Behind the Facade (19 page)

He buried his face in her
hair, shame coiling in his belly, and whispered, “My God, what have I done? I’m
so sorry Kate.”

Kate began to shift and
lift her body, so he raised his face to look at her. “You’re sorry? Don’t be.
That was incredible,” she said, still breathless and trembling.

He laughed ruefully, “It
was hardly the seduction of the century.” 

She touched his cheek,
almost reverently. She wanted to tell him she had never felt like this
before,
she wanted to tell him that she loved him. She was
crazy for him. But something in his face prevented her.

He gripped her hand and
kissed her fingers. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Well, I’m glad it did,”
she said, impatient with him. 

He removed himself and
dropped to the floor. Finding his discarded boxers and trousers, he stepped
into them. “I’ve got to get going. I really do,” he said.

“Really?” she queried, a
laugh colouring her voice, “I thought you didn’t even have time for coffee.” He
couldn’t help a reciprocal smile at this.

She sat up, inspiration
striking her. “Hey, why don’t I come with you?”

“That wouldn’t be a good
idea,” he demurred, continuing to get dressed.

She persisted. “I don’t have
anything I can’t leave, I can pack…” she
paused
mid-sentence, in recognition of the vigorous shaking of his lowered head.

He looked up at her when
she stopped talking. Seeing her so vulnerable and exposed, in more ways than
one, his heart tugged at him in rebuke. He moved back towards her and took her
hand again. “It’s not that I wouldn’t love to have you with me, but it’s purely
a business trip Kate,” he explained.
“Man to man.”

She searched his face,
seeking to test the veracity of his words in his demeanour. He saw her doubts
and kissed her softly on the mouth. “I’ll see you as soon as I’m back,” he
murmured against her lips, knowing he could promise her no such thing but
wanting to convince her, wanting to spare her any pain.

She gently pulled away and
held his eyes for a moment. Then, seeming to be satisfied with what she saw,
she smiled and tugging lightly on his beard, she said,  “Well, I hope you
have a miserable time without me!” and then laughed to lessen the censure in
her words. 

  She descended
from the table, trying to remain nonchalant. Recovering her robe, she saw him
to the door.

He gave her a quick kiss
on the cheek, a strange disquiet in his gaze. Concerned by this, Kate grasped
his hand before he could go and said, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but
I
..”
she hesitated, but then continued. “I care for
you Michael.
A great deal.
I’ll miss you while you’re
gone.”

This didn’t seem to
comfort him and his countenance clouded. He cupped her face, as if he was
trying to imprint it on his memory. “I’ll miss you too, honey, but please don’t
waste your feelings on me.”

He left her then, trying
to persuade himself that, now he’d appeased his craving for her, he could start
to focus on the important business at hand. He shook off the unbidden and
disturbing thought that, in reality, he was now more heavily infected with her
than ever.

Minutes
later, as she was arranging the flowers, frantic knocking at the door caused
her heart to leap.
Had he changed his mind?
She bounded across the room, pulling the door open without thinking, only to
find herself shoved roughly aside by the entrance of not Michael, but the dark
heaving form of Sebastian. Before she could react, he had stormed through the
apartment to her bedroom.

She followed him, exclaiming
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” But he simply ignored her,
investigating every inch of the place until satisfied no-one was there.

He then turned to her
demanding “Where is he? I saw his car. Where the hell is he? “

Pointing to the door, pink
with fury, she responded “Get out! Get the hell out of my apartment! Just
because you know the entry code does not give you the right to invade my
privacy!”

He approached her then,
his face contorted in anger. 

“Get away from me.” When
this failed to have any effect, she warned “I’ll call my father!”

He paused then but only to
spit on the floor. “Always calling on Daddy, what a brave girl you are,” he
sneered in disgust. “It’s your father who tried to keep this from me.
Your fling with the American.”

Kate lapsed into silence,
knowing a denial would be futile. He walked up to her then and gripped her
chin. “Do you really appreciate the debt you owe me?”

