Exposure (34 page)

‘He thinks I've given up,' she said. ‘And my flat is as secure as Fort Knox. Don't worry about me.'

‘I'll be in touch as soon as I've seen her.'

‘I'll go then,' Julia said. On an impulse she started to walk towards St James's Park. It was a crisp winter afternoon, with a pre-Christmas buzz in the air. The shops were festive and people were walking with the purposeful stride of the shopper. Christmas. Her mother wanted her to come down and bring Ben with her. She couldn't think of Christmas. She couldn't think of presents and turkey and family gatherings while Harold King walked the earth as a free man. William Western was in Brazil. She was expected to launch the attack on King in December. She had the whole format in her mind. Every headline, every paragraph was already written and burned in her brain. But she could do nothing without the vital piece of evidence that identified Harold King as the German prisoner whose life had been saved by Richard Watson. And who had exacted a terrible revenge upon his former captors. The only man who could provide that proof was William Western. It was too cold to sit in the park by the lake so Julia walked towards Whitehall. The roofs and central turret of the old Palace gleamed through the frosty air above the line of trees, like some Oriental backdrop. There had been no record of a German massacre of prisoners in the annals of that Desert War. Not even a rumour circulating. Just the drunken confession of Hans Koenig to his wife, and the suspicions of a dead officer called Phillips who was unhappy about the fate of his men. William Western, the only survivor, wounded and repatriated, had insisted that they had been caught in crossfire during a skirmish between British and German patrols.

Julia paused by the splendid Guards memorial. The clock in the Palace across Horseguards chimed the hour. Three o'clock. It had a sweet if ghostly chime in the still air. Traffic heading up Birdcage Walk towards Parliament Square seemed strangely muted to her as she stood there. She looked at the massive bronze figures on the stone plinth. Dead men from both wars. Dead men in the desert sands. A dead woman, outraged in her bed and brutally beaten. Harold King with his neo-Nazi connections to protect him, controlling Western's media empire as well as his own, taking his seat in crimson and ermine in the House of Lords. She said it out loud. ‘I don't care what Ben says. I'm going down to Hollowood and see Evelyn Western. Tonight.'

‘Good to see you, Harry. You're looking well. How's business?'

‘No complaints,' Harold King said. He spooned up pasta and muttered between mouthfuls. ‘Mario, this is the best … Mmm … What a sauce …' The New York garment manufacturer smiled in gratification at the compliment. ‘My favourite restaurant. So good I bought a piece of it. Pity you don't drink wine, Harry. You miss out on a great Chianti.'

King said, ‘My only regret. I don't have the stomach. I have all the other vices, so why should I be greedy?'

He looked at the man sitting opposite to him, napkin tucked into his collar, washing the rich Italian food down with draughts of red wine and sopping up the creamy sauce with hunks of bread. He was very fat, with a bulging belly and heavy chins. King had left Gloria to amuse herself that evening and asked his Mafia contact if they could share a meal together. And maybe a few problems.

They didn't talk about the problems till they had finished eating.

Over tiny cups of espresso, the host fortifying himself with a glass of oily Strega, he asked Harold King about those problems.

‘I've got media trouble,' King said. The coffee was so strong it made his heart race.

‘What kind of media?' the Italian asked him. ‘The media's shit. They've been on my back this last year, so I know how it feels. What's the problem?'

‘It's a smart-ass woman,' King said. ‘Making a big name for herself. She's digging dirt on me, Mario. And she's good. I don't know where it might end up.' He left the mafioso to work out that conclusion for himself. Money had passed between them on its way from Colombia via the Cayman Islands and then to its destination in a Swiss account.

Drug money, with a sweet percentage from vice in New York City.

‘In London?' he asked King.

‘London,' King agreed. ‘I need an outside contract.'

‘So what happened to that Mick who worked for you? Can't he find someone?'

King said, ‘This won't be an ordinary hit – she's big news. I can't trust a local to do it. I want a contract man that hits and is out of the country in a couple of hours. This bitch is well protected and she's got brains. If she's killed our media will go ape. Could you help out with someone?'

‘You'd have to pay,' Mario said. He picked his teeth with one of the sharpened quills provided by the management. ‘Prices are high if you want the best. How soon?'

