Take My Breath Away

by Martin Edwards

  She blew the match out, hurled the matchbox over her shoulder and flung herself down, curling up on the carpet like a foetus. Wailing like a child, because even though there was little that she understood, she saw at least that she had been betrayed.

  Much later, she picked herself up and stood over him. He was still watching her every movement. She guessed he hadn’t taken his eyes off her, all the time she had been sobbing. She was small and thin and naked, and even though he was in handcuffs, he saw in her crushed expression that she felt utterly defenceless.

  ‘Chloe,’ she said in a croaky voice. ‘It was Chloe.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Tell me the story,’ Nic said.

  Standing there in silence, Roxanne collected her thoughts. Presently, she cleared her throat and said in a businesslike tone, ‘I’d better release you first.’

  She found a towel to dry him, watching the whisky soak into the white cotton as she unfastened the handcuffs. It was as if, despite everything said and done that evening, she had suddenly become shy. Lovers shared intimacy, so did killer and victim. With the climax over, they were embarrassed strangers.

  When he was free, they sat next to each other on the edge of the bed, legs not touching. Her gaze fixed on the knife which lay at her feet, she started talking. Engulfing him with her secrets.

  Listening to her reminded Nic of a stormy January when he was a boy. His father had taken the family up the Yorkshire coast to join a crowd of onlookers at a little fishing port, watching from a safe distance to see whether the sea wall would collapse. While they waited, Bryn Gabriel told tales about King Pellinore and the Questing Beast; perhaps they were age-old legends, perhaps he’d made them up to kill the time. To a child, the stone barrier looked impregnable at first, but soon the waves forced a breach in the defences.

  She held nothing back, told him everything about Hilary and the death of Howard Haycraft. About the anonymous note and her growing closer to Chloe Beck. About the fear that haunted her.

  You can change your name, but you can’t change who you are.

  Or what you did.

  ‘How can I explain?’ she said. ‘You must think I’m mad or bad, probably both. You’re more of a lawyer than I’ll ever be. I don’t have a rational mind, it was stupid to kid myself I could ever make it in the law.’

  He shrugged. ‘So we have something in common.’

  ‘I needed to prove something to myself, that I wasn’t born to kill. Ever since – ever since Grant died, that’s the fear that’s haunted me. I needed to have another chance, for the choice to be in my hands. I set everything up so that I could murder you and not be caught. I had the motive and the means. I could have dumped your body in the cold store downstairs until I found somewhere to bury you permanently. I might have got away with it, even though questions would be asked when you disappeared. Your family would raise the alarm.’

  ‘I don’t have a family.’ Days might pass before he was missed. Maybe weeks.

  ‘Of course, it could never have worked. Who would believe me when I said you were fit and well when we parted? The police would have talked to the waiter and the taxi driver who brought us here. I’d have been caught, same as before. But I had to find out what I would decide to do.’

  ‘Chloe Beck encouraged you,’ he said. ‘Subtly, maybe, but she urged you on.’

  Roxanne considered. ‘She made a fuss of me, made me feel that I was all she cared about. She hinted she might kill you herself, to save my soul.’

  ‘Sure’ he said. ‘Self-sacrifice. Altruism. Greater love hath no woman.’

  ‘That’s what I thought then.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘All of a sudden, I see it differently. Shaking the kaleidoscope, you know? I feel grubby. Used.’

  ‘You’re not the first,’ he said. ‘That’s the way it works.’

  ‘I don’t understand this,’ she said, turning to face him. ‘Not any of it.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ She yawned, stretching out thin arms. ‘I’m exhausted and that wine hasn’t helped. It’s late, but I’ll never sleep.’

  ‘I don’t sleep anyway,’ he said. ‘Why not make some coffee? The stronger the better. It’s been quite a night already and there’s a long way to go.’

  While she was in the kitchen, he marshalled his ideas about what had been happening. Even now there were gaps in his knowledge. He was guessing, filling in the last few blanks of the crossword by intuition. When she returned with two steaming mugs, he cleared his throat.