She shook her head free
and turning it aside she admonished, “That doesn’t make you my keeper.”

He whispered tauntingly
into her ear. “You will be mine, Kate. That’s a promise.
That
American.
He’s only after one thing. I hope you didn’t give it to him or
that’s the last you’ll see of him.” With that he left.

Kate collapsed to the
floor, tears blooming. He couldn’t have chosen a more effective way to wound
her.

His Honour, Judge Dominic Williamson, replaced the receiver and
leaned back into the leather comfort of the
captains
armchair
as he dwelt on the conversation that had just occurred. He drummed his fingers
contemplatively on the chair arm. He was due to announce his retirement and,
yes, he did have plans to write a semi-autobiographical book of life on the
bench but how had the journalist he had just spoken with known this? Lucky
guess, he supposed, or investigative intuition? It was no secret, after all,
that he was gradually cutting back on his hours. Anyway, he had agreed to meet
with him in the privacy of his own home. He felt slightly uneasy, as he’d been
persuaded to concede to this request by his own vanity, and the clever dick had
relied on this.

He shrugged and moved his chair forcefully back towards his
desk, buzzing his clerk to send the lawyers back in.
Time to get
back at it.
He’d already made his mind up about this case but it never
failed to please him to see advocates fall over themselves in their attempts to
sway his decision making. The thrill of the unique power he exercised surged
through him. He recognised this was one thing he would greatly miss when he
retired. However, there were greater thrills, and greater power, to be had
elsewhere.

He smiled as he remembered the secret pleasures that were
already his. He quickly replaced the smile with a stern countenance, as the
parties entered, but internally he continued chuckling to himself.

*

“He’s expecting me,” said Sean Murphy, as he lifted his visor,
placed one foot off his motorbike, propped it and quickly showed his
journalist’s ID to the goon manning the gatehouse. The sentry squinted at the
card and eyed him suspiciously, clearly finding offence with his cavalier biker
garb. Then he motioned tersely with his hands, indicating that he wanted him to
remove his helmet. Sean willingly obliged, but swiftly replaced it, as soon as
the man had satisfied himself as to his identity. Picking up a phone, he rang
up to the house to give notice of Sean’s request for entry. It came as no
surprise to Sean that Williamson had the security usually associated with an
A-list celebrity. Williamson wasn’t well liked and had much to feel protective
about.

The gates swung silently open, aided by electric motors, once
the guard obtained authority to allow him access. As soon as sufficient space
appeared, Sean pumped the accelerator and surged forwards through the gap, much
to the indignation of the guard, who shouted after him to no effect.

An hour or so later, Sean came powering back down to the gate on
his motorbike. The guard purposely made him wait but, having achieved what he
had hoped for from his interview with Williamson, Sean was unconcerned. He
could do nothing more. Only time would tell whether the seed he had planted
would bear fruit. This time he waited for the gates to fully open before
setting off, cheekily saluting the surly gatekeeper as he went past.

Tears dripped unremittingly down Dominic Williamson's cheeks,
mingling with the snot oozing from his nostrils. He swiped at his face
half-heartedly, his whole body shuddering with self-pity and defeat. He looked
at the glass in his left hand, the irony not lost on him that the liquid it
contained was his best single malt Scotch, which he had been saving for a
special occasion. A freakish smile distorted his pudgy lips. Well, if this
wasn't a "special occasion", he didn't know what was. He downed the
alcohol in one, closing his eyes and savouring the burn as it ran down his
throat. It seemed to inject him with fortitude as an idea flashed across his
brain. He stood up and ran towards his bedroom, his fingers shaking but a
hopeful desperation gleaming in his glazed eyes.

