by Riley Banks
‘You can keep them if you like. They’ll look great in the family album.’ Harvey’s thin lips curled in a malicious smile.
‘I want the originals destroyed. Do I have your word?’ The last thing he needed was this asshole thinking he could blackmail him whenever he wanted something. He knew Harvey Incorporated had many property acquisitions in the States, and had a lot of their finances tied up in the country. He didn’t want them anywhere near his bank.
‘Agreed. Now the contents of the box.’ Harvey leaned back in the armchair, content with his success.
Robertson almost expected him to pull out a cigar and start celebrating.
Ten minutes later, Robertson’s secretary came into the office; the locked safety deposit box tucked under one arm.
Robertson opened the box in front of the men. ‘Take it and get out,’ he said, with his last semblance of bravado, shoving a small pile of paperwork towards them.
Harvey took the papers, sliding them into the briefcase. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, Dick.’
If I wasn’t a Christian man...
Robertson had never wanted to kill someone before but the thought crossed his mind. More than crossed it, it seemed to have taken up permanent residence.
The two men showed themselves out of his office.
Robertson stared at the yellow envelope, the photograph of his daughter having sinful sex with another woman peeking out, taunting him with its luridness.
Beside the envelope was the now empty safe deposit box.
How could such an innocuous thing bring so much pain and torment to his family?
And how would he ever tell his wife?
‘Calm down, Damon. What’s wrong? Is it your sister?’
Charlotte’s voice was soothing but not enough to quench the anger that burned hot in Damon’s belly. His brother, BJ, had always been able to push his buttons, and took great pleasure in doing so.
Anita? Oh God, she was still in a coma. How could he let BJ distract him from that? ‘No, there is no change with her.’
‘But you said you had to go. Where, Damon? What are you talking about?’
How could he tell her? She would think he was deserting her or worse, that he was rejecting her. He forced himself to take deep cleansing breaths, blocking BJ and his demands out of his mind. ‘We can talk on the way,’ he said, leading her out to the canals and the waiting gondola.
Under normal circumstances, it might have been romantic to ride together in one of Venice’s famed love boats but neither of them spoke until the boat pulled away from the hotel entrance.
Finally Damon worked up the courage to say what was weighing heavy on his heart. ‘I have to return to England.’ He searched her eyes for a reaction.
‘But why? We need you here,’ she said. ‘I need you here.’
‘I know. Oh God, I know. But somebody needs to accompany Miranda’s body back to her parents, and we can’t send a staff member. It needs to be a member of my family and my brother has pulled rank on me, Charlotte,’ he said, the quick anger firing back up.
‘Miranda…’ Tears squeezed out from underneath her dark lashes and trickled down her cheeks, spilling into her lap.
Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? ‘Come with me. It makes perfect sense. You were her friend…’
She turned away, not meeting his eyes for a number of minutes. Damon started to wonder whether she had even heard his question. ‘Charlotte…’
‘I can’t, Damon. I want to. But I just can’t.’
‘Why?’ He was confused, certain that after everything they had shared, she would be happy to come with him - to escape this trip of death.
‘I have my career -’ she started to say, unconvinced of her own reasoning.
‘Charlotte, you don’t need to work if you don’t want to.’
Straight away he knew he had said the wrong thing.
Her back stiffened and her face grew hard. ‘We barely know each other. We had one night together and you what? Want me to give up my career for you?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll talk to your boss. He didn’t want you on this trip in the first place,’ Damon said, desperate for her to come away with him.
‘He didn’t?’ Charlotte’s brow furrowed but she didn’t voice any of her thoughts beyond that except to say, ‘No, Damon, I’m staying.’
He couldn’t understand why she was being so stubborn. Not when Wilson was still out there somewhere. ‘Charlotte, he might come back.’
She knew exactly whom he was talking about.
‘I know,’ she said, just a slight quaver of fear in her voice.
‘So why stay? You’re not safe here -’
‘If I’m not safe, neither is anyone else.’ Her voice crackled with anger. ‘Miranda is dead because of me, and your sister… Oh God, Damon. I feel sick enough knowing what that pig did to them. I can’t let anyone else get hurt. I just can’t.’
‘It wasn’t your fault. Nobody blames you, least of all me.’
‘I blame me.’
He longed to take her in his arms, to tell her it was all going to be okay, but he no longer believed it himself. The thought of leaving her almost brought him to his knees. If anything happened…
‘I can’t change your mind, can I?’ Damon already knew the answer.
She shook her head, tears wetting her face. The boat pulled up in front of the hospital but Damon didn’t want to get out. He knew this was goodbye, knew that she wouldn’t accompany him inside the hospital. He wanted to hold on to this moment forever, to stop time and savour every miniscule detail of her.
‘I can’t do goodbyes. Please go,’ she said, her eyes pleading with him not to make this any harder.
He wanted to take Charlotte in his arms, to taste her lips just one last time but he knew she wouldn’t let him.
