby. It was a hotel, but you couldn’t just walk in, you know? I might have seen her if I’d been able to sit in the lobby for a while. But no, I was shown into the parlour….the parlour, I ask you! They didn’t want me in their precious hotel and they certainly weren’t going to tell me if she had ever stayed there. And do you know,” he shook his head at the recollection, “I didn’t even get the chance to offer an inducement, you know grease a palm or two? That usually helps, but I never got past the doorman or whatever he’s called.”
A Dish Served Cold Page 26
