Act of Exposure (14 page)

As the warm
suds soothed their worries, they considered what had to be
done.

It was agreed
that Abigail and Carmel could transcend both of Stephen's worlds,
the professional and the sexual. That way, she could learn twice as
much.

He told her
about the police who had arrested him. One name was particularly
familiar.

'I also
remember passing other people. I remember a car driving away. A
sleek car. Black with tinted windows. It seemed familiar.'

'Did you see
its number plate or its make?'

He frowned
thoughtfully and stared at the top halves of her breasts around
which the white suds floated like blobs of soft meringue.

'I think it
was personalized, though I could be wrong. I only caught a brief
glimpse of it. There was a "G" I think, and only one number. One.
It had to be a one.'

Abigail, her
hair piled high upon her head, drew abstract lines in the bubbles
that surrounded her. There was something on her mind that she had
to say.

'Someone must
have seen you dressed as a woman before. How else would they have
recognized you?'

He stared. 'At
the Red Devil Club!'

She nodded.
'Yes. That means I am going to have to hang around there a lot more
than I usually do. It might also be useful to find out what goes on
upstairs. The membership list might be useful too.'

'What's the
difference between what goes on upstairs and what goes on down? I
mean, your dance is hot enough for me without anything else.'

Laughing, she
flicked bubbles at him. 'You're biased.'

'Of course I
am.'

Their eyes
locked. Neither admitted what they were feeling, although both felt
exactly the same way about each other. 'I'm going to have to do a
lot of dangerous things. A lot of questionable things.'

'I know.'

She held her
gaze steady. 'Do you? Do you really know what I'm trying to
say?'

He blinked as
realization sunk in. 'Yes,' he said softly. 'I think I do. No
matter who you question, especially as Carmel, you are going to
have to play along with everything they want you to do.'

She nodded
very slowly. Her eyes held his. 'Can you live with that?'

Floating
bubbles flurried and divided with the exhalation of his breath. 'I
can live with it, but only on one condition. Okay?'

'A condition?'
After despatching a frown, she tilted her chin and nodded
vigorously. It was as if she were shaking any apprehension from her
mind. 'Okay.'

'That whatever
sexual exploits you get involved in, you tell me about them. At
least then I can share them with you, as if I had been there with
you.'

Perhaps it was
the steam rising from the water, or perhaps it was purely her skin
reflecting the warmth she was feeling inside, but she flushed. From
her breasts, the flush crept up over her cheeks and shimmered
beneath her scalp. It was not the flush of embarrassment, of guilt,
or of shame. Excitement and hope were at the root of her sudden
pinkness. Stephen's sexual audacity was not entirely dormant. By
revealing the details of her enquiries, she would also be repeating
her sexual adventures and, in repeating them, she would be helping
him.

Across the
piles of slowly deflating bubbles, he reached for her, water
dropping from his fingers and his palm. She smiled and placed her
hand in his.

'I'll tell you
everything that happens. But first, I have other things to do,
questions to ask.'

Her first task
would be to talk to Carl Candel, the rent boy who had made
arrangements to meet him, and the arresting officer who had - so
say - witnessed the incident. That way, she should at least get
some idea of what she was dealing with. It seemed a simple
matter.

It did not,
however, turn out quite the way she had expected.

'Filthy,
unnatural beast. He does not deserve to represent the good people
of this country. He should resign!'

Lance was
listening to his mother, but not with quite the same attention he
usually gave to her loud exclamations. Before lunchtime, he'd
phoned the press office at Westminster to find out who was likely
to be representing Stephen Sigmund. The answer had cut him to the
bone. Abigail Corrigan. If he had been his normal self, he would
have informed his editor of their liaison and provided him with the
necessary evidence. In turn, his editor would have splashed the
photograph and a suitable headline across the front page of the
paper - something like LEGAL BEDFELLOWS or BYE BYE BI-SEXUAL. But
Lance had not told them anything of the goings on between the
politician and the barrister. Somehow, if he did that, he would be
exposing himself as well as Abigail. He couldn't do that. In fact,
he had a strong urge to protect her, to keep her relationship with
Sigmund private. Not that he would be willingly protecting Sigmund.
On the contrary, he would do all in his power to destroy him - as
ordered. But Abigail; he still wished to protect her from all this.
He would keep her apart from it, and when Sigmund was eventually
destroyed, he would step forward, ask her out again, make a point
of being where she was.

