A Dish Served Cold
Page 31
When he reached Arabella’s flat that afternoon, he wondered as he raised his hand to the bell, if the place would be empty, but she was there to let him in, packed and ready to go.
She looks stunning, he thought in surprise. Her hair, newly styled and a slightly different colour, suited her, framing her face and making her look far younger than her forty-three years. Her clothes were smart, a bright red jacket over cream silk shirt and navy slacks, and André realised to his surprise that he actually found her attractive.
Which makes everything that much easier, he thought, whilst saying aloud, “Arab, you look fantastic! I love your new hair.”
“Thanks,” she replied, moving away as he reached out to touch it. “Now, check this list and make sure you have everything.”
“Yes Ma’am,” he said meekly and looked over the paper she handed him.
The limo glided away from the kerb, all Arabella’s matching luggage stowed in the boot beside two black leather cases belonging to André. Not to be outdone by Arabella’s stylish baggage, he had bought the cases after she had left him the previous afternoon. From now on, he decided, he would be travelling first class everywhere he went, and there were certain standards to be maintained.
They were dropped at Heathrow, terminal five and André found them a porter. Not for him the pushing of a loaded trolley, even if it was to the first class desk.
“British Airways,” he said when the man had collected all their luggage from the boot of the limousine. “First class desk.”
“This way, sir.” The man led them into the terminal through the echoing hall, straight to the first class check-in counter where they were greeted by a smiling check-in girl who dealt with them quickly and efficiently. Within moments their new cases had disappeared and they were left with their hand luggage; Arabella’s her matching vanity case and handbag, André’s a new leather briefcase.
“If you’ll just come this way, sir, madam.”
Following one of the BA staff, they were whisked through the fast-track security channel and directed to the first class lounge, where they were greeted by another, smiling BA receptionist, who checked their boarding cards.
“You’ll be called from here when your flight is ready to board,” she explained as she showed them to comfortable chairs round a low table. “Please help yourselves to anything you want,” she waved a hand towards the bar and a buffet counter. “If you go out onto the concourse in the meantime, please keep an eye on the departures board.”
“This is the way to travel,” sighed André and stretched himself out luxuriantly in one of the chairs. “No hassle.” He glanced round the lounge where several people were already seated, some eating food they had fetched from the buffet, others with drinks on the table. One or two worked on laptop computers, while others dozed behind newspapers.
“Do you want a drink?” André asked, looking across at the bar.
“Just coffee,” Arabella said taking off her new red jacket and laying it carefully across another chair. “It’s very hot in here.” She collected herself a cup of coffee and a newspaper from a side table and settled down to read. André came back with a large whisky and a plate of canapés. He sipped his drink, looking round the lounge and relishing the fact that he was here; that this was the way he would travel from now on.
They sat comfortably for nearly half an hour before Arabella got to her feet and, picking up her handbag, said “I expect we’ll be called before long so I’m just going to powder my nose.”
André looked up from his paper and nodding to their hand luggage, said, “I’ll go when you come back.”
Arabella wound her way between the tables towards the ladies’ room at the far end of the lounge. Once inside she went into a cubicle and locked the door. With a swift tug she pulled the wig she’d been wearing from her head and ran her fingers through the short, dark curls revealed underneath. From her handbag she withdrew a thin black cardigan which she slipped on over her blouse, and a pair of dark-framed spectacles. Then she flushed the loo and came out into the powder room. She was alone. She dumped the wig in the waste bin and carefully opened the door. At the far end of the lounge she could see André still reading his paper, still guarding her bright red jacket and striped vanity case. The next moments were the most dangerous. She had to get to the door without him seeing her. She didn’t think he would recognise her at that distance with her short dark hair and her glasses, but she was taking no chances. There was a line of potted palms running the length of the room and Arabella kept these between herself and André’s chair as she moved, unobtrusively, towards the door of the lounge. When she reached it, there was no angry shout from behind her, no André striding across the stop her. She’d made it! Without a backward glance, Arabella stepped out onto the concourse disappearing immediately into the milling crowd of travellers.
She was going to Hong Kong, a place she’d always longed to visit and she was going alone. André would have no idea where she’d gone and when he did start to look for her it would be a hopeless search. She glanced up at the departures board anxiously. The BA flight to Hong Kong was on last call. She noted the gate number and hurried through the crowd. When she reached the gate people were still boarding and she went to the gate reserved for first class passengers. The clerk checked the boarding pass Arabella had printed out for herself the previous evening and smiled as she handed it back. “Have a good flight, Mrs Agnew,” she said and turned to the next passenger.
Arabella cast one last backward glance, but there was no sign of André and almost light-headed with relief she turned and walked down the passage into the aircraft. She was welcomed aboard by a steward with a badge naming him as Adrian.
“Good evening, Mrs Agnew,” he said as he checked the seat number on her boarding card. “This way please.” He led her into the first class cabin and found her seat for her. Other people were settling into their places, but no one paid any attention to Arabella as she, too, began to make herself comfortable.
“Can I get you a drink, or a newspaper?” Adrian asked.
“Both please,” Arabella said.
“Champagne?” he suggested
Remembering the problems she’d had with champagne before, she shook her head and said, “No, a gin and tonic I think, please.”
