Pleasure Island (18 page)

‘Jesus, it's buried deep whatever it is.' He was stretched out like a plank now, his arms straining as he scrabbled around in the bushes. ‘I can't … it's attached to something. Jesus.' He made a low grunt, using all the strength he had, tugging at it until it came loose and snapped off. ‘Got it!' he said triumphantly as he recoiled backwards. Angelika pulled him from the edge.

‘What is it?' she asked, her curiosity peaking as he brushed himself down. They stared at the piece of plastic in his hand.

It had stopped flashing now.

‘I'm not sure,' he said, inspecting it closely, ‘but at a wild guess I'd say it was some kind of camera.'

B
illie-Jo was inspecting
her fingernails as she lay stretched out on the white egg-pod sunlounger. She'd bitten them to the quick.

‘Hey!' she called out in a bid to catch the attention of her personal butler, Remi or Ranjit or whatever his name was. ‘Can you book me in for a manicure and gel polish as soon as? But before you do, send over a large Bloody Mary, will you?' She needed hair of the dog, or something anyway. He nodded obligingly and Billie-Jo sighed as she settled back into a horizontal position, her colourful crochet Missoni bikini displaying a generous amount of side boob. She knew she was in the shit big time and needed to think, only she had the mother of all comedowns and couldn't concentrate on a single thought for longer than a few seconds. What the fuck did she think she was playing at? What was happening to her? First that business with the masseur, and then last night she'd woken up naked,
stark bollock naked
, remnants of coke on the table, discarded bottles of champagne and JD scattered around her. JJ had passed out opposite her as good as starkers himself. Thankfully Rupert had seen fit to throw her a robe so she could cover herself up, but still she wondered if Nate had seen them.
Holy hell
, you've really surpassed yourself this time, Billie-Jo, she thought, vowing to lay off the drink and drugs for the rest of her duration on the island. How could she have been so indiscreet? So she'd fancied JJ. Who wouldn't; he was right up her boulevard: young, tanned, smoking-hot body, covered in ink and, the
piece de resistance
, a bona fide rock star. Maybe she'd fucked him, in which case she was furious at herself because she couldn't quite remember. Had she really drank and snorted that much gear that she'd had a total blackout? A party pro, Billie-Jo knew her limits and she had a high constitution when it came to recreational drugs. She felt sure she'd indulged way more in the past and still retained full clarity so what had been so different last night? More pressing, however, was how the hell was she going to talk herself out of this one? Her addled mind raced in time with her heartbeat. Would Nate flip out when they finally got round to speaking? She supposed she couldn't blame him if he did. They had walked back to their cabana together that morning, him two steps ahead, in complete silence. Was he going to divorce her? If so, on what grounds? She wasn't even sure she'd committed adultery, at least not with JJ anyway. Billie-Jo groaned. It was all going wrong for her and she didn't know why. Nate would never have to know about the massage, days had passed and nothing had come to light which had led her to believe that she'd gotten away with it, and anyway, it was just one little oversight, the first real slip up she'd made since saying her vows. Everyone was allowed one mistake, weren't they?

‘If in doubt, say nought.' She thought of the seasoned advice her poor downtrodden mum had often given her. Good advice, she now conceded. Deny, deny, deny, yeah that's what she'd do. Forgive herself and move on. They'd all been off their tits last night anyway, Nate included. In fact, her husband had been all over that Angelika bird like the clap if her sketchy memory was correct – something she'd not been best pleased about. She'd worked hard to ensnare Nate Simmons and get him up the aisle and she wasn't about to give up her investment without a fight.

Deep down, however, Billie-Jo knew that he didn't truly love her, or that they were particularly well-suited, at least not beyond the façade. Nate was happy to let his star fade into obscurity, while hers, she felt, was on the ascent. But she still needed him; he still possessed clout on the celeb circuit, was still receiving offers of advertising deals and invitations to A-list events. In a few years' time she hoped it would be a different story. By then she planned to be a household name in her own right, in which case if he wanted emancipation from her, to slip back into being a nobody with the hoi polloi, then on he could go. Billie-Jo ended up hurting everyone she'd ever been close to in her life; it was all she'd understood and felt comfortable with. It was damn or be damned, as far as she was concerned. Yet she did care about Nate, more than any of the other geezers she'd known. Maybe it was as close to love as she'd ever been. But if he had to be collateral damage in her bid for fame then
que sera, sera
, although she wished it didn't have to be that way.

