Exposure (14 page)

‘Now, let's get to work.'

‘Lord Western?' He was conferring with his advertising director when his personal secretary came in. She never interrupted him unless it was important. Even so he scowled at her. The revenue was down on the last quarter and he had been roasting his executives.

‘What is it?'

‘Miss Hamilton called in; she'd like to see you some time after five, if that's convenient.'

‘Am I free?'

‘You have two half-hour appointments, then nothing from six o'clock on. Mr Osborne at five and Peggy Beaumont from Features at half past. Shall I say six o'clock to Miss Hamilton? I do have a note that Lady Western is expecting you to go to the Park Lane for drinks with Princess Margaret on that NSPCC appeal—'

Western didn't hesitate. ‘Cancel Osborne till nine o'clock tomorrow. Pick a slot for Peggy in late morning. Tell Julia to come up here at five, I can give her an hour and a half clear.'

He went back to bullying his advertising director.

‘I've brought the tape,' Julia said. ‘I'd like you to hear it when you've looked over what we found out in Nessenberg.' She placed the typed report in front of him. He opened it, skimmed through the pages and then looked up at her.

He said coldly, but with triumph, ‘Lying bastard. The saintly spinster lady was a randy forty year old who liked screwing boys.'

He went on, tapping the paper with his fingers. ‘He got into England because he was married to a British subject. Then she dies and he gets his hands on her money – this is good stuff. We're just beginning to lift the stone and see the maggots.'

‘It gets better,' Julia said. ‘Let me play you this tape.' She'd brought a small cassette-player with her. She slipped the tape inside and switched on.

‘Louder,' Western commanded. ‘I can't hear it.' She turned up the volume. The voices were old, and sometimes they talked through each other.

‘Yes,' the woman spoke first. ‘Yes, I remember them. She was much older, very tarty looking, used to smoke in the street—'

‘Nice looking woman,' the male voice interrupted. ‘Too good for that fellow. He was just poncing on her. Never did a day's work, lounging about till all hours. They didn't mix with anyone. They went out a lot at night.' ‘And they had awful rows,' his wife spoke up. ‘You could hear them shouting. I rang up and complained once, and she was rude to me. She drank a lot.' The researcher's voice. ‘How do you know? Did you see her drunk?'

‘No, but you heard him, didn't you, Dick, yelling when the window was open. Accusing her of being drunk—'

‘I'm sure he hit her,' the man broke in. ‘He was just the type. Foreigner, nasty, conceited brute. I'm sure he hit her. Don't blame her for drinking, living with him. They were said to be married. They called themselves Mr and Mrs Koenig.'

‘They had a char,' his wife reminded him. ‘She said there were bottles all over the place.'

‘A char?' The researcher wasn't old enough to recognize the term.

‘A cleaner. Charwoman. She worked part time for us, and she gossiped to my wife.'

‘How long before Mrs Koenig got ill?'

There was a pause and the question was repeated.

‘Ill? She wasn't ill. She had an accident, but she wasn't ill.' They were both talking at once.

‘What kind of accident?' Julia was watching Western. He was pale and crouching forward, his body tensed over the little machine.

‘She fell, didn't she, Alfred? Fell in the garden and fractured her skull. I expect she'd been drinking.' The note of an old animosity to the tarty but attractive Mrs Koenig sang through the recorded voice.

‘Jesus,' Western said, and then checked himself, as the interview went on. ‘He called an ambulance, and she was taken off to hospital. He told the char she'd died a few days later. He was crying, she said. I said it was an act.'

‘You took her part,' the voice was shrill. It was obvious that the Koenigs were not the only people who had quarrelled all those years ago. ‘He wasn't as bad as you made out. You didn't like him because he was a foreigner. He was a Polish refugee, that's what I heard.'

‘What happened after that? You're sure I'm not tiring you?' The researchers were trained not to harass anyone or apply pressure to the elderly. And these were very elderly. The preliminary information at the start of the tape placed them by name and gave their ages as eighty-five and eighty-seven. They had been resident in the old people's home for thirteen years. The husband was in a wheelchair, and his wife was partially sighted.

