One Week in the Private House (5 page)

i get it. The badger game.'

'Pardon?'

'Entrapment. If I can't find any dirt stuck to Headman, you want me to create some. Get him
in flagrante
, and make off with some hard evidence.'

'Exactly. Excellently put. Will you do it, Jem? This is my last resort'

'What's Headman like?'

'Wealthy, of course. Fortyish. Single. He's been in the company of a few ex-debs, so he's unlikely to be homosexual. There's never been a hint of scandal. He seems to be a regular clean-living chap.'

This assignment sounds like a piece of cake. Of course I'll do it. When do I start?'

'Immediately. This morning I used a call box to phone an old acquaintance of mine. She's a journalist, and she's just gone to Brazil, incognito, to do a TV report. Her name's Jemima Fawcett, but she calls herself Jem - so you don't even have to get used to a pseudonym. Here's her NUJ card, driving licence, credit cards. I don't think anyone can connect you with me. So from now on, you're her. You're working freelance - her employers, the TV company, certainly won't be prepared to tell anyone where she really is - and you're after a story about Headman. Profile of the successful entrepreneur, that sort of thing. As a journalist, you'll be expected to carry a camera and a tape recorder. Use them, Jem: get Headman in a compromising situation, and get him on tape or film. There's a directorship waiting for you if you pull this off.'

'What if he refuses to talk to me?'

'Use your natural talents, Jem. Unless he's made of reinforced concrete, he'll jump at the chance.'

'No, Larson. Absolutely not. Terence Headman is one of the wealthiest businessmen in the country. And a thoroughly respectable one. I can't authorise an investigation. You haven't got a shred of evidence.'

'But I am owed two weeks' leave,' Lucy said, smiling sweetly at the Chief Inspector as she crossed her legs and fluttered her eyelashes, 'and I can't think of a better place to spend a fortnight away than an exclusive health club -can you?'

if you get much fitter, Lucy, you'll develop pectorals that are even bigger than your - Well, never mind. Of course I can't stop you trying to get inside the Private House - but remember, you're on your own!'

Julia had had two pink gins on the aeroplane, and was feeling a little light-headed as she walked from the airfield's one runway towards the small cluster of airport buildings. She was worried about her underwear and her travelling bag: she had had to leave with both, to prevent Gerald becoming suspicious, but knickers and personal possessions were unnecessary - and disapproved of - at her destination. Once inside the almost deserted lounge, she made straight for the public conveniences.

Locked inside one of the cubicles and seated on the lavatory she felt safer, less flustered. These are down, she said to herself, lifting her high heels out of her cream silk camiknickers, and so they might as well come right off. She picked the sheer material off the floor, held the knickers to her cheek, and then stuffed them into her Liberty-print travelling bag. She rummaged through the few other items of clothing that the bag contained, making sure that none of them was labelled, and inspected her make-up and toiletries - all unremarkable brands, nothing unusual. She emptied her handbag on the tiled floor, and checked every compartment for anything that might carry her name. There was nothing to identify her except for two crumpled, handwritten shopping lists and the passenger copy of her air ticket. These three items she flushed down the toilet. Smiling ironically as she refolded the bundle of banknotes that Gerald had insisted she should take she refilled her handbag and stood up to place both bags on top of the cistern. A nice surprise gift for the next lucky lady to use this loo, Julia thought. I just hope Gerald has no cause to ransack my writing-desk while I'm away: he'll get dreadfully excited if he finds I've gone without my credit cards and cheque book.