Inside her fragile heart, Billie-Jo knew that Nate Simmons was a good man, too good for her really. He was gentle, empathetic and sensitive; everything she wished she could be. But there was no good in being sentimental, that shit saw you chewed up and spat out for the dogs. You had to play hardball in this life to get what you wanted, and undoubtedly this meant a few casualties along the way. Nate was slipping away from her and she knew it but she had to make things right with him for now, while she thought of plan B.

Looking up, Billie-Jo saw JJ approaching. He was holding a beer in his good hand and waving at her, his long bed-hair flapping in momentum as he slunk towards her with that insouciant rock-star swagger.

‘Ah,' she said quietly to herself, ‘speaking of plan B.'

‘
D
rugged
?' Elaine McKenzie looked up at Rupert, her cold, steely eyes unblinking.

He felt she had a slight smirk on her face and it made him feel like smacking her across it.

‘What on earth would make you think such a thing?'

Rupert sized her up calmly. As a formidable barrister he had, over the years, represented and prosecuted everyone from child murderers and rapists to tax-dodging celebrities, and just about everyone else in between; nothing truly shocked him anymore. He'd seen a life-time of heinous crime and degradation perpetrated by pure evil and come face-to-face with it on many occasions. He was versed in cross examination, used to dealing with narcissists, liars who'd tell you the moon was square and almost convince you of it, too, but he was not about to be fobbed off by this ugly, wizened dwarf.

‘Being drugged would make me think such a thing, Elaine,' he replied.

‘Really, that's quite absurd.' She looked at him with horrified incredulity. ‘How, for one thing, and why, for another, come to that?'

‘All questions I put to you, Mrs McKenzie,' he replied.

Elaine shook her head and walked towards the wooden antique desk that formed the centrepiece of the vast colonial study.

‘Frankly, I'm a little shocked, not to mention offended. That's a very bold accusation to make – as a man of your profession would well know – and completely unfounded.'

‘Last night,' Rupert said, ‘none of us have any recollection of it whatsoever.' Or so he hoped, praying he was speaking for Mia as well. ‘It's a total blank. And my wife, she was sick, violently sick. And my wife is never sick, Elaine. That woman hasn't thrown up on alcohol since the 1980s. Something's amiss.'

Elaine gave a thin smile, careful to maintain eye contact as she did.

‘I realise a lot of alcohol was consumed,' she conceded, ‘but Pleasure Island is a special place, Mr Deyton. It can have a very intoxicating effect on a person. I'm sure you all needed to let your hair down a little and …'

Elaine was an accomplished liar but then again so was this man, and no more to anyone than himself, it seemed, having watched the footage of him from last night's little soirée. She hadn't had Rupert Deyton down as a closet fag, and it had given cause for a wry smile. Just went to show you could never judge a book by its cover. However, she was a touch unnerved by the conclusions he'd drawn, not least because they were true.

Elaine had researched the correct dosage of drugs meticulously and made sure they had been administered methodically. In hindsight, however, she realised that perhaps she had not policed the amount the journo had been given overall, but then she had been under strict instructions from her husband to pay special attention to Angelika Deyton. Now Rupert Deyton was suspicious and Marty would be angry with her.

