Exposure (17 page)

‘I'm not surprised,' Julia said. ‘It must have been horrific.'

‘Yes, it was. So much suffering, such terrible devastation. She wrote long letters describing it. She was a very good correspondent, and we'd always been close. I admired her; I thought she was so dashing and exciting.' Jean Adams gave a rueful smile. ‘I wished I'd been able to join in the war and do something useful, but I was just too young. Aunt Phyl was really affected by what she saw in those camps. She threw her heart into working for the people and trying to help. She came back to England in 1947 and took me out to lunch in London. I was working there as a secretary, and I'd just got engaged to Bob, my husband. I remember her saying, “I feel I'm doing something worthwhile for the first time in my life, Jean. Not just having fun. I'm helping people who've lost everything, families, homes, hope—” Then she laughed at herself, embarrassed, I suppose. “If I'm not careful, I'll be a reformed character, and that won't do.” She was a tremendous person. Have you ever hated anybody?'

‘No, no. I don't think so.'

‘You're lucky. It's a terrible feeling. I've hated Hans Koenig for forty years because of what he did to my aunt. I never think of him as Harold King. She wrote to me about him. I was getting married and she couldn't get time off for the wedding. She told me she'd found this wonderful young man, so sensitive and intelligent – quite alone, all his family lost, he'd been a slave on a farm in East Germany and the traumas had marked him for life. He didn't even know his real name. And then the letters changed.' She looked away from Julia, into some grim memory of her own.

‘She wrote she was in love,' Jean Adams said. ‘Really in love for the first time in her life. The age difference didn't matter; he needed her so much and he was so grateful and loving – they were so happy together. I remember reading it and thinking, Good God, this isn't Aunt Phyl – it reads like a bad novelette. But I was too wrapped up in my own wedding to worry about it. My mother didn't take any notice. “Oh, it's just one of Phyl's fancies. She'll get bored with him, like all the others.” I think Mother was a bit jealous of her; she wasn't the one with the looks and personality. Then my aunt came back to England and asked us to Fulham to meet him. They were married. I don't know what I expected. Some romantic Slav with soulful eyes, I suppose. But he wasn't like that. He was arrogant. Yes, arrogant and smug. Very physical. I couldn't help seeing what she found attractive in him. And she was besotted, behaving like a silly girl half her age. He didn't like me or Bob, and it was mutual. Bob said to me afterwards, “I think your poor aunt's in for trouble.” I thought so too. I only saw her a few times after that, and she'd gone rapidly downhill. She'd always liked a drink, but it was never a problem. She was actually tight at lunch-time when she came down here one Sunday. Bringing him with her, of course. There was a horrible atmosphere. I'll never forget it. He was so rude to her, so hostile. She looked miserable.' She paused. Julia sensed that even after all these years, it distressed her.

‘When did you see her again?' she asked.

‘About ten days before her accident. She rang me up and asked me to come to London. She wanted to talk to me urgently. I thought she sounded very strange. We had lunch together, and she told me this extraordinary story.' She paused, and then went on.

‘Koenig,' she said, clearing her throat slightly, ‘Koenig never drank. Nothing. Not even beer. He hated Aunt Phyl drinking anything, even in the very early days when she took him to live with her in Germany. She did tell me that, and said it was rather sweet, but she didn't see why she couldn't have a gin and tonic at the end of a long day … Of course, as she got more and more miserable and he was nastier to her, bullying her for money, she took to the bottle in a big way.

‘It drove him mad, apparently. He used to hit her sometimes – never in the face where it showed, but on the body. He'd punched her black and blue several times. Then one night he'd been out for a walk – she never knew where he went, but he'd disappear off for hours at a time – he came back and she was tight. And then he did something extraordinary, quite out of character. He poured himself a big gin. She couldn't believe it. He stood over her, and he said, “Now, you drunken old cow, I'll show you what you are. I'm going to lie in the bed snoring and stinking of gin like you do. I'm going to be too drunk to fuck you, you old bag, and you won't like that.” Apparently it was the most dreadful scene; she began to cry in the restaurant when she was telling me, word for word. The insults, so personal, so terribly cruel. And he did it. He got blind drunk that night. She said she was so frightened she sobered up completely. He was like a madman. And he told her the truth about himself.