One last check, Julia said to herself. Shoes: I think the heels are high enough. Stockings: black, that's always a safe bet, very sheer and with seams - which are straight. Suspender belt to match stockings, and I think the lace trim will be permitted. Skirt: full, pleated, light cotton. Blouse: matches the skirt, unbuttons at the front, cap sleeves. No bra. No jewellery - Almost forgot! I'm still wearing my wedding ring! Change it to the other hand, hope they let me keep it. Hair tied back with a red ribbon, matching lipstick and nail varnish. I hope they appreciate that touch. More makeup than I usually use - more blusher, mascara and eye-liner - but that's the way they like it, even though I think it makes me look a bit like a Parisian tart. Perfume in my armpits, between my breasts, between my legs, between my buttocks; they say that applying perfume should always sting, and this morning I shrieked so much I almost woke Gerald. Anything else? Nothing. No possessions, no identity. Just one final adjustment, in case something happens straight away. They'll want me to be ready, so . .. Two hands under the skirt; one at the front, one at the back. That perfume's almost overpowering. Not too fast: just touch the pubic hair, tease it a little, and meanwhile push forward from the back, thumbnail against arsehole, fingers into the warmth and softness. I'm already wet, I can't believe it, just from thinking about what they'll do to me. Oh, that's nice, fingers from the back pushing in and out, fingers from the front going back and forth, and there's my little clitoris, peeking out, asking to be fiddled with - No, I must stop. They won't like it if it's obvious I've been enjoying myself. Wipe fingers on a piece of toilet tissue. Can't get rid of the perfume smell, it's all over my hands. Never mind; time to go.

Julia emerged from the Ladies and saw a young man in old-fashioned chauffeur's livery. He hadn't been in the lounge when she had walked through it earlier. Her eyes met his and he raised a questioning eyebrow; she nodded. He turned and made for the glass doors, holding one of them open as she approached. She stopped in the doorway, and looked up into his grey eyes; she ran a fingernail along his square jaw.

The car is just outside, madam,' he said, placing a gloved hand on her waist and pulling her towards him. She placed her hands against his tunic and then, amazed at her own bravado, she reached beneath it to find, as she expected, that the front panel of his stiff trousers consisted of only a sort of codpiece of thin material through which she could feel every contour of his swelling prick. 'Steady on, madam,' the chauffeur whispered, 'we're not at the Private House yet.'

'Silly!' she replied, giving him a peck on the cheek. 'One is never really away.' There were several cars on the tarmac outside the airport buildings, but only one of them was a vintage Rolls Royce; Julia walked towards it, followed by the chauffeur.

They had driven through leafy country lanes for about half an hour before Julia decided to speak to the chauffeur again. 'Are we going straight to the House?' she said, i can't wait. It's odd, but I'm quite looking forward to it.'

'That was anticipated, madam,' the chauffeur replied in a level voice, 'and therefore the answer is, of course, no. I have been told to make a stop
en route
. In the woods.'

'And what are we to do in the woods?' Julia was excited and nervous at the same time, but did her best to replicate the chauffeur's measured tones.

'I have been told to make you cry, madam. "Clear evidence of copious weeping" is the exact requirement.'

Julia took a deep breath. 'And what will you do to make me cry?'

The chauffeur smiled at last. 'Whatever is necessary, madam. I have been told to use my own discretion. Perhaps you could offer a suggestion? Or should we abandon subtlety and go straight for the riding-crop? I think this is a suitable spot.'

The ancient car jolted to a stop, and the chauffeur held open Julia's door. 'Come along, madam,' he said. 'Take off your skirt, if you please, and face the car. L^gs wide apart. We're getting close to the Private House now.'

Day 3:
Tuesday

There were no filing clerks and no cabinets full of files, no typists and no word processors with beeping screens, no frantic executives and no rooms in which crisis meetings could be held. Terence Headman's private office was furnished as a tastefully-decorated, little-used luxury apartment on the top floor of a smart mews house - which is exactly what it was.

Terence Headman's personal assistant was curled on a
chaise longue
, reading not a confidential report but what appeared to be a paperback novel. The only sounds were the ticking of a grandfather clock and an occasional rattle of crockery from the direction of the kitchen. Miss Morelli looked up, smiled vaguely, and resumed her urgent scanning of the book. She did not, in Jem's opinion, look much like the personal assistant of a notoriously hard-working corporate predator; from the razor-cut spikes of her black hair to the golden patent-leather sandals that were about to drop from her lazily swinging stockinged feet, she looked more like a model taking a mindless break between photo-sessions.