King said, ‘Sooner than soon. Now.'

‘You want an accident, a sex crime, or just a straight hit?'

‘I don't give a damn, just so long as she's dead,' he answered. ‘Your man can choose. I don't want to know any details. And don't worry about money. I can match
any
price that's needed.'

The Italian leaned towards him and laid a fat, ringed hand on King's arm. ‘You just give me the name and address, Harry. Then forget about it. OK? Leave it with me. Some more coffee?'

‘I'll be getting back. My daughter's at the hotel. I'm grateful, Mario. You're a friend. And thanks for the dinner.'

‘Next time,' the Italian raised his hand and a waiter came hurrying, ‘next time, bring your little girl with you. We'll have a family party.'

‘How was your evening?' King asked her.

Gloria smiled at him. ‘It was fine. I read through that draft cost accounting and it's just as good as you said. You're so clever, Daddy. Just brilliant the way you make figures work out the way you want.'

‘It's not so difficult, it's a trick, sweetheart,' he said. ‘You'll learn it. Never be afraid of figures, get to know and love them and they'll be your friends.'

He laughed. He was in a good mood, ebullient and confident. Mario would solve his problem before it could become
his
problem, too. Everything was tied up, just the formalities to be gone through, like a big corporate dinner being given by Field Bank in his honour. He thought, I'll take Gloria to Tiffany's tomorrow. Buy her a memento. Something she can wear at the dinner. He looked at her fondly.

It might be his imagination, but she was looking more attractive. She took a lot of trouble with make-up, hair and clothes. There was a satisfied glow about her that made her seem more mature, as if an overgrown girl had developed into a confident woman. He didn't want to think of the reason.

He said, ‘How would you like a necklace – something special? I want you to knock the eyes out of them all at the Field Bank dinner. I want them to know who you are and that one day they'll be dealing with you! Tiffany's tomorrow – shall we go there together?'

Gloria had spent half an hour on the telephone to Leo Derwent. She had arranged to pay for the call herself. There was no need to irritate her father. He was mean about private telephone calls.

‘Daddy, that would be wonderful. But you don't have to buy me anything. I brought plenty of jewellery with me. You told me to, remember?' Then she added, unable to resist the dig at her old adversary, ‘You'll have to buy something for Mummy, too, or she'll be jealous.'

‘Not this time,' he said. ‘I'm going to bed now. Good night, darling.'

She came and kissed him. ‘Good night. Sleep well.'

She didn't go to bed for some time. She sat on in her suite and thought about Leo Derwent. They had talked about what she was doing in New York; he was always so interested in the business side of her life and so encouraging. Just like one man to another.

She wanted to know about him, too, what was happening at his ministry, in the House. Most of that long call was devoted to a mutual résumé of their professional lives.

And then he changed the conversation. There was no smut, just innuendo, coded references to the relationship they shared. Hints of ecstasies in store when she returned. He had warned her fiercely once, when she began to say explicit things, that telephones could be bugged. It added spice to the hidden meanings to clothe them in words that couldn't be understood by an outsider. It heightened their mutual titillation.

She was so restless thinking of him that she flung herself into a bath to try and soothe the urges. Only another five days and she would be home and able to see him. I'm not in love, she told herself. I don't love him, I love Daddy. It's just that he makes me feel so good about myself. He knows how I feel and what I like. I never thought a man could get me going like he does. And I can drive him wild. The thought crept into her mind. We make a good team. And now Daddy's being nice about it … She drifted happily away.

Ben said, yes, put his daughter through, and as soon as he heard Lucy's voice he knew there was something wrong. She was crying as she spoke.

‘I'm losing it … Daddy, I've been bleeding since ten o'clock this morning—'

Ben Harris interrupted. ‘Are you in hospital? Lucy, for God's sake, where are you?'

‘I'm at home,' she wept. ‘I went to the surgery, and they said to go to bed and rest, and it'd probably stop. But it hasn't … it's getting worse, and I've got pains. I've just called again and they said my doctor's out on an emergency but one of the others will be here as soon as they can. Oh God, I'm so scared.'

‘Have you called your mother?'

‘She's away,' Lucy wailed. ‘They've gone up to
his
mother on the Borders. Dad, I don't know what to do … If I lose my baby …' She burst into hysterical sobs.