Even if she wasn't even aware of the fact, Elaine McKenzie was under her husband's complete physical and emotional control. Over the duration of their twenty-five-year marriage, the woman she had started out as had gradually been whittled away and replaced with a virtual ‘stepford wife'. It had been a prolonged process of manipulation and subtle cruelty over the years, withholding affection and money in turn for complete subordination, alienating her from family and friends, cutting her off from society until she was solely and completely dependent upon him, not even so much as having an autonomous thought of her own. Elaine couldn't so much as take a dump without Marty's say so, yet in his own way her husband respected her; he had transformed her into a formidable and fiercely loyal ally upon which he could put upon without question, rewarding her with praise and entrusting her with his dirty work. This in turn afforded Elaine a sense of importance and self-worth, her sole purpose being simply to please and appease her husband in any and all ways possible. As a result her own moral compass no longer existed; over the years she had gradually taken on Martin McKenzie's persona as her own and now they were practically one and the same.

‘Where exactly is your husband?' Rupert asked through narrowed eyes, ‘It's been over a week now. This is the twenty-first century, Elaine. You can't tell me all lines of communication are still down: no phone, no internet … no means of getting off the island to get help.'

‘Help from what?' she answered him coolly, lighting a thin, brown cigarette from a packet on the table.

Unsure exactly how to answer, he moved closer towards the desk, placing his hands upon it like he would when cross-examining a witness. He could smell her perfume, musky and unpleasant, almost cheap. Her practical no-nonsense white shirt, buttoned to the neck, was clearly tailored, designer probably, yet teamed with loose grey slacks gave her the overall sartorial look of a prison warden, which he was beginning to think she was, of sorts.

‘Aren't you a little pissed off that he's left you in the lurch, here, alone, to deal with your guests, tend to our myriad whims? I know I would be. And if he's expecting positive publicity on the back of all of this …' He snorted. ‘He can bloody well think again. We were almost killed in that crash. Two people died, Elaine …
died
! And, frankly, it's rather worrying, your lack of concern.'

Elaine struggled to maintain composure, though Rupert was not aware of it.

‘One person,' she corrected him, adding, ‘that we know of.'

‘Drop the act, Elaine,' he said stoically, ‘you can't kid a kidder. Tell me why we are here?' Rupert addressed her slowly, his eyes fixed upon her in a fierce glare. ‘What's the
real
purpose of this exercise? And don't fob me off with all that promotional bullshit because I don't buy it. I want – no – I
demand
you tell me straight, Elaine? I've smelt a rat from day one, and I'm not talking about that rancid perfume of yours either.'

Elaine didn't much care for such a personal remark and was offended. Marty had bought her this perfume back from the Middle East on one of his business trips and she thought it was rather exotic. She would need to speak to her husband about this; she had expected questions, complaints even, but she didn't want a mutiny on her hands. What was wrong with these people? They were enjoying luxury of the like only those with the most-colourful imaginations and deep pockets could possibly envisage and yet
still
they were bitching and moaning like a bunch of spoiled children. Elaine McKenzie had genuinely believed that, in spite of the crash, or perhaps even because of it, they would actually be
grateful
to her and realise just how lucky and privileged they were to be alive.

‘You don't like the island?' she mused.

‘What's not to like,' he replied sharply, ‘it's paradise. Only that's not the issue and you know it.'

‘You really ought to explore a little more, go fishing perhaps, snorkling... Maybe you should spend the day at the spa, pamper yourself, or watch a film if sunbathing isn't your thing. And I trust the cuisine has met with your high expectations, although I understand you have already sampled
some
of the delights on offer.' She smiled again, the corners of her thin lips twitching.

Rupert's jaw clenched. What was she insinuating?

Elaine smiled, more affably now.

‘Please don't look so concerned. Whatever happens on Pleasure Island stays on Pleasure Island, I can assure you of that.'

Rupert felt his blood run to ice. Did she know something? He struggled to hold his nerve but years of practise kept his core from collapsing.

‘The only thing I'm concerned about, McKenzie, is getting out of this Goddamn place. And when I do –' his voice was low now, menacing even ‘– I'm going to file the biggest lawsuit in history against you and that twisted control freak you're married to, bankrupt the pair of you. You've endangered six people's lives, killed a pilot and
possibly
a flight attendant, poisoned us with God knows what, and have refused to allow us to make a phone call. Strip you of all that wealth of yours and you're nothing but a pair of common criminals.'