For the time
being, he would give his newspaper all it wanted about Sigmund.
Plenty of overtime would be booked in on that. Yet it would be
Abigail Corrigan he was following, Abigail who was his prime
objective.

DARREN IS A
WANKER, said the bright green graffiti. It was bigger than the rest
of the scrawl that covered the grey, concrete walls in the block of
flats where Carl Candel lived. It was also brighter and therefore
probably fresher than the rest of the rude comments and
exclamations about acquaintances and life in general.

Two small
children who looked too young to be out gazed at the woman in the
pin-striped suit, her silver blonde hair slicked back beneath a
black fedora. She was carrying a leather briefcase and vaguely
wondered if they were old enough to have learned the basic skills
of mugging.

''Ello,' said
one.

''Ello you old
cow,' said the other, grinning as if her words were funny as well
as taboo when directed at someone as other-worldly as her.

Abigail
Corrigan raised her eyebrows, stared at them hard, but made no
comment. She pressed the button that would bring the lift.

'It don't
bloody work, you silly cow!'

Giggles echoed
off the concrete walls and the grey metal of the grubby lift
doors.

Abigail
winced. The smallest child said this, a girl with tangled hair and
wearing a bright pink tracksuit that looked several sizes too big
for her.

Judging by the
fact that the "lift coming" light didn't come on, and there was no
sound of whirring machinery, Abigail took the budding young misfit
at her word, and headed for the stairs.

The smell of
urine, lighter fuel, and stale spew was strong. Luckily, Carl
Candel lived on the fourth floor. If it had been the tenth, she
might very well have thrown up before she reached it. Others had no
doubt felt the same, judging by the amount of half-digested stomach
contents already deposited at those angles where the stairs turned
and changed direction.

Carl lived at
number forty-three.

The open
veranda that ran past ten blue doors much the same as his was
empty, but then, it was only ten-thirty. Kids at school, adults at
work (some), others, along with unemployed adolescents, still in
bed or semi-comatose in front of a television set.

She reached to
heave a rat-a-tat on the letterbox since the door was devoid of a
knocker. As her fingers touched the door, it creaked slowly open.
Smoke and the smell of something burning came out into the air.

She shouted as
loud as she could into the billowing smoke. 'Mr Candel?'

Nothing.

Pushing
caution aside, she rushed in, and although she had never been in
this place before, she instinctively found the kitchen where a pan
of what might have been lentils, but were now reminiscent of black
gravel, burned on the cooker.

Quickly
finding a cloth, she grabbed the burning pan, carried it to the
sink, and turned on the tap. A cloud of steam rose to dampen her
hair and mist up the cold glass of the window.

She frowned.
Lentils? For breakfast? She looked around at the wipe-clean
cupboards, the uncluttered work surfaces. Nothing seemed to be out
of place.

Next to a bowl
of freshly-made salad, were two glasses and a half empty bottle of
Moroccan wine - a brand recently recommended on television, she
remembered - and slices of French stick, all buttered, all neatly
arranged in a basket.

Did this guy
entertain for breakfast? Salad? Wine?

The bread
crusts were hard to the touch. Last night, they must have been laid
out last night.

She called
again, but knew in her heart of hearts that Carl Candel would not
answer.

Another smell
came to her nose that vaguely resembled burnt pork. There was
nothing in the oven. Nothing on the top of the cooker or beneath
the grill. Wrinkling her nose, she followed where the smell took
her.

She found both
the smell and Carl Candel in the bedroom.

The bedroom
itself boasted a decor that was not exactly expected in a council
flat of meagre proportions and uninteresting design.

