Exposure (20 page)

There had been no word from Jean Adams since his visit two days ago. Beyond Julia's window, the London skyline shimmered in late-autumn sunshine.

They were getting closer, some of the smoke screen was lifting here and there, showing glimpses of darker things than she had ever imagined.

Harold King was concealed in the heart of it; a charlatan, a liar, and, by his own admission in a drunken frenzy, a man who had shot down unarmed men and gloried in it. And probably attempted to murder his wife. This, Julia recognized, was not the push-button killing of rivals like Hayman and Lewis by men hired for the job. King had reddened his own hands.

She pictured him in the exclusive restaurant, a crude bully, play-acting the part he had adopted as a public face. The man of power, the vulgarian, the genius who overrode opposition like the murderous Juggernaut of ancient India, crushing whatever lay in its path.

That gave him a superhuman image, a larger-than-life perspective that perpetuated the legend. Behind it was someone very different. Someone cold and cunning, with the killer's immunity from conscience. A man with one weakness. He could never drink alcohol; it loosed the demons and took control of his tongue. His well-known abstinence was a discordant note. It was not compatible with King, the self-proclaimed bon viveur who loved the high style. It was part of Hans Koenig, who knew that never again in his life must he touch a drink.

The office was air-conditioned. But Julia shivered as if a draught had suddenly found its way into that controlled atmosphere and chilled her. She would miss Ben that evening. He had sounded worried on the telephone. His daughter was in trouble and she'd surfaced after years of minimum contact. Julia had said, of course he must go and try to sort it out. Lucky girl, to be able to call on him and have him come running. It made her think of her own parents. She didn't feel like spending the evening with friends, though a call would have brought invitations to dinner by most people she knew. She was well known, a social catch. And she wasn't encumbered by Felix any longer. He hadn't been popular with her friends. She hadn't seen him or heard of him, and he had slipped into the background of her mind. She was sure he had replaced her very quickly, and that he was getting on with his own life in his own way. She buzzed through to her secretary.

‘Call my parents will you, Jenny – thanks.'

Her father was put through. He sounded delighted when she asked if she might come down and spend the evening. No, Julia insisted, her mother was not going to spend the time in the kitchen – they would all go out to dinner. Would he book somewhere really nice – she didn't know the restaurants in the area. Her mother took over the conversation. How lovely – she sounded so pleased Julia kicked herself for not making time for them more often. Yes, it would be a treat to go out instead of cooking, but only if Julia stayed the night. She wouldn't feel happy if she had to drive all the way back in the dark.

So many dreadful things happened to women these days – supposing the car broke down – Julia didn't argue. It was protective and warm hearted; it didn't irritate her any more as it used to when she was less assured. It would be fun to sleep in her old room. She could start very early in the morning and be in her office in plenty of time. She wouldn't be home when Ben rang, but she could record a message on her answering machine giving him the Surrey number. She felt very happy and the sombre mood had disappeared. She didn't think about Harold King as she let herself into her flat, and changed the message on her answerphone so Ben could get in touch with her.

The hired surveillance reported her leaving the flat at six o'clock. Then they started tailing her BMW as it drove out of London. It was the chance for Joe's other contacts to take over.

They had already called on Jean Adams.

It was quite early in the morning and she had not taken her dogs out for their walk when the telephone engineers rang to report a fault on the line. Jean was in the kitchen eating a frugal breakfast and reading
The Times
. She found the
Telegraph
too solidly right wing; the idea of
The Times'
impartiality was a legacy from her youth and she believed it firmly.

‘There's no fault on my line,' she protested. ‘I've made two calls out this morning.'

‘It's incoming calls, madam,' the man said. ‘That's where the problem is. I'd like to send someone round to check the connection. Will you be there in half an hour?'

She decided to postpone the walk till later. She had nothing much to do that morning anyway. Except make the telephone call to her solicitor with her decision. The walk with the dogs had been a planned diversion. She'd slept so badly and worried the problem to and fro before making up her mind. Let the telephone engineer come and put the wretched fault right. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘I'll be here. I must say your service has improved. I used to wait for up to two days if anything went wrong. Privatization, I suppose.'

