Chloe glanced at the biographical note. ‘So he used to be an advocate himself. Might have guessed. What’s your verdict, then?’
‘Spooky, the way he reads Crippen’s mind. Especially when it came to destroying the corpse with quicklime.’ Roxanne forced a smile. ‘I’m all goosebumps.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Chloe edged away and squatted on the rug in front of the chair. Her skinny body had begun to shake.
Roxanne stiffened. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m afraid for you,’ Chloe said. Her voice was muffled. ‘I don’t want him ever to read your thoughts.’
Ten minutes after they had arrived at Avalon Buildings, Chloe burst into Roxanne’s room. ‘He hasn’t turned up.’
Of course Roxanne knew whom she meant. Only one man occupied their minds. They had spoken in monosyllables over breakfast and conversation had been impossible on the train. Not that they wanted to talk any more about the Situation. The last twenty-four hours had drained both of them. Besides, what more was there to say?
‘How do you know?’ Roxanne was cautious, not wanting to let her hopes rise too soon.
‘Joel told me. Well, to be honest, I asked. Don’t worry, I was careful to sound casual.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Roxanne’s heart sank. Chloe was no actress and Joel no fool. The last thing she wanted was for other people in the firm to start wondering why Nic Gabriel meant so much to a personal assistant and a lowly paralegal.
‘It’s all right. Promise.’ Chloe saw the doubt in her eyes. ‘He didn’t guess a thing. All he said was that Gabriel rang up first thing. He was meant to be here again this morning, but apparently he’s been called away.’
‘So he’s not coming back?’
Despite herself, Roxanne felt her spirits lifting. Perhaps he was not interested in her after all. He might have been struck by a prettyish face, and that was it. She had worried so much, and for no purpose.
‘Oh yes, he is.’ Chloe spoke through gritted teeth. ‘He said he needed to do some urgent research, but he expected to be back soon.’
‘I see.’
And suddenly, Roxanne thought she did. Nic Gabriel was an assiduous detective, Crippen was the proof of that. He could never have explored the doctor’s mind so thoroughly if he had not first familiarised himself with every by-way of the little quack’s life. The clothes he wore, the music he liked, the food he ate. If he was toying with the possibility of writing about her, he would need to be even more meticulous in ripping the curtains aside. She wasn’t like Crippen, cold in her grave and largely forgotten. He could not risk making a mistake in any point of detail. She would be allowed to have no shred of privacy, no space left in which to keep a secret. For all she knew, he was on his way up north at this very moment, travelling to interview Hilary Metcalf.
Roxanne had been seven when her grandmother had died. Granny Lee had been pretty in her youth and didn’t take kindly to old age. She compensated for it by making the most of every opportunity to be unpleasant. Roxanne didn’t remember much about her except for the smell of peppermints which she refused to share around and a favourite phrase which she rolled out whenever she had to do anything. No peace for the wicked, she would say, with a malicious cackle. Roxanne only learned the truth of that after doing something wicked herself.
All she wanted for the present was to think about the Situation and what she could do to change it. She switched on the engaged light on her door, set the phone to do not disturb and spread bundles of documents across her desk, to give the appearance of intensely lucrative activity. None of it helped. The hands on the computer clock that recorded her chargeable time did not move, but she might as well have been working feverishly for all the good the break did her. It was true: there was no peace for the wicked.
Chloe popped in and said she had to catch up with her work over lunch. Roxanne bought herself a salad bap and an orange juice from a sandwich bar in the Strand, but when she tried to eat, she found she could not bear the taste. For the first time in years, she remembered an old superstition of hers, that if she kept her stomach empty, her thinking would sharpen up and her spirits would lift. Lately she’d been eating too much anyway. Chloe was inches taller, but her clothes had not been such a bad fit as she’d expected. For a little while, until the Situation was sorted out, she could afford to lose a few pounds. She hated feeling bloated, especially in this heat. It wasn’t healthy. At a time when she must focus on trying to save herself, the last thing she needed was to waste time and effort guzzling down food.