  ‘I can’t begin at the beginning. This started long ago. A friend phoned me one night. He’d heard part of the story and it fascinated him. But the woman who told him had a history of mental breakdown, he couldn’t take her word as gospel. To him, it was a game, a puzzle, a bizarre bit of fun. A chance to play detective. If only he’d taken it seriously before it was too late.’

  ‘He died?’

  ‘Stabbed by the sister of an old girlfriend who killed herself because he’d deceived her. Years had passed and I couldn’t see why the sister had waited so long for revenge. I wondered what was the catalyst. She must have had the desire to murder him, but what broke her restraint? Suppose someone encouraged her, led her on?’

  ‘Chloe said she wanted to protect me,’ Roxanne said. ‘Keep me safe.’

  ‘Ask yourself what effect she had on you.’ He rubbed his wrists, where the handcuffs had chafed his flesh. ‘You danced to her tune, even if you didn’t realise it. The more you’re told not to contemplate killing, the more you toss the idea around in your mind. She might have been clumsy at times, she’s scarcely a seasoned advocate. Even so, she’s strong-willed. Persuasive. This all about trust. Blind trust. You let down your guard when you talked to her, because she was the one person you trusted.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I’m a threat,’ he said, taking a sip from the mug. On its side was the legend When God made man, she was only practising. ‘Just like my friend Dylan Rees and Jazz Delahaye, the woman who confided her suspicions in him. She hanged herself a couple of days ago. She’d been used, too. Years ago, a young man died from anaphylactic shock, an accident she’d caused. Someone talked her into giving him a nasty scare, to teach him a lesson for hurting her, but that someone made sure the allergic reaction was strong enough to kill. Later, that someone finished up at Creed and the body count began to rise.’

  As he explained about the deaths, she kept her eyes fixed on him and he saw the dread that perhaps he too was insane, that she had spared him only to find herself at the mercy of a madman with an obsession about extravagant homicides.

  ‘You’re a lawyer,’ he said, touching her hand. Her skin felt cold. ‘Remember there’s a precedent for everything. So think of Iago. He would have made a marvellous litigator, don’t you agree? The perfect trial advocate. Master of suggestion, always knowing when to tug on other people’s strings. Othello never had a chance.’

  ‘It couldn’t happen, it’s impossible.’

  ‘The genius lies in the simplicity of it. This isn’t a matter of suggesting the desire. The desire is a given. It’s always there first. The skill lies in breaking down the resistance. Matt knows he’s being an old fool, going to the sauna after having a few drinks, but – hey! - where’s the harm? Easy to wound Bradley’s drunken pride, so he wants to show he can drive even when he’s pissed.’

  She shivered. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘It’s the art of advocacy, Roxanne. When Dylan Rees became a threat, the answer was Amy Vinton. She was bitter about her sister’s suicide, it had ruined her life – but she’d never taken the law into her own hands. It was simply a matter of finding the right switch to throw, to turn her into a murderer. Same with Caron Isley, I suppose. Dylan would have kept the record of his investigations in his laptop, it was his life support, everyone knew it. No point in killing the man and leaving the laptop around to tell his story. So Caron was persuaded to punish the man who’d let h
er down by throwing the computer in the Thames. See how it’s done? Shades of Iago, the untouchable. The crimes were never his, at least not directly. He never put a foot wrong, not until the end when Shakespeare had to make sure the baddie got his just deserts.’

  She shifted away from him slightly and said in a croaky voice, ‘The baddie doesn’t always get his just deserts.’

  He remembered coming home to Ravenscar and finding his mother’s corpse. ‘True.’

  ‘This isn’t making sense to me,’ she said, shivering at the strangeness of it all. ‘Chloe isn’t a murderer. I just can’t believe that. Whatever she’s done to me. And as for all these other people – it’s all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.’

  ‘Of course she wasn’t responsible for their deaths,’ he said. ‘No more than she pushed Howard Haycraft into the path of a wagon in Chancery Lane.’

  ‘Well, then? What are you suggesting, that she hypnotised people?’

  ‘No, no, no. Chloe was a dupe, don’t you see? Acting out a script written by someone else. Someone who craved power.’ He was remembering his father’s tale about chessmen guided by an unseen hand. ‘Someone who wanted to control people’s fates, so that it was within his gift whether they lived or died.’

