Guilty Pleasures (53 page)

‘We can’t come any closer, Cass!’ shouted Tom. ‘You’re going to have to jump out as far as you can. Don’t worry, we’ll catch you.’

She had no time to think about whether she trusted them. The smoke was so thick she could no longer see anything inside the
bedroom, apart from a square of scorching flame where the door had been. She jumped, hurling her body out into the space in front of her as far as she could. She felt like she was floating, the air full of sparks and ash, her body suspended there in time, a last look around at the world before death took her. Then time was switched on again and she felt her body slam against something – first the blanket and then the ground.

‘No. No. No!’ screamed Emma rushing out of the bedroom and flying down the stairs. Rob had phoned her to tell her about the fire and that Cassandra was lying injured at his feet, alive but in pain. There were still about forty guests at Winterfold who were all wondering what the hell was going on. In the distance the sound of sirens was getting louder. Emma threw open the front door and looked towards the glow of the fire. She quickly called Julia.

‘The Stables are on fire. Cassandra was in there but she’s OK. Come as quickly as you can.’

Julia screamed down the phone.

‘My baby!’

‘Someone, give me some car keys!’ shouted Emma as the guests ran down the stairs towards her. A waiter, just packing up the last catering things, threw her a jangling bunch. ‘The white catering van. Go!’

Emma smelt the inferno before she could see it. The Stables were over a bluff, hiding everything but the orange glow in the sky, but as soon as she had cleared the rise, the night sky was pierced by orange flames. Tears flowed down Emma’s cheeks as she pressed her foot hard down on the accelerator. Her tears turned to choking sobs as she managed to make out the silhouettes of Tom and Rob standing two hundred feet away from the fire. Next to them the door of Rob’s car was open and Cassandra was sitting huddled in a blanket.

‘Thank goodness, thank goodness,’ said Emma under her breath.

Four fire engines roared up behind her and suddenly the whole area was buzzing with firemen rolling out hoses.

‘There’s a water supply in that outhouse,’ shouted Emma pointing to a small building fifty feet away. She ran over to Rob who caught her in a strong embrace, crushing her to his chest.

‘She’s got cuts and sprains and she’s coughing up black stuff, but I think she’s OK,’ said Rob quietly.

Emma walked over to her and the two women locked eyes. ‘We’ve called for an ambulance,’ Emma said softly, then gathered Cassandra into her arms and held her. For a moment Emma didn’t know what to say. She felt overpowered by feelings of guilt, anger and then fear.
How the hell had the fire started? Had Cassandra dropped a cigarette? Or perhaps it wasn’t an accident.
No one had known that Cassandra was in there, no one had seen her go into Rob’s room-anyone would have assumed Emma was in there asleep. Emma had a sudden flashback to Gstaad, remembering the black Mercedes smashing up against the rear of her car. Had the driver come back to finish unresolved business? Despite the heat coming from the burning building, she shuddered. Someone wanted her dead, she felt
sure
of it. And they had almost killed Cassandra in the process.

‘Let’s go over this one more time,’ said Detective Inspector Peter Sheldon. ‘You think someone meant to burn down the Stables with you inside?’

It was 4 a.m. and Winterfold was in chaos. Word of the blaze had got around the village and Roger, Rebecca, Stella and Ruan had all returned to the house: Stella and Ruan to reassure various important guests staying in the house that everyone was safe, and Roger and Rebecca had come back to tut and fuss around. Julia and Tom accompanied Cassandra to Oxford’s John Radcliffe hospital. Emma sat in Winterfold’s library with Rob at her side, her hand in his as she answered the policeman’s questions. For a brief moment she reflected that only three hours earlier she had been feeling happy and secure. Apprehensive, yes, but excited when Rob had kissed her. Now it was fear of another kind. The fear of being watched, hated,
hunted.

‘I know it sounds ridiculous but I do think someone might want me dead.’

Inspector Sheldon looked at her cynically, but indicated she should continue.

‘I was in Switzerland over Christmas and a car tried to run me off the road. I ended up hospitalized.’

‘Was it investigated?’ asked Sheldon and Emma caught the slight tone of disbelief in his voice.

‘Yes. The police thought the most likely explanation was joyriders.’

‘I’m inclined to agree.’

Emma kept quiet knowing it was pointless to argue. Rob, however, wasn’t going to let it drop so easily.

‘All Emma is saying is that it’s more than a little strange that in the space of six weeks she’s been run off the road and then her house has been set on fire,’ he said irritably. The policeman closed his eyes, as if he had heard it all before.