Returning to the office, she bumped into Joel Anthony in reception. When he smiled at her, Roxanne nodded and hurried past. To her dismay, he followed her to the lift and started making pleasant conversation about the heatwave. Roxanne’s stomach muscles clenched as she watched the lights showing the lift’s descent. She wasn’t in the mood for company and she feared giving herself away. It would be the final irony if, after all her anguishing over Nic Gabriel, she let something slip which caused Joel to realise that Roxanne Wake did not exist and that the woman he and Ben had recruited was the freed killer, Cassandra Lee.
‘Chloe seems bothered by something today,’ he remarked as the lift arrived at last and they stood back to let the occupants out.
‘Like you say, it’s so hot. Even the air-conditioning isn’t enough.’
He gave a satisfied nod. ‘Strange, isn’t it, how the heat takes us in different ways? Fast workers slow down, likeable people find their tempers starting to fray…’
She thought he was casting round for another example and, for a mad moment, was tempted to add: ‘And mild-mannered paralegals decide to kill their enemies.’
Joel had that sort of effect. With a simple word or gesture, he helped you to articulate what had been swimming around in your head for a long, long time. Quite a talent. She contented herself with a nod of agreement, but it was as if a door had opened in her mind, a door she had believed was shut for ever.
Later, as she walked back into her room after a visit to the loo, the phone was ringing. She pressed the loudspeaker button and the receptionist said, ‘Nic Gabriel for you.’
For a moment, Roxanne could not breathe. She felt dazed and light-headed. It was not simply hunger, but the suffocating awareness that he was closing in on her. She could not escape and, oddly, she was not even sure now that she wanted to escape. What would be, would be.
‘Put him through.’
Two long seconds passed before Nic Gabriel’s voice filled the room. ‘Roxanne Wake?’
‘Yes.’
They had never spoken to each other before, yet it was as if she had known him all her life. When she was a girl, her grandmother had told her stories of the Bogeyman. Now he had tracked her down to her hiding place.
‘Our paths crossed yesterday, although we weren’t introduced. I…’
‘I know who you are, Mr Gabriel.’ She marvelled at the steadiness of her voice. ‘As a matter of fact, I bought your book yesterday. Just to see if it lived up to its reputation.’
A pause. Perhaps he had not expected her to sound so self-possessed, had hoped to take her by surprise, like the advocate who commences cross-examination with his most devastating question. A classic technique, but Roxanne thought it flawed. If the witness keeps her wits about her, the initiative is lost.
‘I’m flattered,’ he said.
‘Don’t be.’ She was determined not to let him off the hook. He needed to understand that she wasn’t a born victim. Crippen had been a soft target; she would be different. ‘I was curious, that’s all.’
‘And?’
‘Congratulations. You write well. I’m surprised you haven’t published a second book. Or is a follow-up in the works?’
‘I haven’t even typed the first chapter heading.’
‘Oh dear. Writer’s block?’
‘No, it’s just that since I laid poor old Crippen to rest, I haven’t found another subject I wanted to write a book about.’
‘Nothing worthy of your talen
ts?’
‘It’s simply,’ he said, ‘that I need a subject that takes over my life. Becomes an obsession.’
‘Well, good luck in your search’ she said calmly. It struck her that, in his own way, he was nervous. He’d never spoken to Crippen. Now he was exchanging small talk with a woman who had murdered her lover. She didn’t feel light-headed any more. She had the exhilarating sensation that he wasn’t sure how to deal with her.
‘I was wondering if we could talk. Not on the telephone. Face to face.’
‘You want to meet?’
‘Please.’
‘I don’t suppose I have any choice, do I?’
‘Of course you have a choice,’ the disembodied voice said. ‘All the same, I would like to see you. Tomorrow? Not in the office, of course.’
‘No, not in the office.’
‘Perhaps I could offer you dinner?’
For God’s sake, Roxanne thought. The man who is planning to shatter my life is inviting me out for a meal. It’s like going out on a date with your appointed executioner. Like having sex with someone who is about to kill you.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’
After Chloe rolled off her that night, they lay side by side, thighs touching. Roxanne’s eyes were closed. Chloe liked to pull hair and rake with her fingernails as they made love. Tonight she had been fiercer than ever before. Roxanne wished she hadn’t had anything to drink at the bar. She wished Chloe hadn’t hurt her so much. Sex and starvation had left her melancholy.