‘Glad you're satisfied, madam. Half an hour and our engineer will be with you.'

He sounded a pleasant man, Jean thought. They'd been so surly in the old days. At least the Government had done
something
right. She made a fresh pot of tea and finished reading
The Times
. The telephone engineer arrived exactly half an hour later. It took him ten minutes to check the phone in her sitting room and the bedroom extension. He was a dour young man who didn't invite conversation. He came downstairs and said, ‘It's all fixed.'

‘What was the matter?' she asked him. She didn't like his manner. He gave her the impression he'd been called out for nothing.

‘Loose wire, no fault in the connections. You won't have any more trouble.'

‘I wasn't aware I had any in the first place,' Jean Adams said sharply.

She wasn't going to put up with surliness. She walked into the hall and let him out. She didn't thank him for coming. She lifted her downstairs phone. It was working perfectly. The bug was voice activated, and the calls were recorded and transmitted by remote control to a central number which in turn logged them and recorded them. Jean Adams took the elderly Daisy for a short trot up and down the street and then put her back in the house. The boisterous puppy needed a good hour's exercise and she set off by car for the open countryside.

It was a lovely autumn morning, crisp and sunny. She came back invigorated and calm. At twelve-fifteen she telephoned her solicitor and told him she would come in the next afternoon and sign the affidavit. He hadn't wanted to prepare it, poor man. He'd pleaded and argued, and used delaying tactics which had cost her a lot of worry and lost sleep, but she had always known in her heart that she was going to hold out against him.

At her age there wasn't much future to consider. Let that loathsome creature do his worst, and damn the consequences!

During the day there were other phone calls. Social calls, a query about a bill from the electricity board, and the call to the office of Barrat & Thompson, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths. Joe Patrick played the tape to Harold King on a portable machine no bigger than a cigarette packet.

They sat in Joe's office. It was a plush room, furnished in an aggressive, modern style which he felt demonstrated his prosperity. He had an expensive and very graphic female nude, complete with pubic hair, hanging on the wall opposite his plate-glass desk. King sat sprawled in a big leather Swedish chair that swivelled when he moved. One of Joe's girls had brought them a tray, with whiskey for Joe and mineral water for King. The air was thick with cigar smoke. King listened without movement or change of expression. The deadpan look meant he was at his most dangerous.

The voice of Jean Adams was clear and crisp.

‘I know you're going to argue with me, Dick, but I know it's the right thing to do. I'm going to sign the affidavit. I want you to put in it everything I told you, and I'll come in tomorrow.'

The man called Dick was pleading with her.

‘Jean – what good will it do? You've no proof King tried to kill your aunt – you've let the matter lie since 1950 – why bring it up now?'

Her voice cut in on him. ‘And what about those prisoners he said he murdered—' Joe Patrick risked a quick look at Harold King. His florid skin was greying as the blood drained from the surface. Joe kept his eyes averted after that.

‘My dear, it's only hearsay … don't you see that your aunt's alcoholism made everything she said suspect? You didn't really believe her yourself.'

‘I didn't want to,' the tone rose in self-accusation. ‘Bob talked me round. Just like you're trying to – you men all want a quiet life!' She gave a brisk little laugh. ‘Dick dear, let's not talk about it any more. I failed to have the courage of my convictions once. I've got a chance to put that right. I'll be in your office at two-thirty tomorrow. And why don't you and Betty come round and have supper with me in the evening?'

‘We'd love to,' the voice was resigned. ‘All right, Jean. See you at two-thirty.'

There was a heavy silence as Joe switched the recorder off. He waited for King to speak. At last, clearing his throat of nervous phlegm, he said, ‘There were other calls, but this was the one I thought you'd want to hear.'

