Act of Exposure (6 page)

The funny
thing was that somehow, it hadn't seemed to matter. Despite his
strange garb and the remains of his make-up, there was something
familiar about him, almost as though she should know him quite
well.

She let it go.
She had met him in the Red Devil Club where her name was Carmel
when she wasn't dancing, and Jezebel Justice when she was. Now she
was home, and now she was Abigail Corrigan and had a right to a
black gown and white wig. In her other life it truly was part of
her profession.

John
Humphries, QC, had lately been honoured to receive the red cloak of
a high court judge. Like many professional men whose acquaintances
cross the social divide, he had an eye for the main chance. Public
image was as important to him as the woman who was still his wife,
the sons at Cambridge, and the elegant mistress whose pedigree was
far superior to his own. Therefore, many were invited to celebrate
his success in the auspicious surroundings of Trendleham Court, his
magnificent Elizabethan house that sat ringed with yew trees near
the Cotswold village of Blockley.

Besides his
colleagues in chambers - judges, high ranking barristers,
solicitors, and police commissioners - his guest list also included
politicians, celebrities, and last, but by no means least, those
employed in broadcasting and on newspapers.

Television
presenters and journalists mingled with those whose weekly income
could keep a traditional journalist in booze and birds for the rest
of his life - almost.

John Humphries
did not know the sprinkling of media people either socially or
professionally. A less astute man would have considered their
presence unnecessary. After all, their masters were there, so why
invite the boys from the engine room? But John Humphries had got
where he was by being shrewd and using what he had and what he
knew. Part of that knowledge was that one whisper of scandal at
ground level in a newspaper office, and the rich newspaper
proprietor would grasp the chance of getting richer. Accordingly,
he invited the boys from the engine room, placated them with good
food and fine wine. He also presented them with the picture of a
successful man, a family man, and best of all, a highly moral
man.

On such
occasions, his mistress, a very understanding woman in her late
thirties and with a private income, stayed firmly out of the
picture. His wife, bless her, did not allow mention of his
mistress's name, but did know of her existence. Sex, she
philosophized, did not necessarily mean love.

Within the
oak-panelled room, where lead-paned windows looked out towards the
Severn, voices brimming with authority, knowledge and general
gossip blended in a rich chorus that lay heavy on the ear.

Commensurate
with such gatherings, some people drew more attention and
admiration than others. Some also drew offers to have lunch, have
dinner, and much, much more.

Abigail
Corrigan, QC, a colleague in chambers of the honoured gentleman,
was such a person.

Not only did
she turn heads because of her legal track record, which, in all
honesty, was outstanding for someone of her age, but Abigail was
stunning to look at too. Clear blue eyes gazed from above high
cheekbones. Her nose was straight, her lips, so adept at delivering
verbal broadsides, looked capable of planting the most luscious of
kisses. They were also very pale in colour, which made her eyes
look even bluer, her cheekbones even higher.

Perhaps
inherited from some Scandinavian ancestor, her hair was silvery
blonde, her figure long and lithe, her skin creamy rather than icy
white.

Many who knew
her nodded genially whenever they met her, respect glowing on their
faces, their admiration further revealed by the way they spoke of
her.

'Youngest ever
called to the bar. And a woman at that!'

'I've heard
her in court. Cutting in her cross examination, and enigmatic in
her summing up. Deadly. Very deadly.'

'They do say
the female of the species is deadlier than the male,' mused a
learned man with bushy grey eyebrows and an expressive twinkle in
his eye. 'And if I was twenty years younger, I'd make it my job to
find out just how dangerous she might be.' This last comment was
made more softly, to himself, rather than to anyone else.