‘No, no, we're enjoying talking to you. I can't remember what I had for lunch, and she's worse, but I can remember what happened forty years ago as if it was yesterday. You want to know what?'

‘After Mrs Koenig died, did the husband stay on?'

‘No. He moved out and the house was sold very quickly. There was a real shortage of houses in those days. Never saw or heard of him again.' Julia leaned forward and switched the tape off.

‘I'm getting this transcribed and my girl will go back and get it signed by them both and witnessed by a solicitor.'

‘What did she tell them?' Western asked. ‘They didn't connect anything with King?'

‘She said she was trying to trace Koenig because of a legacy. She had to edit the tape because they talked their heads off. She was rather sorry for them. They were shut in together all day, bickering and nagging at each other. The place was very dreary.'

Western wasn't listening. Other people's problems didn't interest him. ‘Convenient for him, wasn't it?' he muttered. ‘Lucky chap, getting rid of her so quickly. And getting some money. Well done, Julia. Follow this through.'

‘You think it wasn't an accident?' she asked him.

‘It doesn't matter what I think. What we want is some kind of proof. You've done good work, but it's not enough.' His tone was sharp. ‘We can show him up as a liar, but not a criminal. So far, he can't be accused of breaking any law. And that's what I want. Evidence, proof. Something I can nail him to the cross with.'

He stood up abruptly. Julia said quietly, ‘Lord Western, there's something I've got to ask you.'

The eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I don't pay you to ask me questions. I'm in a hurry.' She didn't move.

‘Why did you pull Ben Harris off the investigation ten years ago?'

He was on his way to the door. ‘Because he wasn't getting anywhere. He was wasting my time.'

‘He was looking into two suspected murders of men who were business rivals of King. You stopped him. Why?'

Western opened the door and called his secretary. ‘I wish you'd trust me, Lord Western,' Julia said. ‘If there is something, I ought to know about it. Otherwise how can I protect you?'

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he shut the door. He turned round and looked at her. For a slight man he had enormous physical presence.

‘It's a nice thought, my dear. You find me the right kind of dirt on Harold King, and I'll protect myself.' His secretary knocked and he opened the door. ‘Bridget, I'm going. Ring down for the car.' Then he was gone.

‘You take the private lift, Miss Hamilton,' the secretary said briskly. ‘Lord Western won't be leaving for a few minutes. Excuse me.' She stood aside and Julia walked past her.

Ben had gone to his office; she went to hers on the floor below Western's eyrie and sat down to think through that interview.

She stared unseeing out of the massive window with its fine views. Western was out to get Harold King for personal reasons. He had begun a fresh crusade after ten years of neutrality, and there was only one explanation. He had been threatened once, and submitted. Now he was threatened again, and no deal with his enemy was possible.

That was what this was all about. Not a question of morals, but of two jungle predators, circling each other looking for the jugular.

Suddenly she felt tired, and low spirited. She wanted to call Ben, but she hesitated. No strings. That was the agreement. They were lovers and colleagues, but they were professionals first. He wasn't the keeper of her conscience, and she had no right to burden him.

And yet, when he at first refused to work with her, she'd used a moral argument to get her way. ‘If King is what you say, you ought to help me stop him.'

So why wasn't that reason good enough to apply to herself? She wasn't the keeper of Western's conscience, either. It was doubtful if he possessed one. She was a journalist, a seeker after truth in the public interest. If she wasn't that, then her job had no integrity.

Her outside line buzzed and she picked up the phone.

‘Julia Hamilton.'

‘How'd you get on?' It was Ben, and she was flooded with relief.

‘Come round for supper and I'll tell you.'

‘Wasn't he pleased? What the hell did he expect?'

She smiled at the familiar irritable tone. ‘He doesn't pay compliments, you know that. Well done, but it's not enough. He wants a criminal charge, so he can nail King to the cross. He actually said that.'

‘He would. Bugger cooking, we'll go out, get a pizza or something. I'll come at around eight. I've got a lot to catch up on.'