That Irish bastard had warned him that he was about to reveal
everything to the police about
Bespoke’s
clandestine
operation and Williamson's dealings with them. Murphy had known about his
"purchase" and what he'd done to that red-haired slut of a sister of
his. But surely he had no proof that he had been responsible for her death?
There couldn't possibly be any forensic evidence after all this time and when
he had done such a thorough job of cleaning up. As long as he got rid of the
additionally incriminating browser history on his personal computer, couldn't
he blag his way out of this? He was a highly respected high court judge after
all. Couldn't he pass it off as a set up?

He logged on to the desktop in his bedroom. A strange message,
like some sort of advert flashed up but he didn't bother to read it and just
clicked impatiently on the icon marked "Close". His jaw sagged open
as a maniacal laugh boomed out from the speakers. The screen went blank and
then an ugly-looking cartoon leprechaun appeared on the screen, admonishing
him, with an insolent shake of its finger. He watched helplessly as temporary
files he didn't even know were retained on the system were added to a zip file
at dizzying speed. He knew what they were: photos, videos, website addresses
that had all allowed him to indulge some of his more perverted fantasies. An
email was opened and the file was attached to it. He banged frantically on the
keyboard but to no avail. He finally had the presence of mind to wrench the
plug out at the wall. But he knew it was too late. He screamed shrilly and
attacked the computer like an enraged bull.

 After Williamson had expended all his fury and outrage,
the processing unit and flat screen monitor lay devastated on the floor and he
lay on his knees next to it, equally broken. He wailed and wept. Not once did
he think of the girl he had abused and fatally injured. Nor did he think of the
women and children in the countless images of abuse he had ogled. His anguish
was all for himself. His hand hesitatingly reached out for a sharp piece of
glass that lay near to him. Should he end it all, as he had been instructed?
Should he just slit his wrists, or his throat, and let himself slowly bleed
out? Wouldn't it be a relief now to welcome the numbing blackness of death? His
fingers touched the sliver. But he jerked back as if bitten. He was too much of
a coward. What if he was just exchanging one hell for another? What if his
death didn't bring eternal sleep but the eternal agony of damnation instead?

He climbed unsteadily to his feet. He reached for his mobile
phone on the bed and began stabbing out a number with palsied fingers. He would
book a flight, withdraw as much money as he could and get out of here. He could
run. He could hide. Surely it wasn't impossible? After increasingly frantic
calls, it was clear he wasn't going to get anywhere. All his credit and debit
cards had been cancelled. His bank manager claimed that all his funds had been
withdrawn. Not in one lump sum, but slowly and relentlessly over a short period
of time. He had recently had difficulty logging on to his internet account but
he had assumed it was some temporary glitch. He hadn't suspected anything. Why
should he? And his cards had still been functioning at the time, so he hadn't
been worried. He thought about looking for his passport but knew it was
pointless. Of course, that too would be gone. The phone fell from his lifeless
fingers on to the floor. All his anger had now drained from him and he was just
left in a state of stupefied catatonia.

He walked haltingly, like a zombie, to his bathroom. He opened
his medicine cupboard and pulled out numerous packets of pills, caring not that
he upset various bottles and jars in the process, which scattered to the floor.
Still in a daze, he crushed the pills methodically and poured the resulting
grains into a glass. He returned to his living room and picked up the bottle of
whiskey. Adding alcohol to the glass containing the powdered pills, he gulped
it down. He sat down in his favourite armchair, bottle still in hand and
proceeded to drink it dry. His hand moved the bottle to his mouth and his
throat convulsed at regular intervals but his actions were like those of an
automaton. His face was leeched of all colour and his eyes stared blankly
ahead. He already looked like the dead man he was soon to become.

*

Sean Murphy,” Harry raged. According
to his source in the police, Chief Inspector Peter Bradbury, this was who had
visited Dominic just before his unexpected suicide. This was the very same name
used by Kate’s kidnapper and matched the description Sebastian had given of the
man. It could not be a coincidence. Sebastian was currently abroad or he'd have
had him report to him immediately.