‘He wasn't Polish or a refugee. He'd been in the German army and fought in the Western Desert. He told her he'd murdered a group of British prisoners of war. He boasted he'd shot them down in cold blood after they'd surrendered!'

Julia drew in her breath. ‘He said that! My God – he admitted murder?'

‘Yes,' Jean Adams insisted. ‘That's what she told me. He boasted of it. He thought he'd killed them all, but one of them survived. He found that out afterwards. She said he yelled at her – “Bad shooting.” He was afraid he'd be charged with war crimes after the war. So he threw away his uniform, joined the refugees and invented the whole story. My aunt was trembling. I remember very well. I did say to her he might have been making it up, if he was so drunk and out of control … but she wouldn't hear of it.' She paused for a moment. Then she said in a low voice, ‘She also told me he raped her that night.'

Julia didn't say anything. She waited until Jean Adams spoke again.

‘The next morning he denied it all, of course. He said alcohol drove him crazy, made him imagine things. He begged her to forgive him. She said he was crying.' She looked at Julia. ‘Poor thing, she said she wanted to believe him, she really did. But she couldn't. She looked completely broken. I can see her now, sitting there, saying she wished she was dead. “He's not going to get my money,” she said. “I'm seeing my solicitor this afternoon, he's drawn up a new will.” Ten days later she had the accident. But a copy of the will had come to me in the post. I was amazed to see she'd left me everything. She'd given me the means of getting rid of him. Bob and I faced him when she had to leave the hospital. Her solicitor backed us up. We told him we were applying for guardianship and we showed him the copy of her will. He'd get five hundred pounds from us if he cleared out of the house and undertook never to see her or contact us again. He didn't argue. He just shrugged. “I can't fight you,” that's what he said. “I'm only a poor foreigner.” He signed an undertaking and Bob gave him the money. He said he'd go back to Germany. We believed him. We sold the house and moved my aunt down to Sussex. We took care of her till she died.'

She got up, putting the coffee cups on the tray. They didn't speak for a while. At the door Jean Adams said, ‘Some years afterwards Harold King was being written up and photographed and we realized he was the same man. It was too late then. He was a millionaire and a public figure. We had a family and a lot to lose. My husband was a cautious man. He said it was best left alone. I agreed with him because of my aunt. But I've regretted it over the years. I'll just put these things in the kitchen.' Julia followed her out.

A young labrador, black like the old bitch by the fireside, bounded up to meet them. ‘Daisy's granddaughter,' she explained, bidding the puppy firmly to get down. ‘Bob died two years ago and I just can't bear to be without one of this family. My son has the daughter and they gave me Poppit for Christmas. She's a handful to train but she's great fun. I wish I could offer you lunch, but I'm going out with a friend. We belong to a bridge club, and we always treat ourselves to lunch first. She's a widow too.'

‘Thanks anyway, Mrs Adams, but I've got to get back to my office. Would you be prepared to sign an affidavit, setting down exactly what you've told me?'

Jean Adams hesitated. ‘I'll have to speak to my solicitor first,' she said. ‘I'll let you know what he says.'

‘Do you have the original undertaking King gave you in exchange for the five hundred pounds?'

‘The firm would have it; Bob never kept documents at home in case of a fire or a burglary. I'm sure it's still there somewhere.'

A cautious man, as she said. She came to the door with Julia.

‘What a smart car,' she remarked. ‘Young women have so many opportunities these days.'

‘I can't thank you enough,' Julia said quietly. She held out her hand and the older woman took it in a firm grasp. ‘I'm so very sorry about what happened to your aunt. I hope it hasn't upset you too much – talking about it.'

‘It just makes me angry,' Jean Adams answered. ‘I really would like to see that swine gets his just deserts. I hope you do it!'

‘I'll do my very best, I promise you. Let me know what your solicitor says.'