Those who did
not know her presumed that despite the sombre blackness of her
outfit, this sleek young woman could not possibly be what she was:
the most successful young barrister in the city. Because they did
not quite believe that someone so beautiful could also be so
brilliant, they tried their hand and their luck. At the same time
as propositioning her, they could not help but imagine her generous
mouth on theirs, her breasts bare and heaving gently beneath their
gaze and their groping hands, her legs parted. At first, of course,
they would ask a mundane question; something low-key, something
legal, and with the most sensual of mouths, she would reply, speak
of the law, of her views on the latest judgements, of her opinion
on the outcome of the case of financial double-dealing now being
played out at the Old Bailey.

Those who
might have asked her to lunch balked at their own crassness in even
thinking that she was the sort of woman to be regarded as anything
other than a professional. Abigail Corrigan was a glittering
example of what women could be if they did not let their sexuality
weaken their resolve.

If those who
conversed with her ever noticed that her eyes never quite looked at
them and that she was always searching for something or someone
among the crowd, they did not comment on it. It was enough that she
had spoken to them and they knew what sort of woman she was.

Abigail
Corrigan glided serenely on her way. Her nocturnal adventures of
just a fortnight ago were consigned to some secret corner of her
mind, as they usually were. But usually was a slipshod word now,
after her last encounter. Aspects of the man she had lain with in
the Railway Hotel kept seeping into her mind.

She thought
repeatedly of the darkness of his eyes, the warm pressure of his
lips on hers and the firmness of his tongue as it had pushed into
her mouth. And of how willingly she had let him in. Unknown before
that night, he was now drifting around her mind like a familiar
shadow. Even while sitting in court these sweet memories evoked
delightful sensations that ran like shivers over her flesh. Beneath
her robes she was bare from stocking tops to waist. Abby never wore
underwear. In her professional life, it was her only concession to
sexuality.

Pleasurable
thoughts were put away when someone she knew spoke to her.

'Abby, my
dear. How nice to see you here.'

She smiled at
the tall man with the shoulder-length grey hair that was so
smoothly tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He had
another guy with him, a pink-cheeked young man who had the
scrubbed-clean confidence that only a public school education can
achieve. He looked at her with obvious interest.

'Christopher.'

He shook her
hand in a thoroughly businesslike way, but his eyes held meaning.
He was one crown prosecutor who had felt the sharp edge of her
tongue, the tight precision of her legal defence. All the same, she
could recognize the lust in his eyes. She had also seen him with
his mouth hanging open, his eyes glazed as he beheld her in another
place and as another person. Oh what marvellous inventions are
masks, coloured contact lenses, black wigs, and bright red
lipstick, she thought to herself.

'This is Lance
Vector,' he said. 'Freelance journalist. He's following my star
assignment at the moment. This, my dear Vector, is Abigail
Corrigan, a woman who is wed entirely to her profession and has
never been known to accept the offer of a date unless it's in
court. She's our very own Snow Queen, and the sharpest legal
defence around. If ever you need a lawyer, she's the one you should
ask for.'

Abigail shook
the young man's hand. Immediately, she knew she had had an effect
on him. Whatever expression had been in his eyes altered. His jaw
dropped ever so slightly, his handshake lingered longer than
necessary. After pulling her hand out of his, she turned her gaze
firmly back to Christopher Probert.

'And how is
the Rheingold case? Is Reuben Rheingold likely to wallow inside the
Scrubs for his manipulation of other people's wealth?'

Christopher
Probert took a swig of dark, red wine before lie replied.

'If I am
successful, my dear Abigail, he will wallow there for a very long
time. Wallowing will suit him. He's fat as a hippo, has no hair,
and has an odd penchant for wearing grey suits, and grey only. He's
a very grey man. Wallowing was made for the likes of him. Besides,
he made away with a lot of people's money.'

'A lot of
rich
people's money,' Abigail countered. 'And rich people can
afford to - shall we say - make you push a little harder for a
conviction?'

She saw him
wince, knew for sure that he had only been talking law, not
thinking it. As usual, he was imagining what he would like to do to
her, what he would have her do to him.

The journalist
was still staring at her. She managed to avoid looking directly at
him. Like Christopher, it was easy to see what was on his mind.