He climbed out onto the dock, his stomach and chest roiling as nausea mixed with heartache.
Charlotte stared straight ahead, stoic, refusing to meet his eyes as the striped gondolier pulled the boat back into the middle of the canal.
Something was amiss. Baker could feel it in his bones.
The second he entered the 64th floor reception and introduced himself, the secretary had gone from pleasant and officious to acting as if he had the plague.
When she announced his arrival to Dick Robertson, she actually cringed as she said his name.
Warning bells sounded in his head and the perpetual fight or flight mechanism he’d honed in prison kicked into action, the flight looking like the far better option.
Get out. They’ve made you. They know.
He was a wanted man – wanted in connection with murder. He just hadn’t expected the news to travel quite so fast.
Baker had no intention of going back to jail. Not an Australian prison and definitely not an American one.
He stood up, clearing his throat; about to tell the woman he’d changed his mind about the meeting when he heard the secretary whisper ‘No, this is the real Baker’.
Glancing at the elevator, Baker knew he only had seconds left to act. His hands were clammy and his heart was racing at a million miles an hour but she had piqued his curiosity.
What did she mean by real?
‘Mr Robertson will see you now,’ the secretary said, opening the double doors to usher him through.
Another backwards glance at the elevator.
He could still make it out of the building if he left now but then he’d never know who had been impersonating him. That information seemed far more salient than escape.
Committing himself to action, he strode into Robertson’s office, deciding to act as if nothing was remiss.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you…’ The greeting died on his lips, his hands slapping back down beside his body.
It was obvious from the snarl on Robertson’s face that there was no pleasure on his behalf.
‘Forgive me if I don’t seem happy to see you, Mr Baker.’
Yep. A defini
te sneer. But Baker recognised other emotions as well – fear perhaps. Even pain. The man’s eyes were red, as if he’d just been crying.
Baker’s mouth dried out, his own fear mounting. ‘Has something happened?’ Play it cool. Deny everything.
‘Happened? Now why would you say that? I find it completely normal that you’re the second Paul Baker I’ve seen this morning.’
‘What? I don’t... I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t understand how a deposit box that’s been untouched for twenty years suddenly has two people interested in the same day? What a coincidence. I don’t understand it either. There’s another thing I don’t understand. I did some digging Mr Baker – I know you are the real Paul Baker because look.’
He turned his computer screen so that Paul could see the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald.
In bold lettering was a headline that read Manhunt continues for Paul Baker, wanted in connection with the murder of Joanne Parker.
‘How is it that a career criminal wanted on murder charges is able to fly to the US undetected?’
Robertson’s eyes darted to the door, as if he were expecting someone to come through at any second.
‘You called the police, didn’t you?’
Vomit rocketed up his throat. It was all he could do not to puke on the thick carpet.
Robertson nodded. ‘You have thirty seconds to convince me I made a mistake before my secretary has the building locked down.’
Even if he ran, Baker wouldn’t reach the street. He’d be trapped like a rat in a cage. He’d die before he let that happen again.
‘Fifteen seconds…’
There was only one thing Paul could say and even that probably wouldn’t save him.
‘They have my daughter.’
Chapter Thirty-Four:
‘Welcome back Mr Harvey,’ said Mali, handing him his usual glass of Scotch. In return, she took his briefcase, tie and jacket.
‘Just a second. There’s something I need in there.’
Bill retrieved the thick envelope containing the documents from the safety deposit box. The only place it was going was straight to the shredder. The contents had caused enough trouble to last a lifetime.
He took a mouthful of Scotch, feeding page after page of photographs and damning evidence through the ultra fine shredder, relieved it was all over – or would be very soon.
‘Will Mr Campagni be accompanying you this morning?’ Mali asked, refilling his empty glass.
‘No. He’s staying behind to clean up a couple of loose ends.’
Baker and Robertson had ceased being useful. It was clean up time now, and Campagni was brilliant at taking care of troublesome messes.
Once the fathers were taken care of, Campagni would turn his attention to the daughters, whose usefulness had also come to an end.
Meanwhile, Bill would go home and play the dutiful grieving father at his daughter’s funeral.
Killed under tragic circumstances. Who knew they had a madman on their press trip?
And nobody would ever know differently.
Wilson was gone. Campagni made sure of that. He was fish food at the bottom of the Venice canal, weighted down with over a hundred pounds of lead.
Bill allowed himself a rare smile. Everything was coming together just as he planned.
‘Inform the pilot we can leave immediately,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
Mali left and Ratana entered, bowing low, her two hands pressed together in her customary greeting.
‘Sawatdee Kaa.’
With efficient swiftness, she helped him out of his pants and shirt, helping him on to a padded massage table where she removed his underwear and socks.
He pressed his face into the round hole as Ratana’s strong, agile fingers began kneading the knots out of his neck and shoulders, the stress of the last few weeks melting away.