‘We can take a statement off you next Mr Holland,’ he said. ‘The fire officer will be here soon so we’ll know more then. In the meantime, do you mind if we have a look around the house? And we’ll need the names and contact details of as many party guests as you can get hold of. If it is foul play, then we’re going to have to follow up with everyone we can.’

They all stood and Rob began to lead Emma back to his room.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ said the detective. ‘Don’t go anywhere, either of you. No sudden business out of town or trips abroad.’

Emma looked at him incredulously.

‘Are you saying that we’re
suspects?’

Sheldon’s face was impassive.

‘Until we get to the bottom of this mess, Ms Bailey, we just want everyone to co-operate.’

The newspapers went into overdrive with the story. Monday was a slow day for news and the Milford party made a big splash in every paper on the stand. The broadsheets reported the fire that almost killed ‘top magazine editor Cassandra Grand’. The tabloids went heavy on Clover Connor and Blake Brinton’s steamy affair, claiming the couple were having ‘red-hot sex as media superstar Cassandra Grand was burning to death’, and the story was accompanied by lots of flashy photographs of the famous party guests, including, to her horror, one of Stella.

News of Cassandra’s ‘critical injuries’ were overstated. Cassandra spent the night in the John Radcliffe Hospital, suffering from smoke inhalation, a cracked rib and a sprained ankle from the fall. She had been furious to be papped leaving the hospital in a pair of royal blue jogging bottoms her mother had brought to the hospital for her, but the humiliation was slightly sweetened by the fashion industry’s unexpected volte-face upon hearing of Cassandra’s ordeal. Within forty-eight hours she had received extravagant blooms from every major fashion house. Isaac Grey sent a muffin basket. Gwyneth texted over the number of her Pilates teacher and everyone wanted to treat her to lunch or supper when she had fully recovered. By Tuesday Cassandra was beginning to feel much better.

Emma was one of the first visitors to come and see Cassandra after she had discharged herself from hospital and gone home.

‘What beautiful flowers,’ said Emma, admiring an arrangement of one hundred pale pink roses.

‘Everybody has been coming out of the woodwork,’ smiled
Cassandra cynically. ‘Fashion loves a crisis, darling. If I’d died I’d have been named as Editor of the Year and some designer would have named a handbag after me.’

Emma looked over at her, lying regally on her long beige sofa. Somehow she looked smaller, less scary. Not that she had changed entirely. Her ankle was strapped and propped up on a pile of cushions and Emma couldn’t help but notice her immaculately painted toenails.
Priorities,
thought Emma with a smile.

‘So how are you feeling?’

‘I’d have preferred Hervé Léger to do the bandage,’ she said pointing at her foot with a small smile. ‘But what about you? Did you manage to salvage any of your stuff?’

Emma shook her head. ‘Everything’s gone except the things I had with me at the party. A credit card and a lipstick.’

‘What colour?’ asked Cassandra automatically and they both smiled.

‘Do you know anything more about how it happened?’

‘The police strongly suspect it was arson,’ replied Emma.

‘Yes, some tiresome police inspector was around for over an hour yesterday: very rude, terrible haircut,’ said Cassandra. ‘He wanted to know if I had seen or heard anything that evening.’

‘Did you?’

Cassandra shook her head. ‘No, at least nothing I can remember. And before you ask, it wasn’t me. I didn’t smoke, light a fire or touch anything in the kitchen.’

‘The fire officer thinks it was deliberate.’

‘How can they tell?’

‘By the patterns and intensity of scorching around the house, apparently. They think something came through the letterbox.’

Cassandra nodded thoughtfully, pausing before she spoke.

‘Emma, I should probably tell you the police inspector was asking lots of questions about you,’ she said finally.

Emma felt a small rush of fear.

‘What questions exactly?’

‘He knew that there’s been some animosity between us.’

‘So what are they thinking? That I torched my own house with you inside it?’ said Emma incredulously. She looked at Cassandra warily. She felt terrible about what her cousin had just been through but it didn’t mean she entirely trusted Cassandra. What had she been saying to the police?

The truth was that the fire had really frightened Emma and in actual fact she had desperately wanted Cassandra to have been responsible. A careless cigarette down the back of the sofa perhaps, or a candle left too close to the curtains. The alternative, well, the alternative meant that someone really did want her dead.

In the penthouse of the St Martin’s Lane Hotel, Stella finally relaxed, her photo shoot for
W
magazine over. Still wearing the Milford aqua chiffon cocktail dress she had posed in, she quickly gathered up her things and made for the door.