Jem was becoming impatient. It had been surprisingly easy to make an immediate appointment to visit Headman's private office; but since then nothing had gone according to plan. Jem had taken care to dress in formal clothes, as she had expected to meet Headman in a formal office, but she had done her best to ensure that her appearance broadcast the correct seductive message. She had augmented the natural curls of her hair, and then pinned it up so that the cataract of auburn froth fell like a curtain behind her pixie-like ears; she had spent an hour over her make-up, carefully applying nail varnish, lip gloss, and face powder, and outlined her eyes and lips with painstaking precision. Her blouse was snow-white, and sheer enough to display the delicate lace tracery of her wispy bra; her skirt was short enough to reveal a glimpse of stocking-top whenever she crossed her legs, and tight enough to emphasise the curves of her bottom-cheeks. Her ankle-strap shoes, with heels even higher than those she normally wore, had been chosen to create a sensational arse-wiggle with every step she took.

But she had had no need to bother with these subtle variations on the theme of a businesswoman's suit: Headman's private office wasn't a real office at all. And looking seductive had been a complete waste of time: she hadn't met Headman, and in any case his personal assistant, apparently wearing nothing but a black lace tunic and black lace stockings and enough gold jewellery to wipe out the national debt of a small Third World republic, made Jem feel both overdressed and dowdy. She recrossed her legs and leant forward.

'Excuse me,' she said firmly. Miss Morelli frowned, sighed and looked up. 'Excuse me, but I didn't come here to write a piece about the interior decor of Terence Headman's apartment and the reading habits of his personal assistant. When will I meet Mr Headman himself?'

'Only when I'm sure that Mr Headman will want to see you, Miss Fawcett. There are at least two hurdles to clear before you have any hope of meeting him. But here comes Darren; we'll find out whether you've passed the first test, shall we?'

Darren appeared in the doorway that seemed to lead to the kitchen. He was tall, bronzed and muscular, with wavy blond hair and a square jaw that was so clean-shaven that it gleamed. He was wearing nothing but white training shoes and a pair of tight white shiny shorts. Carrying Jem's camera and briefcase on a tray, he padded across the carpet and stopped deferentially in front of Miss Morelli. A Californian-style beach god, Jem marvelled; more than a little out of place in the inner city.

'Darren's one of my boys,' Miss Morelli said proudly. 'Isn't he a hunk? Well, Darren, is this a bone fide Miss Fawcett?'

Darren blushed, and spoke hesitantly in an accent that originated south of the river. 'Yeah, she's OK, Miss Morelli. She checks out. This gear's a bit iffy. I mean, the Boss doesn't like cameras and tape recorders and that, does he? But it's all straight stuff, nothing hidden in it.'

'That's good, Darren. But Mr Headman isn't
the Boss,
is he? We call him Mr Headman, or the Master, don't we?'

'Yes, Miss Morelli. Sorry.' Darren's face was bright red, and Jem was sure that she detected a twitch beneath the taut material that barely covered the young man's bulging crotch.

'Well don't just stand there, boy. Return that equipment to Miss Fawcett, and ask her if she'd like a cup of tea.'

Darren turned, and with a ripple of muscles bent forward to place the tray on the seat next to Jem. She dragged her gaze away from his perfect torso and found herself staring into his wide, ice-blue eyes. 'Earl Grey, Miss?' he asked, in a hoarse whisper. 'Or China?'

'Earl Grey, please,' Jem managed to say, letting her gaze rest on Darren's groin as he straightened up. She was sure the bulge was growing, and it seemed to cause him nothing but embarrassment.

'Come here a moment, Darren,' Miss Morelli ordered in silky tones. He took a step and stood rigidly to attention beside her chair, flinching slightly as she ran her fingers across the tight curves of his bottom. 'He's a good boy, Miss Fawcett, but rather over-demonstrative. Aren't you, Darren?' she added, flicking a fingernail against the unmis-takeable erection that threatened to burst the fabric of his shorts. 'Run along now and make the tea.' The discomfited beach god mumbled a reply and fled into the kitchen.

Miss Morelli tossed her book aside, and with a jangle of gold bracelets stretched her slim arms above her head. She stood up, smiling smugly as Jem surveyed her tall lissome body, very little of which was covered by the black lace camisole top and matching G-string and suspender belt.