Exposure (35 page)

He had taken the job in London. The sex of his victim didn't concern him. Nor did the method he chose; details were left to his discretion unless otherwise specified. Some contracts had to be accidents, others the result of violent crime, robbery or sex murders. Some, like the target in Los Angeles, were plain executions, designed to scare off opposition. He had never lost an hour's sleep over what he did.

He had the name, address – private and business – and a description of the woman he was going to murder. How he did it had been left up to him. He preferred to choose his own method. It didn't tie him down. He liked exercising his own judgement and ingenuity. He prided himself on his professionalism. He took the Underground from the Airport and booked into a small hotel in the Bayswater Road. He had made several trips to London. He liked the city, and planned to bring his family over one year for a holiday. His two boys would love the changing of the Guard outside Buckingham Palace.

He had been given no contacts for this job. He always worked alone. He booked into the hotel, and went out to get something to eat. By Underground again to Sloane Square, and then on foot to the apartment block in Chelsea Green.

As he expected, it was a secure block, but to someone familiar with the fortress mentality of wealthy Americans, with closed-circuit TV, armed guards and trained dogs, it presented him with little problem. He walked the perimeter, noting the position of the outside fire-escape visible at the rear of the building. It was four storeys high. Her flat number indicated the top floor. That was no problem, either. He'd carried out a killing twenty-two floors up and walked out of the building unchallenged. He checked the entry system by pressing a number at random. They would have internal TV screens to monitor the caller at the front; he always wore a soft fedora type hat, the brim shaded his face.

A man's voice answered. ‘Hello?'

Mike emphasized his Mid-West accent. ‘Sam? It's me … Pete.'

The voice was sharp. ‘There's no Sam here. You've got the wrong flat.'

‘Sorry – shit, I buzzed the wrong bell. Sorry …' he said again, but the irritated man in the apartment didn't answer. Then he buzzed Julia Hamilton's number. There were no names, only numbers on the index beside the panel of buttons. He waited. No answer. He buzzed again. Nothing. She was out. He checked his watch. Nine forty. Not working that late. On a date, at a movie with the live-in boyfriend. His brief was one killing, not two. He'd have to wait till he could catch her alone. He went back to his hotel and watched TV for a couple of hours. He called his wife before he went to bed. He'd had a good flight, he said, he was missing her and the kids already, but he'd get her some of that English cashmere she liked and a souvenir for the boys.

‘Love you,' he said. ‘I'll be home in a couple of days, if I get the business done quick.' He fell asleep and didn't even dream.

Evelyn Western was watching by the library window as the headlights of Julia's car beamed up the drive. She had cancelled her dinner engagement with neighbours. She had put through a call to her husband in Rio de Janeiro as soon as Julia rang off. He had been in a meeting in the city centre. She left an urgent message and the hotel promised to contact him and get him to call her immediately. This was no ordinary visit by Julia Hamilton. Her attitude was forceful, even aggressive, and Evelyn was instantly on her guard. Whatever she had discovered, it must be to Billy's disadvantage. There was no friendliness, let alone her customary deference to a much older woman who was her employer's wife. Then, to her relief, the call came through from Brazil. She didn't waste time.

‘I've had Julia on the line,' she said. ‘She's got hold of something. I'm afraid it doesn't sound good. She's insisted on coming here, I couldn't stop her. Darling, I'm
not
being alarmist. If it's what I think, you'd better be ready to fly back. Yes, yes of course I'll call you when she's gone. All right, don't worry. I'll cope. Take care of yourself …'
I'll cope
. Her own promise mocked her.

She had always coped, ever since they were married and living on her meagre earnings as a librarian, while William started out in business. She had coped with his struggles, his adversities and his success. She was his rock, his closest ally. And his lover. That had not died in all the years they'd been together. They were indivisible. That girl was coming down with some revelation that could damage William. Yes, Evelyn Western decided, mustering her courage and her will, I'll cope. As she saw the car lights sweep to the front of the house, she stepped back from the window. She rang for the Filipino.