‘Bye, Ben,' she said. ‘Thanks for ringing. I was feeling quite pissed off …'

‘You're tired,' he said. ‘Why don't you go home and put your feet up for a bit?'

In all the years she and Felix had lived together, he had never considered that she might be feeling tired or downcast. She was always on top form, and if she wasn't, he didn't want to know. ‘I will,' she said. ‘See you at around eight.'

She drove home, and as she went up to the first floor she met the girl who lived in the flat above.

‘Hello.' They were neighbours, but like most London flat dwellers, they had never got to know each other.

‘Hope you got your flowers,' the girl said, pausing.

‘Flowers? I haven't been back for a few days …' Julia shook her head. Flowers … not from Felix, surely? Never from Felix.

‘I let them in when they buzzed. They said they'd leave them outside your door. I should have taken them in for you. They'll be dead by now.'

‘I expect so,' Julia agreed. ‘Thanks anyway.'

There was nothing outside her front door. No card notifying non-delivery, either. She sorted through her mail; it was collected by the caretaker every morning and put into the letterboxes. Three circulars and a bill. Flowers from Felix? She must be out of her mind to think such a thing. Maybe the girl upstairs was mistaken. Most likely they weren't for her at all, and they'd simply taken them back. She forgot about it, and went to run a hot bath. She was looking forward to seeing Ben. Bugger cooking. She smiled. No male chauvinist, either.

He didn't stay the night. They ate at a local pizzeria, and he came back for a cup of coffee.

‘You don't have to go,' Julia protested.

‘Yes I do.' He slipped his arm around her. ‘You're whacked out. Ask me tomorrow. Anyway, I've got to go home and feed the cat.'

‘I didn't know you had a cat?'

‘Had it for years. Found it in the street, poor little sod. It's company. My daily looks after it if I'm away, but she doesn't come in on a Wednesday.' It was so unexpected it was touching. Julia asked him, ‘What's it called?'

He grinned at her. He seemed embarrassed at admitting the cat's existence. ‘Pussy,' he said. ‘I couldn't think of anything else. Good night, love. Sleep well.'

‘You too.' Julia kissed him at the front door.

As she locked it for the night, she remembered the flowers. She'd forgotten about them. Felix's note with his telephone number was in her drawer. She saw no reason to call him. Maybe one day, just to be friendly, but not yet. She slept very deeply that night, and dreamed that Ben had given her a cat as a present.

‘Daddy?' Gloria King came up to her father's chair, and, bending down, she kissed him on the cheek. He had escaped the weekend guests and was sitting in the library with his eyes closed. He liked to relax when they went to the country. He had bought a big estate in Gloucestershire, which he ran as a farm and a commercial shoot, and he'd built a golf course, well out of sight of his house. He believed that everything should pay for itself, and his four thousand acres were not excluded. ‘I didn't wake you, did I?'

He looked at her tenderly, reached out and pulled her onto the arm of the chair. He loved having her near him. The ash-blond hair and blue eyes, the physical make-up of her body, woke a folk memory of his own people and his roots. He came from the land, from a line of men and women who were built on a scale to work it. Big bones, heavy muscles, coarse hands and feet for hard labour, like the slow-moving beasts they drove before the plough. But he had been born with brains; God knew what genetic freak was responsible for putting such an extraordinary intelligence in his peasant-boy head. But he knew it was there from an early age. And he concealed it. He read and studied in secret, fearful of his father's scorn. He got a sound beating when he was caught reading one of his school books. It had been torn away from him with a curse. There was work to be done outside, while he idled. His mother understood him. She was proud that he could read and was eager to go to the local school, though it meant trudging for miles there and back. She didn't dare stand up to his father, but she encouraged and protected him from his three older brothers when they bullied him. He loved his mother. Gloria reminded him of her. When he hung expensive jewellery on his daughter, gave her a Porsche for her birthday, spoiled her with the world's luxuries, he felt his mother shared in it. Too late for her, for his family. They were all dead. His brothers killed in the East, his parents lost in the blood tide of invasion. Nothing left of his past.