  ‘So someone put Chloe up to it?’

  ‘I guess he was her lover, the man who paid for the flat in Greenwich. As well as the gorgeous dress you wore tonight. But the affair isn’t over. He can twist her around his little finger. She’s become his slave.’

  Silence. He didn’t need to say any more, was content to wait while she cast her mind back, filled in the gaps. For the first time, he had an inkling of how it might have been for his father, telling a child fantastic stories of the Otherworld.

  ‘Why would he want Howard Haycraft dead?’

  ‘Maybe it suited Ali Khan. The man who must be kept sweet at all costs. The crony who held the purse strings.’ Another idea occurred as he spoke. ‘This someone, he wanted to be sure that even you might do his bidding. Yes, maybe that was the purpose of Haycraft’s death. A trial run for murdering me.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ she said, flushing. ‘Haycraft’s accident wasn’t my fault. It was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘There didn’t have to be an accident, don’t you see? Once he’d talked to you, Haycraft realised he was finished. That was what mattered. In his desperation, he might have done anything. Taken an overdose, whatever. If he didn’t, no problem. There’s always another day. But our man never gives up, he can’t. He has to keep refining the Iago technique, playing variations on a theme. I ought to be flattered, for me he went to extraordinary lengths. A tour de force. He wanted two women, not one, to do his dirty work. This is someone who doesn’t think of his dupes as people. They are just his creatures. So he had Chloe incite you to murder me.’

  ‘I just can’t…’

  ‘Remember how it was done,’ he murmured. ‘Think of the little things which point to one conclusion.’

  She glared at him, not wanting anyone else trying to read her mind. But he was right, of course. She said nothing.

  ‘It was Ben Yarrow who handed you the Haycraft case, wasn’t it? You guessed he’d had a fling with Chloe. The mysterious boyfriend, same scenario as Amy and Jazz. But it was more than a fling, I guess it’s still continuing. Who knows what he’s promised her?’

  ‘You’re saying Ben killed those people?’

  ‘He could never be convicted in a court of law, could he? All he does is to influence. Easy for a control freak with a silver tongue. He had people in the palm of his hand. He was in the crowd drinking champagne with Bradley Hurst, the night of the crash. Let’s say he urged Bradley not to drive, warned that he was over the limit and would never get away with it. Other people were saying the same thing, but Ben managed to get under Bradley’s skin. I can picture him determined to prove Ben wrong, intent on showing how well he could hold his booze. Exactly what Ben wanted.’

  ‘The others?’

  ‘He knew Matthew Creed’s weaknesses, went out drinking with him and encouraged him to go to Paradise. This is all about control, isn’t it? I suppose he thought that when Matt died, he would take over as senior partner. Even though that didn’t work out the way he planned, it didn’t stop him. Ambition wasn’t his main motive, I’m sure of that. He always wanted to pull other people’s strings, get them to do his dirty work.’ He remembered Amy Vinton, making her way unsteadily towards Dylan Rees. No wonder she’d reminded him of a marionette. ‘With Amy, even Caron, the seed of hatred was already planted. All it needed was a little help with germination. Ben sought them out, contrived an acquaintance, wormed his way into their confidence.’

  ‘You could never find proof, never convince a court of it.’

  ‘No, but persuading people is what advocates do, Roxanne. Like lovers.’ He paused, recalling Dylan’s speech to the young lawyers. The man had forecast the means of his own murder. ‘Think of it as the technique of seduction.’

  ‘It’s so risky. Leaving so much to chance.’

  ‘Maybe that’s part of the fun. Trial and error. Never quite knowing what’s going to work, and when. Who’s to say that he hasn’t had a hundred failures? Like in the end, he failed with you.’

  Cheeks white, she said, ‘Ben recruited me to Creed. Perhaps he knew all about Cassandra Lee. All that stuff about my great ability as an advocate was bullshit.’

  ‘And perhaps he saw a woman with that kind of secret as ideal for his purposes. He plans ahead, this man. When he discovered I was taking up where Dylan left off, he had an ideal candidate for you to kill. But he was tempted to experiment. He didn’t encourage you to murder me himself. Instead he reached you through Chloe.’