Christopher
continued. 'He's guilty, Abigail. I'm thoroughly convinced - not
just as a professional, but also on a personal level. I had money
in Swan and Swallow Investments myself.'

'I didn't know
that. However, can you really say that the evidence you have is
conclusive? Do you really believe that this one man - a manager as
opposed to a financier - could alone be responsible for the
mistakes made? Give, Christopher. Tell me the names of those you
think are really responsible. You must have some idea.'

Christopher
tossed his head and hissed slightly. His tone became more intense.
'You're an idealist, Abigail. More so than you think. You're
looking for the cavalry or the white knight to come riding in and
put everything to rights.' He leaned nearer to her. She could smell
the wine on his breath. 'Well, it won't happen. Rheingold will go
down regardless of what one certain member of Parliament is
saying.'

Abby shook her
head and eyed Christopher with amused pity. She'd heard that an MP
named Stephen Sigmund was asking awkward questions. 'I had heard he
was crusading for an investigation by the SFO.'

'Crusading! Is
that what you call it?'

'Yes.
Crusading. Like a white knight. You know. The sort that gallops to
the rescue of those that can't help themselves.'

Vector the
journalist had so far remained silent. Now, inspired by what he had
heard, he awoke and spoke.

'Crusading -
that's a wonderful term, Miss Corrigan. What a lovely thought to
have a white knight riding into battle, to save the holy scriptures
from the infidels, the law from the lawless, the sacred from the
profane!'

It was hard
not to be speechless, but Abby hid her sudden cough with a mouthful
of wine. What the hell was going on in this guys' mind? Why did he
turn so pink as he gazed adoringly at her? She looked to Probert,
who just stared blankly at Vector, blinked, then quickly and
clumsily changed the subject.

He began to
tell Abby all about his own investments and the fifty thousand he
had lost at Swan and Swallow. Now, she judged, was the time to take
her leave. She made her excuses, smiled at each man, then walked
away. Aware they were both watching her, she did not look back.

Recently
arrived, Stephen Sigmund watched the tall, graceful woman with the
silvery blonde hair. Being a politician, of course, he could carry
on the most convoluted conversation as he did this. He talked of
the latest scandals, the rumour that more than one politician had
had his fingers in the Swan and Swallow Investments fiasco. He also
repeated his own boast that he would make every effort required to
expose the offenders.

'You could run
into trouble,' someone said.

'So could
they,' he countered. 'I dislike power making scapegoats of the
weak, and Rheingold is weak. He's only a manager. There's someone
else behind him.'

'All very
well, my dear Stephen, but how the devil are you going to prove it,
man?'

Stephen looked
casually at the man who had spoken, but took in the nervous tick
beneath his right cheek - a sure sign of guilty tension.

'I'm making
enquiries. I'll get there in the end.'

'Aren't you
just making unnecessary ripples to bring attention to yourself, Mr
Sigmund?'

'Ah!' Stephen
forced himself to look pleasantly at the fresh-faced journalist who
had just latched himself onto the group of listeners. 'But you
would say that, wouldn't you, Mr...' he paused as he let his eyes
skim over the journalist's yellow name tag, 'Mr Vector. Your
newspaper doesn't appear to want any grey areas to this case. By
the tone of your journalistic prose, I get the distinct impression
that your editor would hang the old man if he could.'

The young
man's thick lips half-smiled, half-sneered. 'We reflect public
concern, Mr Sigmund. That's our job. Public concern, public
morals.'

'And I, Mr
Vector, believe in justice. I do not believe in manipulation of
facts. Neither do I believe in manipulation of moral thought. I
believe everyone has a right to privacy and to justice. Obviously
your paper thinks otherwise, judging by the lurid attention to
detail over Mr Rheingold's private life.'

Vector looked
as if Stephen had just slapped his face. His defence was flustered.
'Are you saying that him paying for the sexual services of two
young women one night, and two young men the next, is acceptable,
Mr Sigmund?'