Harold King drew on his cigar. He was in shock. He could feel it. His body was cold, and a chill sweat was breaking out under his clothes. His strong heart pumped furiously in response. He tipped ash off the end of his cigar, on to Joe's geometric carpet. The ashtray was at his elbow, but he didn't see it.

‘She's talking cock,' he said. He looked at Joe and there was such a threat in that look that Joe Patrick blinked and cleared his throat again.

‘Absolute cock,' King repeated, emphasizing each word. His accent came out as a guttural snarl.

‘Yeah,' Joe agreed quickly. ‘Cock,' he echoed.

Never explain, was one of King's maxims when dealing with underlings. But instinct counselled otherwise this time. The Irishman was cunning as a rat. ‘Her aunt was a piss artist.' He drew on the cigar again, calming himself. There was no reason to explain who the aunt was.

‘She had DTs. She had hallucinations …'

‘Yeah,' Joe nodded. ‘Sure. Me own grandmother was like that – shoutin' the odds about being robbed and poison put in her food …' Like King, stress brought out his native brogue. King shut him up with a gesture.

‘It's cock, but that wouldn't stop the
Sunday Herald
making use of it,' he said. ‘I've got big deals going. I can't afford hassle. Fix it, Joe. No affidavit.' He levered himself out of the chair which swung awkwardly under his heavy body.

Joe Patrick was on his feet. He said in a soft voice, full of the lilt of his native tongue, ‘I'd best take care of it meself. Leave it with me.'

King didn't speak. He just nodded and the eye contact confirmed what had been agreed. Joe's girl helped him on with his coat and opened the door for him after she'd called up his car on the phone. She was good-looking, he thought, appraising her. He didn't go for colour, but she was beautiful in her way.

He had recovered his nerve. His body heat had regulated, and the heart was steady. Joe would make sure there was no signed affidavit lodged where Julia Hamilton and ‘Exposure' could make use of it. He trusted Joe. He was imaginative. He'd make it convincing. He sat back in his car, and slowly he relaxed. And began to think it through. Germany was where the leak had sprung, in spite of his precautions. Break the Jean Adams connection and there was nothing but hearsay from the past. There was an old business saying he liked to quote: when you want to break up a syndicate, cut the heads off one at a time. Jean Adams would be the first.

Ben Harris faced his daughter. He'd forgotten how pretty she was. She had her mother's blue eyes and blond hair. It was a pretty face, but it was drawn with worry and there were dark shadows under her eyes.

‘I can't tell Mum,' she said. ‘She'd freak.'

She picked up her cup of coffee and sipped from it. She was a stranger to him, although there were traces of the child he used to bounce on his knee at bedtime. A grown young woman with a problem she couldn't share with her mother and her stepfather. So, after years of neglect, she had asked him for help.

‘He's the problem,' she said. ‘He's a real pain about this sort of thing. He'd say it was disgracing the family.'

Ben didn't answer. He had never met or spoken to the man his wife had married. He had never even been curious about him. He had assumed that he was a good father to his stepchildren. Apparently not in this instance.

‘It's none of his business,' Ben said at last. ‘It's your choice.'

‘Yes,' his daughter said quickly, ‘that's what I feel. I want to keep it, Dad. It's not Pete's fault. I was the one that slipped up.' Pete, he had elicited, was the married boyfriend who wasn't ever going to break up his home. He already had three children. ‘Trouble is –' She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment. ‘Trouble is, I haven't got much money …'

Ben helped her out. It pained him to see her embarrassment with him. He was her father, after all.

‘You mean you haven't got any,' he prompted.

‘I'm in my last year at college,' she said. ‘I've got ninety quid in the bank. My grant pays the rent and Mum makes me an allowance …' She trailed off again. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I feel awful coming to you like this,' she said. ‘I took Mum's part when you broke up and it just sort of drifted after that.' Ben reached across the café table and put his hand on hers.

‘Lucy love, you don't need to apologize. I was a lousy father. And your mother was right to pack it in. I'd like to make it up to you. You want this baby, go ahead and have it. I'll see you right for money, that's no problem. But you'll have to tell her.'