Chloe always liked to talk afterwards; Hilary had been the same. ‘Remember our first time, when I asked you to take control, remember what you said? You were right, it did take me a while to learn how to let go. But now that I have, I see what you meant. There’s nothing like that sense of power. Having someone else under your thumb.’
‘Mmmmm,’ Roxanne said.
She breathed in her lover’s perfume. She wondered how things would work out when they got through all this – if they did get through it all. Suppose she managed to get Nic Gabriel out of the way, so that he would never bother her again, what did the future hold at Creed? Would the two of them still be together in a month’s time, a year’s? She couldn’t forget what Hilary had said to her at the time she’d moved out of the house they shared. Every relationship she’d ever had, she had wrecked.
‘You’re still awake, aren’t you? There’s something I want to say.’
Roxanne shifted on to her side. ‘Hush now.’
‘No, this is important.’ Chloe propped herself up on her elbow so that they were facing each other. She peered at Roxanne, as if hoping to find the solution to a riddle. ‘You’re not going to like it, though.’
‘What is it?’
‘I love you.’
Roxanne went cold inside. ‘I told you that first time, remember? I don’t believe in declarations of undying passion. I’ve played that game before. In the end, no one wins. Trust me. It’s dangerous. Let’s just…’
‘I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry. I’m sure you think I’m such a pain. But this is all new to me. New and strange and frightening. I can’t help myself.’ Chloe traced round Roxanne’s breast. ‘I’d do anything for you. Anything. Even…’
Her voice changed for a moment before it trailed away, became harsh and defiant. The bedroom window was wide open and had let in a chill. Roxanne said roughly, ‘Even what?’
Chloe enveloped her with her arms and squeezed tight. ‘If it meant I could save you, and be with you forever, I’d kill him.’
Roxanne summoned up a few last ounces of strength and broke free of the grip, pushing her lover away from her and rising up above her. ‘You don’t understand what you’re saying.’
Chloe looked up at her, breathing hard. ‘You may not believe me, but it’s true.’
Perhaps it was. Chloe saw everything in black and white, not shades of grey. Was she capable of murder in cold blood? Why not? Most people were. What they lacked was the final push to tip them over the edge, the prompt to translate fantasy into the real thing.
All I have to do, Roxanne thought, the blood rushing to her head, is to say one word. Let her know what I want from her – and she will do my bidding. I’m in control, I have the power of life and death. She’s like a robot at my beck and call. If I want, she will murder Nic Gabriel. She is sure to be caught, but I will be innocent. I can walk away, and I will be free.
‘If it wasn’t for him,’ Chloe said dreamily, ‘everything would be so perfect.’
‘You think so?’ Roxanne let out a little groan. She wasn’t sure what she believed any more. Perhaps Chloe was right, and before Nic Gabriel had showed up, everything in the garden was lovely.
‘It can be. He’s the one obstacle in our way, I’m telling you. The only one.’
Roxanne clenched her fists, summoning up her resolve. ‘Forget it, okay?
‘He’s poison! Why don’t you face up to it? You saw what he did to bloody Crippen, who’s been pushing up daisies for the past ninety years.’ Chloe choked back a sob. ‘He acts like Prince Charming, but the truth is, he’s cruel. He’ll bleed you dry, if you let him. He’ll do it so he can satisfy his curiosity, that’s the ugliest part of it. If he makes another fortune, that’s a bonus. After he’s done, he’ll move on, leaving you for dead. Is that what you want? Is it what you really want?’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘You can bank on it.’
‘Don’t forget,’ Roxanne said, ‘I have a little experience of men who want to use me.’
‘Exactly! That’s precisely why…’
Roxanne held up a hand as she interrupted. ‘Leave this to me.’
Chloe stared at her. ‘So, you’ll…’
‘Let’s not talk any more about it,’ Roxanne said. She realised now. This was her business. Chloe would never be able to deal with it. She meant well, but she mustn’t be allowed to blunder in. In destroying Nic Gabriel, she would also destroy herself. Only one person was responsible for this mess, only one person could bring it to an end.