‘Are you sure you don’t need a car?’ asked the art director as Stella said her goodbyes.

‘No thanks, I’ve checked in at the hotel tonight,’ she said grate fully. It had been a snap decision an hour earlier; she was so exhausted she didn’t think she could make the journey back to Oxfordshire. She had barely stopped to take a breath for weeks-no, months – running at full pelt to get the womenswear line finished in time for the show and then there was all the press to deal with. That meant endless photo shoots and interviews along with all the draining attention of the blood-sucking journalists on the tabloids. As Stella pushed open her door, all she wanted to do was sleep for a week. Her room three floors below wasn’t as impressive as the penthouse but its sleek lines of wood, Perspex and sexy lighting were still beautiful. But Stella was too tired to take it in; she just flopped onto the bed and was about to drift off to sleep when her mobile rang.

‘Hello,’ she said groggily.

‘It’s Tom.’

‘Oh, hi there,’ she smiled propping herself up with a pillow. She was surprised at how pleased she was to hear his voice. There was a pause as if Tom was unsure about what to say next.

‘So … heard any more about the cause of the fire?’

‘You probably know more about it than I do,’ said Stella. ‘I’ve hardly been to Milford since that night.’

‘Well, I just wanted to call and say that my mother has finally arranged a meeting with Walter Maier about your dad’s exhibition. He’s very busy, very important, and very German. He’s invited us for drinks tomorrow – schnapps, most likely. Can you make it?’

‘Of course I can make it,’ said Stella, perking up considerably. ‘I’m in London tonight actually so I’ll just stay another day. Will you come with me?’

‘If you ask nicely,’ and she could hear the smile in his voice.

‘Look, I have to go,’ said Tom quickly. ‘I have to be in Charing Cross Road by 8 p.m. for a gig.’

‘I’m at the St Martin’s Lane Hotel,’ she replied. ‘You should pop in and say hello.’

‘In that case, what are you doing in a hour?’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Meet me in the lobby. Don’t dress up.’

Something had troubled Emma all the way back to Winterfold. Why had the police been so interested in why Cassandra and Emma didn’t get on? How could they possibly think that Emma would want to torch the Stables with Cassandra inside? It was inconceivable. Yes, Cassandra had resented her and tried to sabotage the company, but she had failed – the roaring success of the show and the party were proof of that, so what possible motive could people think Emma would have? She drove slowly back through the estate. The soft, woody smell of smoke was still hanging in the air. Her hands trembled on the wheel as she thought back to the events of Saturday night. Nothing seemed real except the rather obvious certainty that she now had nowhere to live. All her earthly possessions were to be found in the small handbag that she had borrowed from the factory, which was presently sitting beside her on the passenger seat. Rob had insisted she move into Winterfold but she had felt uncomfortable and had asked to stay in the guest suite. He hadn’t complained and instead had sent his assistant to go shopping for Emma. So Emma had found her wardrobe already full of jeans, T-shirts, white shirts and a black Jil Sander trouser suit. She’d really appreciated the gesture.

Emma parked her car and walked through the house and into the kitchen. It was Morton’s afternoon off and the house was ghostly quiet. She wandered around noticing for the first time how much it had changed. It felt more homely, peppered with photographs of Rob’s family and friends. She was looking at them, wondering who the women in the pictures were when she heard footsteps in the corridor behind her. Emma quickly moved away from the photos and was sitting on the sofa looking nonchalant when Rob clattered in carrying a big stack of pizza boxes.

‘I picked these up from the village,’ he said from behind the boxes. ‘I didn’t know what you fancied, so I pretty much got everything.’

‘Just what I need, comfort food,’ said Emma, clapping her hands.

They sat on the rug in the library and Rob lit a fire. As it crackled, Emma felt herself thaw emotionally. For the first time since her belongings had gone up in smoke she felt at home, felt like she had something to hold onto. Outside it was dark and raining heavily. The pizza gone, Rob dimmed the lights and brought a mountain of cushions over to the hearth.

‘I went to see Cassandra today,’ said Emma as she lay in Rob’s arms, his fingers stroking her hair.

‘How was she?’

‘She looked fabulous,’ she smiled.

‘I’m not surprised. I’m sure she’s quite enjoying all the attention.’

Emma was quiet for a moment, playing with Rob’s cuff.

‘Rob, do you think someone wants me dead?’ she asked quietly, turning to look at him.

