Exposure (40 page)

‘Did you tell the police?'

‘I tried to, but I could see they thought I'd probably imagined it. Oh God, it was so terrifying … The worst thing is, they can't find Pussy!'

‘That', Felix said, ‘is the least of your worries. It's probably hiding somewhere, terrified out of its life. You really think he was going to kill you?'

‘Yes,' she said slowly. ‘I'm sure of it. That was no burglar. He'd planned it all, waiting till the middle of the night, shouting “Fire” to panic me into opening my door. It's Jean Adams all over again.' She shuddered. ‘It could be the same man …'

‘Look,' he said. ‘You put this on the back burner for tonight. Do you have a sleeping pill? No – OK. Then go to bed and try to sleep. I'll doss down here on the sofa and we'll call Harris first thing in the morning. My guess is he'll move you out of here. I haven't got room, or you could stay at my place. It's just a bachelor pad.'

Julia looked at him. ‘Thanks,' she said. ‘Thanks, Felix. Thanks for coming over. I didn't know what to do, or where to turn …'

‘No problem,' he grinned at her. ‘What's an ex-boyfriend for, when you nearly get yourself murdered? Now, off to bed. And don't worry about the cat, you silly female, it'll be found tomorrow.'

Joe Patrick was not at his address. The office was closed and there was no-one in his luxury flat. He hadn't been seen for nearly a fortnight. Nobody knew where he had gone. Enquiries were circulated among the shady denizens of the half world where Joe Patrick had his early contacts. The word was out. Find Patrick and there was money or favours in kind. No public statement was issued; Jean Adams' killing was still unsolved, and interest had soon died down. Murder, even with such a vicious element in it, was too commonplace. A pre-Christmas child abduction made the tabloid front pages, and filled the TV screens. The search for Joe Patrick was kept under wraps for fear of alerting him. Tina and Tracey were living in a safe house under round-the-clock police protection. But, so far, nobody had come forward with information.

‘I'll never forgive myself,' Ben Harris kept saying to her. ‘I shouldn't have left you.'

‘Darling, don't be silly, I wouldn't let you come home. You had to look after Lucy … I was just shocked. I'm all right now.'

‘No you're not,' he said. ‘You look a wreck. We're packing up here and you're coming to a hotel with me and Lucy, and that's the end of it. This place belongs to that bastard Western, anyway. He can have it back. I called the office and he's due home tomorrow. I've got an appointment. He won't like what I've got to say to him.'

She let him hold her close. It wasn't time to argue. He was too upset by what had happened to her, too guilty about his absence. The news that he had been sacked didn't give him a moment's concern. His only thought was for her. She knew that he would insist on her giving up. Publicly withdrawing from the campaign against Harold King. Stepping out of the firing line. And she knew that, in spite of nearly losing her life, she wasn't going to do it. But it wasn't time to tell him. Yet. She changed the subject gently. ‘Thank God we found Pussy. Do you know, darling, I was so upset about losing her.'

She had been discovered the next day crouched down under the hoover and cleaning materials in the caretaker's broom cupboard. No-one could think how she got there, except that she'd slipped in during the police search when the door was open.

‘She saved your life,' Ben said slowly. ‘That makes me feel even worse.'

No, Julia decided, changing roles and trying to reassure him, it was not the time to argue about Harold King. She had made up her mind what had to be done, and she had to do it alone. Afterwards, she could explain it to Ben Harris and persuade him that she hadn't any choice.

‘I feel bad about it, Harry. Real bad. He's never fouled up on a business contract before.' Mario was apologetic. He had called King in the country on a weekend, just a few days after he got back from his trip.

‘These things happen,' King was dismissive. ‘I understand.'

‘I didn't!' the voice was an angry snarl. ‘Just didn't believe it. I sent a guy down to verify. And it was true. Cat attacked him; he's just out of hospital. Yeah … blood poisoning. Incredible, eh? Never keep a cat –' Then, after a pause, ‘You want we should send another contract expert to take a look at the proposition, find a bottom-line solution?'

‘No need,' King said. ‘It's solved itself. Thanks, anyway. There's no fee for your expert, then.' It wasn't a question.