The police were satisfied that
Dominic's death was self-inflicted but Harry knew there was more to it. They
still wanted Murphy for questioning, as he was the last person to have seen
Dominic alive, but so far, their efforts at locating him had been unsuccessful.
They knew from the security guard he had claimed to be a freelance journalist,
but little else. They’d been unable to find anyone who knew of him and there
were no publications or references to the guy. This was of no surprise to
Harry. The bastard had used the name before and it was clearly a front. His own
previous attempts to trace the man had come to nought and he had much greater resources
than the police at his disposal.

Harry watched the footage from the
entryway CCTV cameras again. Bradbury had, obligingly, provided him with a copy
of the recording.  Four years had passed since his daughter’s kidnapping.
Why come back on the scene now and bring attention to
himself
?
And why had his focus been Dominic? The lowlife had shown himself on purpose
and was thumbing his finger at him, of that he was convinced. His fist met the
desk, with an angry crack, by way of riposte. What bothered him most was the
idea that had slid into his mind, like a burrowing worm, that he was the real
target and the coward was planning a final, and decisive, move against him.
Well not if he got to him first!

He was loath to trouble Kate, but it
was going to plague him if he didn't get some solid verification. Maybe, if
Kate saw the video, something would click and her recollections would help to
track him down. He knew she didn't recall much, due to the memory loss she'd
suffered. Post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, they'd called it, or some such
fancy medical term. What it amounted to was a dead-end. The bastard who'd taken
her had had more than his fair share of luck. They were surely due some.

Kate seemed past that old trauma now,
especially since the advent of Michael Hunter. Her memory might have improved.
He was about to buzz his secretary to get his daughter on the line, when she
buzzed him.

“Mr Hunter to see
you, Sir.”
 

Harry had forgotten Mick was due back
and was keen to discover what new business he’d managed to requisition in the
States. He told her to send him through but, when Mick entered, he remained
seated, still pondering over the video footage.

Michael interrupted his thoughts with
a cough, alerting him to his presence. Harry half-rose from his seat saying
“Sit, sit Mick,” waving to the seat in front of him and quickly reclaiming his
own. 

Michael was rather perturbed by this
distant reception after his long absence. He sat but queried, “Everything OK,
Harry?”

Harry looked up. Realising he’d been
rather preoccupied he said, “Yes, sure. Sorry Mick. It’s good to see you.
You’ve just got back?”

Michael nodded.

“Successful trip, I hope?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like
a drink?” He stretched his hand towards his intercom but Michael declined. “I’m
good.”

Harry sat back in his chair. “Well,
then.” He paused, considering Michael and attempting to bring his attention
back to business. “What have the Yanks got to say about what we can offer
them?”

Michael entered into a summary of the
interest he had secured and the plans he had to bring a number of eligible
potential clients over to view the Ottoman complex.  Harry nodded with
approval but, once he’d gathered things were moving along nicely, he started to
ruminate again on Dominic’s visitor. Michael stopped midway through a sentence,
having picked up on the fact that Harry's mind was still engaged elsewhere.
Harry failed to notice. Michael leaned forwards.

“What’s up, Harry?” he asked. “You
seem distracted?”

Harry returned his concentration to
Michael. He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. Sorry, do go on.”

When, having proffered a question that
necessitated a response, Harry did not immediately reply, Michael was curious
as to the cause of his distraction rather than offended. “I can see there’s
something bugging you, Harry. It must be important, as business is normally
your top priority. Perhaps it’s something I can help you with?”

Harry blinked, apologised for being so
rude and said “No, it’s nothing you can help….” he began. Then he seemed to
have second thoughts. He pursued his lips, debating. “Actually,” he said, “I’d
value your opinion.”

“Yes?” Michael prompted.

Then he shook his head, as if
reconsidering. “Kate hasn’t told you what happened to her yet, has she?” he
asked.

Michael was taken aback by this sudden
change of topic. The abrupt and direct reference to Kate had his heart
accelerating and his interest piqued. “She did open up to me,”
  he
said, “but she’s not yet had chance to  tell
me the full story.” He wondered where this was leading.