‘The less we say, the better, huh? Listen, it’s all down to me. I’ll do what needs to be done, I promise.’ She felt her knees trembling as she saw the horror in Chloe’s eyes. ‘I’ve saved myself before, remember.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘I’m a simple man,’ Mickey Aldwych said and took another puff at his cigar. Even for a twenty-first century media tycoon, it was an outrageous lie. He was a frog-like fellow poured into an Bruce Oldfield suit, a prominent supporter of good causes who made a fortune from sado-masochistic porn, a caring father of five whose energetic flings with blonde weather forecasters and game show presenters kept gossip columns in business. His opening gambit had been to offer to commission an article about Crippen’s erotic inner life for a sum larger than most mid-list authors received for a hundred thousand word novel. ‘I’m loyal too. I liked Jazz Delahaye and that’s why I kept her on for so long. Despite everything. That it should end like this is an utter tragedy. A terrible accident.’
‘An accident?’ Nic repeated softly.
Not accident, not even really suicide, but murder. Murder by someone who was desperate. Someone who would not give up. Someone who couldn’t give up.
‘Yes, yes, of course. A cry for attention gone wrong…’ Mickey frowned. ‘I’m sure Jazz would never mean to harm herself.’
‘She worked for you for a long time, I gather.’
‘I realised when I first took her on that she was a good editor. A clever lady, and rather gorgeous too.’ Mickey chuckled, as if reminiscing about a long-ago conquest. ‘In her early years with us, she never put a foot wrong. Her authors loved her, the…’
Nic waved at the photographs. ‘Authors like Will Janus?’
‘Sure, sure. Before he became a household name, naturally. He made generous acknowledgment of Jazz’s contribution. But she lost it. I gave her plenty of rope, but…’ – it occurred to him just in time that he’d chosen an unfortuate
metaphor – ‘even I had to admit that she couldn’t hack it any longer. She missed glaring errors in manuscripts, turned down book proposals which other people gobbled up and made a killing on. Our legal publishing division started losing money hand over fist. Frankly, that’s quite an achievement. Any half-decent book about the law ought to make a return. What are law firms’ library budgets for?’
‘I gather she suffered from bipolar disorder.’
‘Of course, I made allowances. She had time off, but it didn’t help. Our funds aren’t limitless, Mr Gabriel.’ Mickey contemplated his Rolex sorrowfully. ‘I had to do something.’
‘So you put her on a freelance contract?’
‘Only way she could remain on the payroll. She’d become a luxury we could no longer afford. I thought things could only get better. So did Jazz.’
‘Did they?’
Mickey Aldwych’s flabby jaw slackened in mock astonishment. ‘Surely, Mr Gabriel, you’ve learned the eternal truth. When people say things can only get better, that’s precisely the time they really take a turn for the worse.’
‘So what did you do about it?’
‘For a long time, nothing. That’s the trouble with me, Mr Gabriel. I’m an old softie at heart.’ He brushed his eye with his thumb. He might have been wiping a tear or getting rid of a piece of grit. ‘Besides, I’d stemmed the drain on cashflow. I was paying Jazz less and she wasn’t complaining, so I let things ride. We lost our best legal writers, people like dear old Will Janus, but our business focus had changed. I was devoting my energies to erotic torture and fur fetishism. In an exclusively literary context, of course.’
The boom of his laughter shook the oak panelling. Nic said, ‘So you were happy to keep her on, even though she still wasn’t performing?’
Mickey sighed, a quick gust of regret. ‘Nothing is forever, Mr Gabriel, you know that as well as I do. I won’t re-write history simply because the poor girl’s dead. Even if I did, you would soon find out the truth anyway.’
He chortled for a few moments at his own candour before continuing. ‘Fact of the matter is, the market has changed. Electronic publishing, virtual communication systems. One needs to focus nowadays. It must be true, even the stupidest business analysts keep saying the same thing. So I decided that it made sense to dispose of our legal list. The main challenge was finding a buyer. Fortunately, Will and his people helped out. His firm has acted for me for years. They put me in touch with a prospective purchaser.’
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