Ben Harris forced himself to be calm. ‘Lucy, Lucy darling, listen. Calm down, please. Get hold of yourself. Listen. I'll fly up there. Give me the doctor's number. If they send you to hospital, I'll go direct there. And don't worry, try not to … These things happen, it'll settle down, I promise you.'

‘I've even felt it move,' she wept. ‘Oh hurry up, won't you? Please hurry.'

‘I'm on my way to the airport. I'll charter a plane if I have to. Hang on, and don't worry. I
know
you're going to be all right.' Then he slammed the phone down. He dialled Julia's direct line … No answer. The call was automatically transferred to her secretary.

‘Miss Hamilton's gone home,' the girl said. ‘She called through on her mobile to say she wouldn't be in till tomorrow morning. Can I get a message to her, Mr Harris?'

He looked at his watch. Nearly five. He had to get to Heathrow. If there wasn't a shuttle till late evening, then he'd charter … He couldn't waste any more time. ‘Call through for me, and say I've had to go north, my daughter's been taken ill. I don't know when I'll get back. I'll contact her. Thanks, Jenny.'

A call to the internal airline established that there was a seven o'clock shuttle flight to Birmingham; he was lucky – there was a single seat available. Ten minutes later he was speeding out of London on the M4.

‘My dear Julia,' Evelyn Western said firmly, ‘I can't possibly see you this evening. I'm going out to dinner.'

‘Then I'll wait till you get back,' Julia said. ‘I'm on my way now.'

‘I insist that you tell me why this is so urgent,' Evelyn said. ‘I'm sure you wouldn't force yourself on me like this if William was here.'

‘No,' Julia admitted. ‘I wouldn't have to; Lady Western, I don't like behaving like this, but I haven't any choice. You asked me to help your husband. That's why I've got to see you and talk to you. I'll be there in the next hour.' She disconnected. Evelyn Western had tried being charming, and then coldly disapproving when the charm didn't work. If the door was slammed in her face, she'd sit outside and shame her into seeing her. But that wouldn't happen. Evelyn Western was a strong and determined woman who loved her husband and would do anything to protect him. She would see Julia and when Julia had finished, William Western would cut short his South American trip. She drove faster than usual; she felt exhilarated, strung up with the prospect of the battle to be fought and the truth at the end of it. Old lies, old cruelties had enmeshed her like a web. The time had come to tear the strands apart and free herself. She slowed at the turning to Hollowood and started down the long gravel drive to the entrance. She could see lights shining in front of the house through the trees.

Ben Harris caught the shuttle to Birmingham. A last-minute call on his mobile had established that Lucy was taken by ambulance to Reidhaven Hospital. The airport teemed with travellers; businessmen, families with children, the skiing contingent with their equipment, passengers from every part of the globe in transit, departing or arriving. The bars and cafés and duty-free shops were full, the lounges had their usual complement of exhausted sleepers curled up on the seats; babies cried, toddlers wandered off, and package tours assembled round their co-ordinators. Life rushed to and fro. Death came in on the Pan Am flight from New York, arriving at six forty-eight at Terminal 3.

He had sixteen murders to his credit. He was thirty-three years old, a married man with two young children. He lived at Queens in New York with his wife and his mother-in-law who was an invalid. He was a respectable businessman who travelled for a firm of software manufacturers. He lived modestly, and he had never had a criminal record. He had learned his skills from a Vietnam veteran when he was very young, and had been persuaded by his uncle to branch out in private business. He carried out his first contract on a debt defaulter in New Jersey, shooting him at point-blank range through the head as he got into his car to go to work. That murder earned him a retainer and led to other contracts. He was called Mike, because he had an Irish mother. He had been a good son, who stayed clear of trouble in a rough neighbourhood, did his schoolwork diligently, and went on to be a good husband and father. And kind to his wife's crippled mother. Killing made no impression on him. Taking a human life didn't excite him, or trouble his imagination afterwards. It was a job and it was very well paid, depending upon the complexity of the target and the risk involved. He could command the top price after the car bomb that killed a Head of Family in Los Angeles. Right outside his massively guarded house. Mike was a rich man with a long business-life ahead of him. He didn't drink or smoke, and he worked out three times a week to keep himself in top condition.