‘We pay on results,' was the answer. ‘No fee. He can meet his own goddamned medical bills. How's the family? Getting ready for Christmas? We've got my wife's mother, my sister and her kids, my uncle and
their
kids. But it's Christmas. It's good to have the family all together. How about you?'

‘We go to Switzerland, to my place in Gstaad. Just Marilyn and Gloria and me.'

And Leo Derwent, but he didn't mention that. Gloria had booked Leo into the Regent. He wouldn't be at all surprised if she was paying the bill. A junior minister couldn't afford a week's stay at the Regent around Christmas. If he'd even been able to get a room in the attic. The name of King had secured a vacancy.

‘You ski?' Mario was making conversation. King knew he was embarrassed by the failure of his man to get Julia. It didn't matter now. Her departure from the
Sunday Herald
was in every newspaper and rated a mention on BBC and ITV news. Western had fired Harris, too. It was made to sound an amicable parting with a lot of unctuous horseshit from Western himself, saying how sorry he was to lose such a talented young journalist. ‘Exposure' would be headed up by a new star in the newspaper's stable … The December issue would expose a national scandal, etc., etc. Western had lost his nerve. And Harold King knew it. Hamilton had gone to Jersey, looking for something to incriminate King, and come back with Richard Watson's well-told tale about a sergeant, name of William Western. And nothing else.

He answered the question about skiing. ‘Not me, not now. I used to be good, but one accident was enough. I haven't time to lie up with a broken leg.' He laughed. ‘Like you, I'm a busy man. Have a good holiday. My best to all the family.'

He hung up. It was a cold, grey day. Western's feature was due out that Sunday. He wasn't worried. Hamilton would get another job, but she wouldn't be taking any story with her. And when Western went down, he'd exercise a little influence with her new employer. She wouldn't hold on to any job for long. If she was lucky, she could write another book … if she could find a publisher prepared to make an enemy of Harold King. He chuckled to himself. He went to the window and looked out at the grey landscape, the leafless trees and the mist rising from a lake which he could glimpse from his study window. It was cheerless, bleak. He thought of the crisp snow and sun, the bright skies of Switzerland. The mountain air, the majestic alps rearing their heads into the clouds … the scenery spoke to him of his origins. He would never go to Germany now. Switzerland was as near as he would come to his roots. He had no roots, he reminded himself, impatient with the brief twinge of nostalgia. Nostalgia was for the senile. He had years ahead of him. He thought of his daughter and her infatuation. Let it run for the moment. He wouldn't buy Leo Derwent off with money. His price was political office. Soon, King would be powerful enough to obtain it for him. On condition that he gave up Gloria. She'd get over it. She'd go on to a better man, a man worthy to be her consort.

He felt contented, happy. He turned away from the dreary view of an English landscape in December. They'd go to Gstaad early, he decided suddenly. Marilyn could spend his money Christmas shopping there just as well as in London.

‘William,' his wife said, ‘you can't win.' He had never expected her to say that. If ever his spirits flagged, Evelyn rallied them with her own courage. They were out walking in the chill, damp afternoon, muffled in tweeds and heavy scarves, two elderly people braving the miserable weather to take exercise in their own parkland. Two golden labradors ran on ahead of them. Western didn't like dogs, but they were part of a country gentleman's equipment, like Purdey guns and a keeper. Evelyn made pets of them, so they were not good gun dogs. He didn't care. He used his shoot to impress his guests, not for his own enjoyment.

‘I can try,' he said. ‘I've got a lot of money. I can fight back.'

‘You can't fight on his terms,' she answered. ‘Rumours, share fixing, bought financial journalists. You can't win, darling. Not without Julia Hamilton.'

‘I can't win with her,' he said. ‘After what happened at her flat, I had to buy Harris off with public statements and a hefty contract settlement. It
could
have been a burglar, it could have been something else. Harris was convinced it was a contract killer. Like Jean Adams. It's no good Evie – I tried to get Harold King exposed for what we know he is. A crook, and probably a murderer. But I failed, so all I can do now is fight him in the open and take my chance. It's getting really cold. I think we should go back in.' They turned, calling the dogs who trotted back to them obediently. They walked in silence until the house came into view.