  ‘Oh God.’ She blinked away tears. ‘All the time I thought I was making a fresh start, someone was playing me like a fish on a line.’

  He said nothing, watched her thinking it out, struggling to understand.

  ‘And in the end, I’d be convicted of murder again. No appeal, this time round.’

  ‘No,’ he said, putting his arm around her. ‘That’s where he got it wrong. Ben thought he’d discovered the perfect murder weapon. Someone who had killed a man before. Someone who could be tipped over the edge again by his go-between. Yet you couldn’t do it. You chose of your own free will not to do it. You’re not a murderer.’

  He could feel her trembling. ‘I killed Grant Dennis.’

  ‘Anyone might kill,’ he said, ‘given the circumstances. That’s what Ben trades on. Dennis hurt you and for a few moments in your life, you lost control. Manslaughter, yes. Murder, no. You shouldn’t have been sentenced to life, never would have been if you’d run the best defence at your trial.’ He hugged her skinny body to him, mustered a grin. ‘Trust me, I’m a criminologist.’

  ‘You only have my word for it. How can you be sure I didn’t mean to set fire to you, the way I did with Grant?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said quietly, ‘you have to take innocence on trust. Even if your trust has been betrayed before. That’s where law and logic let you down. Sometimes you need faith. You’re not a murderer, Roxanne. Neither was Cassandra Lee.’

  ‘Okay, you win.’ Suddenly she laughed, and he realised he’d never heard her laugh before. ‘Had you worried, though, didn’t I?’

  A humid morning, the sun masked by cloud. Thunder forecast and the atmosphere so close that Nic found himself fighting for breath as he walked along the Strand. The pavements were crowded; even on foot, getting anywhere in the city centre was a nightmare. All the main routes from Whitehall to St Paul’s Cathedral were closed to traffic. Thousands of people were demonstrating. The media was full of rumours that terrorists were going to hi-jack the protest and turn it into a riot, maybe even a blood-bath. Here and there, cops on motorcycles muttered into walkie-talkies. Makeshift barriers had been set up along the pavement. As Nic approached Avalon Buildings, an ambulance screamed past, blue lights flashing, heading east towards the danger zone.

  Roxanne had pleaded
with him not to confront Ben, but he’d said he must. Nobody had done it before. What was the alternative? No one else would believe him. If he talked to anyone, he’d be warned of the cost of defending an action for slander and encouraged to invest in a lengthy course of therapy. He was a blocked writer who had sought to rekindle his career by making up a calumnious story about a distinguished representative of all that was finest in the legal profession.

  ‘Easier to believe in abduction by aliens or Elvis shopping for groceries in Canning Town.’ Nic shook his head. ‘I have to confront him, face to face. It’s the only way, to make him understand that he can’t go on. It’s over.’

  ‘If you’re wrong,’ she said, ‘you’re committing professional suicide. If you’re right, it’s just plain suicide.’

  ‘What’s he going to do? He’s like a stage illusionist. His magic only works when people don’t keep an eye on what he’s up to.’

  ‘What about Jazz Delahaye and Dylan Rees? Their knowledge didn’t save them.’

  He didn’t say so – didn’t want to tempt fate – but the truth was, he felt invincible. For a while last night he’d thought he was about to die. In the end, he had not only survived, but also learned how Ben had used Chloe Beck to seduce Roxanne. Where Jazz and Dylan had failed, he would succeed. Ben’s luck had run out.

  The Stepford Wives told him Ben was in a meeting with Joel, but would be free shortly. Would he like to go up to the boardroom and wait there? As he pressed for the lift, Nic wondered if he should have worked out a script. All good advocates did their preparation in good time. But he’d never claimed to be a star advocate.

  On the penthouse floor he turned into the corridor that led to the boardroom. The door to Will Janus’s office was ajar and Nic could hear him talking.

  ‘Can you hear the shouting?’ Will sounded panicky. ‘They’re getting nearer. Fergus, these people say they believe in civil rights, but it isn’t true. They’re just wreckers.’

  ‘I told security to let me know at the first sign of trouble.’ Fergus McHugh, calm as ever. ‘Everything’s under control.’