‘I will. Goodbye.' She turned and closed the door and Julia went down the short path to the road and into her car. She felt oppressed, as if the other woman had laid some burden on her. The burden of evil that had gone unpunished. It was a strange, outmoded phrase, dredged up from somwhere in her memory, but it was very apt.

Whatever she had promised Ben Harris, she insisted, she wasn't backing out of this one.

There was nothing Joe could do till the boss got back from America. He had the information for him and there didn't seem to be any urgency. The
Herald
feature hadn't come out with anything yet. It was still a case of ‘Watch this space'. He took himself and one of his coloured girls to the races in France. He had plenty of money, they stayed in good hotels, ate well, and he had a run of good luck with the horses. He felt generous and he gave her some spending money. He was sorry he hadn't brought the other girl; he liked threesomes, but it might have been awkward, where they were staying. He met up with some Irish who were over for the meeting and they had a great time. He picked up the tabs and played the big man, and kept the girl out of sight. He knew his countrymen. They were good at downing the jars, but they were prudes at heart.

When he came back he put a call through to King's personal secretary. Face like a copper's boot and no tits. King never mixed business with pleasure. She had some surprising news for him.

‘Mr King flew back two days ago,' she said. ‘He's been trying to contact you, Mr Patrick.'

Joe swore softly. ‘He wasn't expected till the end of the week,' he said. ‘Anything wrong?'

‘Not that I know of,' the voice was cool. She didn't like Joe Patrick. She thought he was common and cheeky. Once he'd tried to chat her up. She knew he was mocking her. ‘You'd better call him. He's in his car on the way to lunch at BZW.'

Joe was scared. He hesitated, thinking how best to explain his absence – without leaving a contact number. That was his mistake. King wanted him and couldn't find him. He wouldn't like that. He said, ‘Shit,' several times, and then nerved himself to dial the car phone.

King always called his home when he was away. He was in a good mood, because the negotiations with Field Bank were going well, and the funding for a frontal assault on Western International looked viable without too big a borrowing commitment. It was early days, but his confidence was soaring. He smelt blood, and his instincts had never failed him. He spoke to his wife first; she was nearest when the telephone rang. She chattered about her committee meeting for the East London hospices and how they had asked the Princess of Wales' office to suggest a date for a big charity function.

The Princess, always eager to help the suffering, proposed an earlier date than they hoped, and her presence would ensure substantial funds.

King let her run on – he was in a good mood – and then cut in and asked if Gloria was there. Gloria was on her way out to dinner, but, hearing her father was on the line, hurried back. She didn't care if she was late.

‘How's my girl?'

‘Missing you, Daddy. How's it going?'

‘It's going fine. Hard bargaining, but I'm getting there. Anything I should know?'

Gloria remembered the special delivery. ‘There's a package for you. It came last week.'

‘Oh – what kind of package?'

‘It looks like documents,' Gloria answered. ‘It's marked private, personal and confidential. I put it in your desk. Do you want me to send it over? Shall I open it for you?'

‘No – no!' The change of tone alarmed her. He was shouting at her. ‘It's been there since last week? For Christ's sake you stupid little …' Gloria gasped as he spat the filthy epithet at her. ‘Why didn't you call me at once?'

‘Daddy, I didn't know …' Tears were welling up.

‘You get it over here by DHL. Tonight, so I have it in the morning – you do it, you hear me?'

‘Yes,' she was crying now. ‘Yes, I'll do it right away. Oh Daddy, I'm so sorry. It wasn't my fault …' But the line was dead.

Her mother had left the room when she took the phone. She couldn't bear the cosy telephone calls between father and daughter. Now she came back and saw Gloria in tears.

She smiled. ‘What's the matter, darling? Lovers' quarrel?'

Gloria swung on her. Hatred flared up openly between them when King was safely absent. ‘Shut up! Shut up, you cow!'

Marilyn King kept that maddening little smile on her face. Her daughter looked so ugly when she cried, her skin was blotched and she blundered about like a wounded animal, making her way to the door.

‘You'll be late for dinner!' her mother called out.