Adrian disappeared to fetch it and she lay back in her seat and, closing her eyes, let out long sigh.
I’ve done it! she thought exultantly. I’m shot of him! I’m shot of them both! No more André, no more Roger, no more men ever…except on my own terms!
Arabella wished she could see André’s face when he realised that she had ditched him. That’s the only disappointing part, she thought, not being there to see his face when he realises what I’ve done.
She imagined him beginning to wonder where she was, why she was taking so long in the ladies’ room. She could see him checking that her jacket and vanity case were still there. She wondered what he would do. He wouldn’t want to create a fuss, not straight away, but what would he do when the flight was called? Ask one of the airline staff to check to see if she was still in the ladies’? And when she wasn’t, then what would he do? He’d open her vanity case. She’d left it unlocked and inside he would find her note. She’d enjoyed writing that note even more than her letter to the police, choosing her words with spiteful revenge.
Dear André she had written
By the time you find this I shall be safely away and nothing you can do can harm me anymore. I have written to the police myself and explained that I am safe and well and that Roger hasn’t bumped me off. They know all about me, so you may as well burn those photos you’re carrying about in your brief case. Blackmail is the last resort of a loser, and you are a loser par excellence.
So, you will realise I shan’t be providing you with the idle and luxurious life you crave. You have your ticket to Cape Town, which you can cash in…payment for services rendered! I don’t imagine you will be using it when your companion has disappeared an
d her luggage has had to be off-loaded before the plane can leave. I’m sorry to inconvenience the other passengers, but I’m afraid they are paying the price of my escape from you. I have cancelled the booking at the Table Bay Hotel as well. I doubt if you can afford it even if you do decide to go on your own, and I don’t want you running up a bill on my credit card. I have also sent a note to the escort agency explaining the way you have tried to blackmail me by stealing private information from my desk and telling them I have documentary evidence to back this up if they want to see it. You really shouldn’t have left copies of the photos with me. Should you go to the press, of course, the agency will have the evidence of blackmail to pass on to them as well and I’m sure the police would be interested in that too. Whatever happens, I doubt, as a respectable escort agency, that they will require your services in the future.
You are a parasite and I despise you as much as I did Roger.
Your greed has lost you everything.
Arabella
The steward brought her a newspaper and her gin and tonic with a bowl of nuts, laying a white linen cloth on her chair-side table, before setting them down beside her. She thanked him and took a long pull at the drink as she relaxed back into her seat.
She picked up the paper he had brought. It was the late edition of the evening paper. As she glanced at the front page a picture of Roger leapt out at her. The caption read:
Roger Smith…The Bristol Bluebeard?
Where are his wives?
Arabella stared at it in amazement for a moment, before reading the article below.
A body has been discovered in the garden of 12 Cardiff Road Bristol, home of antiques dealer Roger Smith. Police have recently had grave concern about the whereabouts of his wife, Mrs Pamela Smith, who has not been seen since April, and when Roger Smith’s car was found containing bloodstains that proved to be Mrs Smith’s blood a full scale search was launched. Police were digging up Mr Smith’s garden when they found the body. It is not, however, Mrs Pamela Smith’s. She has now contacted the police to say that she is alive and well, though police declined to give her whereabouts. So far no identification has been made of the woman whose body was buried under the bonfire in the garden, but there is speculation that it may be that of Deirdre, Roger Smith’s first wife who disappeared some twenty years ago. Mrs Deirdre Smith has not been seen since she left the marital home in the summer of 1992. Identification could be confirmed when the DNA of Mrs Deirdre Smith’s daughter, Karen, 23, is compared with that of the remains found in the garden..
Roger Smith, already in custody for other matters, will thus be available to help police with their enquiries into this case. Inspector Crozier of the Avon and Somerset Police offered no comment, but said the police would be making a statement in due course.
Arabella stared at the article almost uncomprehendingly. Round her the cabin had been made ready for take-off. She gripped the arms of her seat as the jet roared down the runway and thundered up into the air. As soon as the seat-belt light was switched off, the cabin crew came round again offering hot towels and more drinks. Arabella accepted a hot towel and pressed it to her face and neck. Leaning back in her seat she closed her eyes and began to take in the implications of what she had read.
There is a body….buried in our garden….she thought, and the police think it’s Deirdre. If it is…and who else could it be?…Roger will go to prison for life. For life.
Arabella hugged herself, pressing her hands to her face as a wave of euphoria over took her. “I’m free,” she breathed. “Really and truly free. No more Roger. No more André. I…am…free!” She began to laugh out loud, great whoops of laughter, so that she shook uncontrollably. Tears streamed down her face as she laughed, and several of her first class travelling companions turned in their seats to stare at her in amazement. Their startled gaze seemed to Arabella exquisitely funny and she continued to rock with laughter.
Adrian appeared at her side and leaned down solicitously. “Is everything all right, Mrs Agnew?” he asked. And when Arabella, still unable to speak through her laughter nodded, he said, “Another gin and tonic, madam?”
“No, thank you.” She finally managed to control her mirth and treating him to her most dazzling smile she said, “You know, I think I will have that champagne after all!”
Table of Contents
About this Book
About the Author
Notices
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29