Apparently a
man with an eye for the dramatic, Carl Candel had taken it from the
ordinary to the phenomenal.

The bed was
low, and like the carpet and the curtains that formed a ceiling
above it, the colours were warm, vibrant; a variety of rich reds,
oranges, russets, and deep greens.

Everyone's
favourite, thought Abigail. A Bedouin tent, all set for a heroine
awaiting her sheik and a fate worse than death. Only Carl was that
heroine, and his fate was death.

Her throat
felt like a gooseberry; as though tiny little hairs had sprouted
all down it, and were preventing her from swallowing. But she
eventually made the effort, cleared her throat, then reached for
the telephone.

Her heart was
thumping. So was her head. But she kept her cool, kept her voice
level and precise.

She explained
where she was, who she was, and what the circumstances were.

'He's naked,
lying face down on the bed, and spread-eagled. His wrists and
ankles are tied at each corner. There's a metal rod sticking out
from his rectum. There's a wire running from it direct to a three
pin plug. He's been electrocuted.'

There was a
pause on the other end of the phone.

'You're
joking.' The voice was incredulous, almost scared. The listener was
not necessarily horrified, but more obviously fascinated.

Abby's voice
remained steady. 'I'm not laughing. Neither's he.'

She put the
phone down.

Before the
police came, she wanted to have a look round. Despite the area he
lived in, Carl Candel had a sense of style and displayed good
taste. Watercolours in black frames hung on white walls in the
living room. The carpet was white, the furniture black leather,
chrome, and glass. A red light blinked above the CD button on the
sound system. Wrapping a tissue round her finger, she flicked a
switch, and the disk holder slid out. Leonard Cohen. Dark, she
thought, sensual, like Carmel, her other half.

The blinds
were still drawn. She thought about opening them, but stopped
herself. After all, who had shut them in the first place? It might
have been Carl, or it might have been the murderer. There might be
prints on them.

She went again
into the kitchen. Wine, salad, French bread. Dinner. Such things
said dinner. So why had it taken so long for the lentils to boil
dry, and what else was there to go with them? Surely something more
palatable than a dish of sullen colour and dull taste?

Two uniformed
men arrived before the Scene of Crimes Officer.

They muttered
something about her staying around for questioning. They went into
the scene of the crime, then came out again.

When the
plainclothes bod got there, he introduced himself, although he
didn't really need to. But of course, he didn't know that.

'Paul
Bennet.'

'Abigail
Corrigan QC. I came here to question Carl Candel about the Sigmund
incident. I am acting for Mr Stephen Sigmund, MP.'

Up until then,
his eyes had been cruising over her body as though he owned it - or
would like to. He blinked before looking at her face.

'Then I might
as well inform you that I shall be asking Mr Sigmund a few
pertinent questions.'

'And he will
be giving you a few pertinent answers, Inspector Bennet - like he
was with me last night.'

Paul Bennet
smirked. She could have easily slapped his face, hit the arrogance
from it. It took a lot of self control not to.

'What makes you think this,' he paused, '
man
- was killed last night. You a
pathologist?'

As though she
were a school teacher, and he was the wayward pupil, she beckoned
him with her finger. Her eyes glared without blinking once, and her
mouth was serious.

'Come here,'
she ordered and, begrudgingly, he obeyed.

In the
kitchen, she pointed at the wine, the bread, the salad. 'Last
night's proposed meal, but all untouched. Left just as it was,
including the bottle of wine.'

'What about
that?'

Just as she
supposed he would, Bennet pointed at the burnt saucepan that was
still smouldering in the sink.

Abigail turned
a knob on the stove. It pinged - not unlike a sonar on a Second
World War submarine.

'Timer.
Someone used a timer.'

A mocking look
and tone came to Bennet. 'Now why would that be, Miss
Corrigan?'

'Because, Mr
Bennet,' she emphasized the Mr almost as though it suited him
better than inspector, 'whoever it was killed him wanted the
circumstances of Candel's death noticed. The smoke was already
filtering out along the passageway when I arrived, and the front
door was open.'