‘Honey, let’s not go through this again,’ he said gently. ‘Let the police work it out.’

‘But will they?’

‘Chances are that the fire was started by kids.’

‘Just like it was joyriders who pushed me off the road. I guess I must be pretty unlucky.’

‘It was still probably pranksters.’

‘Petrol was poured through the front door.’

‘You’re just feeling vulnerable. It can make people a little paranoid.’

She pushed herself upright and looked at him. ‘Well how’s this for paranoid? Basically there are two possibilities: somebody wanted to kill me, or somebody knew Cassandra was staying at the Stables and wanted to kill her.’

Rob thought about it for a while and decided to run with it.

‘Well, I know Cassandra is pretty unpopular in some areas, but who would want to kill her? Surely she was suffering enough already at that point?’

‘Yes, I know. It’s unlikely, isn’t it, but I’m still convinced the accident in Gstaad was a deliberate act.’

She saw Rob frown, chewing it over.

‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘Let’s go with this one for a moment. Who wants you dead and why?’

Emma had spent the last forty-eight hours thinking about it fanatically, her forensic brain sifting through the many scenarios.
Her mother would inherit Emma’s shares on her death; and she felt sure that in that instance Virginia would want to get rid of them rather than keep hold of the shareholding. The other shareholders could get them at a preferential rate which meant that Roger, Julia, Ruan or Stella could, in theory, benefit from Emma’s death. (She refused to believe that her
own mother
would try and kill her.) But in Emma’s mind there was only one obvious person with both motive and opportunity: her uncle.

‘Roger has hated me from day one,’ she told Rob slowly. ‘He thinks I’ve sidelined him from the company, which of course I have. He seems to have lost interest in Milford in the last few months and over Christmas was pressurizing me to have a meeting with a luxury goods conglomerate and he seemed desperate to sell. It’s logical: because of terms in the shareholders agreement, he’ll get more for his shareholding if we sell the entire company to an outsider than if he sells his shares to me.’

‘So what’s his motive?’

‘Money,’ said Emma frankly. ‘Roger owns 20 per cent of the company. With me dead, the shares pass to my mother. She’d definitely sanction a sale if he asked her. Twenty per cent of fifty, a hundred, million pounds is
a lot
of money. Even for Rebecca.’

She looked out of the library door and, as she did so, images of Saturday night’s party came back to her with clarity.

‘Roger thought I was going back to the Stables. He offered me a lift back in the taxi right there,’ she said, pointing to the curve of the stairs they could just see through the doorway. ‘I told him I was getting the next taxi. His house is five minutes drive from the Stables through the East Gate. He could have waited half an hour, then gone to my house, saw the lights were on, and well …’ her voice tailed off and suddenly she felt uneasy looking at the fire in front of them.

Rob put his hand over hers. ‘How about we have an early night?’

‘It’s only seven.’

‘I can think of ways we can while away the time,’ he said, taking her hand.

She felt her body freeze. She’d barely let him touch her since the fire; she couldn’t bring herself to be close to anyone; it was as if she had physically and emotionally shut down. She couldn’t explain it, didn’t want it, but it was as if some instinct of self-preservation was trying to protect her by making her stay isolated and distant.

‘Em, please,’ he said quietly. ‘I know what’s happened has been awful but you don’t need to put yourself in deep freeze.’

He reached over and she let him kiss her softly on the lips.

‘Let’s take it slowly? Please?’

‘At least sleep in the bedroom tonight.’

She hesitated and was about to speak when there was a knock on the door.

‘Were you expecting anyone?’ she asked Rob, suddenly on edge.

Rob got up and walked to the front door. Emma listened to the male voices that floated into the house.

‘Em. It’s Inspector Sheldon,’ said Rob, returning to the door of the library with a frown on his brow.

Sheldon extended a hand. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed anything,’ he said looking around the hallway. ‘I heard you were staying here, Ms Bailey. I’m afraid we need you down at the station to answer a few more questions.’

‘I feel as overdressed as Joan Collins at a Hell’s Angels convention,’ whispered Stella, still wearing the aqua chiffon dress in the small dark basement of the Helter Skelter record shop on Denmark Street.

Tom laughed. ‘I said don’t dress up. Don’t worry. No one comes here to people-watch,’ he said, aware of the irony that every man in the room had been clocking Stella, luminous in some wisp of a shimmering blue dress, since the moment she had walked in.

‘Shit. They’re coming on,’ he nudged her as four guys in black T-shirts and jeans walked onto a makeshift stage so small it was more like a podium.