‘She wasn't telling the truth, was she, Billy?' The question caught him unprepared.

‘What do you mean? Truth about what?'

‘Those other men weren't shot down, were they? It was crossfire?'

He stopped and turned her to look at him. A wisp of white hair had escaped her hat and drifted across her cheek. It filled him with tenderness to see it. She was so beautiful he often forgot how old she really was. ‘I've never lied to you, Evie. Never.'

‘I know you haven't,' she said gently. ‘I shouldn't have asked that. I'm sorry.'

He hooked his hand through her arm, and guided her towards the house. ‘We'll have tea together by the fire,' he said. ‘I'm not going to do any paperwork tonight. We'll have a nice evening, just the two of us.'

He hoped she didn't notice he hadn't answered her question.

‘When are you leaving?' Julia asked.

Leo said, ‘On the Tuesday after Christmas. She wants me to stay for ten days. She's making it a Christmas present.'

He thought she looked thin and very pale.

‘You know it's a crazy idea, don't you?'

‘You don't have to do it,' Julia said. ‘If you want to play footsie with his daughter and let him get away with trying to ruin you, it's up to you.'

‘I never forget a bad turn,' he said.

‘How about a good one?'

He glanced up at her sharply.

‘I persuaded Western not to run that story,' she reminded him. ‘I don't expect you to be grateful, Leo. I don't think it's your style. But this is your one chance to get back at King. Don't think he'll let it run on between you and his daughter; he'll find a way to finish that, too. It's a gamble, that's true, but if it comes off, it's the Old Bailey for him.'

‘If it doesn't,' he mused, ‘we haven't lost anything.'

No, only my job, and Ben's job, and nearly getting knifed … She didn't say it; she hadn't told anyone about the terrifying incident. She said, ‘Are you on?'

He played with his watch. ‘Yes,' he answered. ‘Yes, I'll give it a go. Where can I reach you?'

‘I'm going to my parents, in about two hours. Staying for Christmas. I'll contact you at the Regent when you get there.'

‘Merry Christmas,' he said.

‘Thanks, same to you.'

Julia had parked her car on a meter; a warden was loitering near by, hoping to catch out an overdue shopper. Julia checked the time. She and Ben and Lucy were driving down to Surrey that afternoon. With the cat in a basket. She had gone through the motions, bought presents for everyone, wrapped and tagged them and piled them up in the boot of the car. She was sorry for Lucy; she was subdued and shy with Julia, and she clung a shade too closely to Ben. All she knew was there had been an attempted break-in at Julia's flat, and they were moving to a hotel. Then on to Julia's parents for Christmas. Lucy had shown no desire to go back and spend the holiday with her mother and stepfather. Some mornings she met them at breakfast with red eyes, obviously downcast. Julia tried hard to get close to her, but there was a quiet resistance that she hadn't overcome. She reasoned that Lucy was still mourning, still trying to readjust physically, as well as emotionally, to the loss of her child. Julia was sympathetic and rational about it, but there were times when she felt left out. Ben was protective, dividing himself equally between the two women who needed him. He paid their hotel bill, reacting with a display of male pride that surprised Julia when she offered to pay her share. When they travelled down together the cat howled in protest at being confined in her new basket, and Lucy finally took it on her knee.

‘She's so furry,' she said. ‘I wish I had a kitten …'

Ben said quickly, ‘I'll get you one. Cats aren't like dogs; they're very happy in flats. We'll look for one tomorrow.'

Later he said to Julia when they were washing up in the kitchen after dinner, ‘That's a good idea. She needs something to look after. Poor kid. You've been wonderful, darling. She thinks the world of you, she told me … And your mum and dad have made us both so welcome.' He turned Julia towards him and kissed her. ‘I love you so much, J; I want us to put everything behind us now and make a new start. I'm glad we're out of the whole bloody mess. Coming down here, being in a normal family, makes me realize what life's about. Why don't you go and sit down and watch telly with them? I'll finish this.'

‘I'd rather be with you,' she said. ‘Darling, you've let the drying cloth fall in the sink … Here, let me do it. I love you too, but you're not domesticated—'