‘Miss Hamilton has just arrived,' she said. ‘Show her straight in here, please, and don't worry about offering drinks, we'll help ourselves. I don't want to be disturbed. Thank you, Felipe. No,' she added in answer, ‘she won't be staying the night. So far as I know.' She was placed strategically in the big armchair reserved for William Western. The light was behind her, turning the soft white hair into a silver halo. She got up slowly and came towards Julia. She seemed taller than ever.

‘Come and sit down, Julia,' she said quietly. ‘You sounded so agitated on the telephone you quite alarmed me. I'm sure you'd like a drink … Sherry?'

‘No thank you, Lady Western.' Julia sat on the sofa facing her. She sensed the cool antagonism and it distressed her. She liked, and admired, the older woman and she had trusted her, in spite of Ben's reservations. The message about his daughter was on the answerphone when she went back briefly to her flat. Poor Ben. Poor girl. Then she banished everything out of her mind but what had to be said to Evelyn Western. I won't be put off, she insisted, watching Evelyn take her seat again and carefully arrange her long skirt as she prepared for a tiresome and unnecessary intrusion into her evening. Jean Adams died because of the job they gave me. I'm not going to pull any punches.

‘I cancelled my dinner engagement,' the cool voice said. ‘It was very awkward for me. I had to make up a story. I hate telling lies and letting people down.'

‘I'm sorry,' Julia said. ‘But it just can't wait.'

‘What can't wait? You said it concerned my husband. Surely it's not so earth shattering it couldn't wait until tomorrow?'

The sarcasm suddenly infuriated Julia. She blushed with anger. ‘Lady Western,' she kept her voice level, ‘at the beginning of this year I came down here at your husband's invitation and he offered me an assignment. My own feature. “Exposure”. It was a top job, the chance of a lifetime to get to the top of my profession. You were in the room, we opened champagne together. I'm sure you remember.'

Evelyn Western nodded. ‘I do. I remember it very well.'

‘But the bottom line on that job offer, and the editorship to follow – he even threw that in – was to expose Harold King and bring him down.'

‘Yes,' the voice was calm. ‘Yes, that's absolutely right.'

‘So I took it on,' Julia said. ‘I persuaded Ben Harris to join me and we started to investigate together. Because of what we discovered, a woman called Jean Adams was murdered.'

‘I remember. William told me about it.' The beautiful blue eyes were cold and blank as they considered Julia.

‘Did he tell you what happened to her and why?' Julia asked slowly. ‘She was an elderly widow, living alone. She was also the niece of King's first wife. King confessed to shooting British prisoners of war; he told his wife when he was blind drunk, and he tried to murder her afterwards. But she'd already told Jean Adams. Perhaps you don't know all this? Perhaps Lord Western didn't bother you with details?'

Evelyn Western didn't answer. She sat absolutely still with her hands clasped in her lap. Julia went on. She was standing now, moving in agitation in that silent room with the silent woman sitting in her big chair, watching her.

‘We found Jean Adams and we persuaded her to give an affidavit. We didn't know it, but we were being tagged and her phone was tapped. The night before she was due to sign that document, an intruder broke into her house. He raped her, Lady Western … she must have been close on seventy, then he beat her to death. He stole a few things to make it look like robbery.'

‘How dreadful,' Evelyn Western said. ‘I didn't know that.'

‘Well, your husband did. You asked me out to lunch and said you quite understood if I wanted to back out after what had happened to that poor woman. Your very words, weren't they?'

‘If you say so. Yes, I did say that. I didn't want to pressure you.'

‘Oh please,' Julia gestured in dismissal. ‘Please stop trying to make a fool of me. You pleaded with me to save Western International and not give up on Harold King. The irony is, you didn't need to soften me up. I have to live with what happened to Jean Adams and the only way I can do it is bring King into the dock. I've just come back from Jersey. I went there to see Richard Watson.'

There was no movement, no betrayal, just a tightening of the slim hands in Evelyn Western's lap.