Ratana’s hands moved down his body, continuing on to his back and buttocks, climbing up to straddle his hips, using her hands, elbows and feet to find kinks and knots Bill didn’t even realise he had.
Satisfaction washed over him like a drug.
He dosed on and off, enjoying the comforting release she brought, knowing Ratana had her own way to signal she was near the end.
By the time Bill woke up, he was on his back, staring up at the walnut ceiling as Ratana stroked between his thighs.
‘Time for your happy ending.’
There was a delightful mix of fear and anticipation on her face as he stood up, her body oscillating between arousal and revulsion.
He gripped her wrist, pulling up her sleeve; the signs of their last happy ending still visible on her skin.
Ratana winced as he ran a thumb along the raw wound but she knew better than to pull away.
There was a reason Bill chose Asian hostesses. They understood service in a way their Western counterparts could never comprehend.
‘Get the restraints,’ he said.
Ratana obeyed, opening a drawer in the cabinet beside the massage table.
Inside were a number of questionable looking instruments, each designed to inflict maximum pain.
She retrieved two sets of spiked handcuffs and a matching pair of ankle cuffs, the spikes inside the metal bands rather than outside.
Bill knew she hated them but she had already learned that refusing his wishes only resulted in more pain.
‘Because I’m in a good mood, I’ll let you choose your own punishment today.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Sifting through the drawer, she lifted out a number of floggers and paddles, all with individual pros and cons she knew too well, settling for a studded leather paddle.
‘Strip and assume the position.’
She did as she was told, removing her clothes. She laid face down and naked on the massage table.
Bill secured her hands to the front two table legs and her ankles to the rear legs, pressing a button that automatically repositioned the table into a raised A-frame.
The sudden movement pulled her arms and legs taut. She gasped but did not cry out. To do so unbidden was not allowed.
He struck her buttocks with the paddle, a shiver of delight racing up his spine at the immediate colour it brought to her skin.
He was just about to strike her again when Mali opened the door.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you Mr Harvey,’ she said, her eyes opening wide as she realised what she had interrupted.
She was new. Her time would come.
‘It better be important, Mali. There are consequences for disturbing me unnecessarily.’
Tears shone in her frightened eyes and her heart beat so hard, Bill could see it in her throat.
‘Mr BJ called, sir. He wants you to call him straight away.’
‘BJ?’
Why was he passing messages through the staff?
‘Get my phone out of my pocket.’
‘Yes-s-s sir.’ Her hands shook as she passed it to him.
That’s strange. The screen is black.
Bill never turned it off, not even during sex.
He switched it back on, checking the battery level. Just as he expected, it was fully charged.
Was Ratana responsible? Or Mali? Both had access to his things.
‘Can I go now, sir?’
‘No, you can fucking wait here while I make this call. When I get back, we’ll start your initiation.’
‘Charlotte Burke on the line for you -’
Highgrove snatched up the phone, not even bothering to thank Lucy.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been? I have left you dozens of messages and emails, asking you to call me urgently. Is this what you call urgent? If it is, I’ve got to wonder if you’re even cut out for the news business.’
Great racking sobs reverberated down the phone line, dissolving his bluster, sending his imagination spinning into overdrive. What could have happened to upset her so much?
When at last she spoke, she
only managed a hurried apology. ‘I’m sorry...’ She sniffed and blew her nose, but that just made the tears start all over again.
Highgrove had no idea what to say. Female emotions were about as familiar to him as having daily manicures.
Shut up and let her do the talking.
It took a while but eventually her voice steadied enough for her to speak again. ‘Miranda Evans was murdered last night in Venice.’
The name meant nothing to Highgrove but he assumed it was important to Burke. He grabbed a pencil and jotted it down anyway. More than forty years of gut instinct told him this wasn’t some random death.
‘Who is Evans?’
‘A journalist from The Sun.’
A knife twisted in his belly as he asked if Evans was on the press trip, dreading her answer but knowing what it would be anyway.
‘Yes.’
‘The assault the other day...’
‘Where did you hear about that?’
‘I ah, I read it in the paper. The Times I think.’
‘You read about it? What about the NDA?’
His first instinct was to say that some journalist had been smart enough to find a way around it but now was not the time for smart ass comments.
‘No names were mentioned. They didn’t even say it was a Harvey press trip. I just put two and two together. So the assault? Was it the same girl who was murdered? This Miranda Evans?’
‘No.’
‘Then who was assaulted?’
‘Me.’
The air in his lungs shrivelled. When he spoke again, it came out in such a high squeak, it sounded like he’d been sucking helium. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell is going on over there?’
‘I’d prefer not to talk about it.’
He bit back the angry retort. Pulling rank now would just make him an asshole. The woman had been assaulted. She held all the cards.
‘Well, I want you on the first plane back to London.’
‘No,’ she said.
‘What do you mean no?’
‘I mean I can’t come back. Not yet.’
‘Of course you can. You didn’t even want to go in the first place.’
‘I have a job to do...’
‘It’s not worth dying for a story.’