‘Watson told me the story of the young German your husband wanted to bayonet in cold blood. That's what King discovered and blackmailed him with ten years ago … just when he was coming up for a peerage. It would have ruined him. So he backed off. He told Ben Harris to drop his investigation because he didn't want the world to know he was no better than a murderer himself.'

Suddenly Evelyn Western rose to her feet. ‘Don't you dare say that! Don't you dare accuse my husband!'

‘That German was Harold King,' Julia went on. ‘He went berserk and shot those poor devils because he knew your bloody husband had been going to murder him … Jean Adams died for nothing because your husband was
there
… he knew what had happened. He just hoped I'd prove it without getting him involved. You should have bought off Richard Watson. I bet you tried …' She stopped; she realized she was trembling. ‘I should be saying this to him instead of you. But he's in Brazil building up his empire.'

Slowly, Evelyn Western turned away from her. She moved to a drinks table the other side of the room. She poured a small measure of brandy. She came back, sipped it, and looked at Julia with her vivid blue eyes.

‘You fool,' she said. ‘Full of righteous indignation. Setting yourself up as judge and jury, and finding William guilty. Now you listen to me. You're right about the blackmail. King contacted Watson … that miserable man … God knows how, but he did. He had a tape of Watson's story. Watson's version, making himself out such a hero. I even sent someone to see him, but it was useless. He was so high principled, you see. If a newspaper broke that story he felt honour bound to corroborate it and destroy my husband. So King escaped, and went from strength to strength till he's now in the position to drive us into the ground and take everything. You've been very clever, Julia, and so far you've got it right. Except that the German taken prisoner was
not
Harold King. He was a garage mechanic living in Strasbourg. He died of a heart attack last year.'

She finished her drink. ‘You were so anxious to accuse William, weren't you? If he knew King was guilty of shooting prisoners he would have been able to destroy him without help from you! So much for your theory.' She sat down again, crossed one leg over the other and examined her foot in its black patent slipper. ‘Of course we have proof of the mechanic's identity and a signed affidavit that he was the soldier taken prisoner at the time and date stated. He denied any suggestion that William was prepared to kill him. I'm sure my husband will let you have sight of it.'

‘I believe Richard Watson,' Julia said slowly. ‘I'm sorry, but I do. Your husband gambled with other people's lives and held back a piece of vital evidence to protect his own reputation. Nothing alters that. The other officer with Watson was convinced there'd been an atrocity. But he's dead, too. Like your mechanic.'

‘You can believe what you like,' Evelyn Western said. ‘You stand there, making judgements. What do you know about war? How dare you presume to judge … you weren't even born! William was right. Captain Phillips was right. Their first duty was to their men, to get them back to their own lines and out of a bloody running battle. Watson had his precious principles but they cost the lives of all those men because that German was left alive. He did exactly what they said he would. He told his patrol where to find them. Nobody murdered the prisoners. They were caught in crossfire when a British armoured car opened up on the column. William was so badly wounded – shot three times in the back. They repatriated him because he was likely to be paralysed.' She looked at Julia. ‘I trusted you,' she said. ‘So did William. Now I'd like you to go, please. Just go.' She turned her head away.

‘I'm going,' Julia said quietly. ‘But I'm not giving up. From now on, I'm working for myself. Good night, Lady Western.'

WPC Mandy Kent was going off duty. She and her husband planned to have supper with friends and go down to the pub for a karaoke evening afterwards. Her husband had a nice voice and he wasn't shy about getting up in public. Mandy would have died with embarrassment, but she was rather proud of Dave when he performed.

‘Mandy?' She turned; her sergeant was bearing down on her.

‘I'm just off,' she said defensively.

‘DCI wants to see you. Won't take a minute.'

‘Oh shit,' she said, not quite under her breath. It must be trouble. She couldn't think where she'd slipped up.

‘Don't worry, it's a pat on the back.'

She looked up in surprise. ‘You're joking?' The sergeant grinned at her. She was popular with her colleagues. A good policewoman who didn't trade on her sex or try to be butch to prove a point. She came into the DCI's office. ‘Sir? You wanted to see me?'