‘Come and have a go, Jez,’ she heard a low voice say and then someone else had the camera and suddenly Jeremy came into view. He looked younger, much younger, dressed in a cream tuxedo suit, his shirt untucked, visible beneath his jacket. He looked like a different man, though there was no mistaking it was him.
With her heart in her mouth, Yasmin blinked as her husband began to tear his clothes off to the chants of the others and dived onto the bed. She noticed that he had kept his socks on. The footage ended there and Yasmin blinked at the screen, her heartbeat audible in her ears, tears streaking her face and falling into her lap.
She had felt her sister’s fear; could almost reach out and touch it on screen as though it were tangible. She had looked so young, so scared and vulnerable that it was too much for Yasmin to bear and she began to sob. But her tears were closely followed by rage, by a hatred so fierce that it claimed every cell in her body.
There was a low hum emanating from the video recorder and Yasmin stooped to turn it off, but suddenly the footage resumed again, startling her.
This time the camera zoomed in on an indoor swimming pool. The blue water still and calm, the light reflecting from the surface into the lens of the camera. There was something in the pool. A naked body floating on top of the water, face down, arms and legs outstretched in a starfish shape, long hair fanning out like a beautiful mermaid’s as it gently swayed with the momentum of the water. Yasmin instinctively knew it was Chloe, the familiarity of her sister’s form was unmistakable to her. Her hand instinctively covered her mouth in shock and horror.
‘Jesus Christ!’ the voice behind the camera said, a woman’s this time.
‘Turn the camera off!’ Jeremy said, his voice low in the background, his panic audible. ‘I said turn the damn thing off!’
And then the screen went black.
*
Jeremy Belmont looked around the restaurant. It was coming up for lunchtime and La Mirage was full to bursting with well-heeled women, chatting animatedly amongst themselves, piles of designer shopping bags from a hard day’s spending collected around them like trophies as they sipped on their Cristal and eyed each other competitively.
The place had gone downhill since he was last here, admittedly some years ago now. Shame, Jeremy thought, it had been a favourite haunt of his back in the 80s and early 90s, superb hunting ground for a bit of genuine aristocratic totty. Now it was full of euro-trash and wannabe wags. Gold-diggers, the lot of them, Jeremy thought derisively. Reeking of their husband’s money, they didn’t have a shred of class between them. Not like his Yasmin, he thought, smiling to himself, his chest visibly swelling. She knocked the spots off all of them. And despite the damn press forever insisting to the contrary, she had never been after his money. After all, she was rich in her own right, what with the substantial inheritance her parents had left her after their tragic death. In fact, it had been she who had insisted upon signing a pre-nuptial agreement before their lavish wedding had taken place. You’d think such a gesture would’ve silenced all the naysayers but still they continued to insist she must have an ulterior motive – money being the obvious one – to have even considered sharing her life with a man old enough to be her grandfather.
As far as Jeremy was concerned, they were all just jealous. Well, they could scoff all they wanted, he thought, indignant, he knew the truth and that’s all that mattered. He sighed as he caught sight of his reflection in his butter knife. If only he had met Yasmin thirty years ago, when he had been in his prime. He had been so handsome back then. Women had adored him, worshipped his dark, brooding good looks and strong, masculine physique. At least that’s how he liked to remember it.
Those were the days, eh? A soft chuckle escaped from his lips. All those wonderful women and all those fabulously debauched parties – Good God, they had been something else. If there was one thing Jeremy Belmont knew how to do exceptionally well it was throw a decent bash. He’d been the host with the most back in the day. If only that unfortunate incident with the young girl in the pool had never taken place then perhaps the press would not still be seeing fit to come down so hard on him, as they had done ever since.
It had been a long while since Jeremy had thought of the whole unpleasant episode with the young prostitute and it bothered him that it had entered his consciousness after all this time. It had been a dreadful affair, one which had taken him years to successfully put behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was rake it all up again. If there was ever a memory to put him on an instant downer it was that one.
Jeremy checked his Cartier watch, the first feelings of impatience beginning to settle on his nerves. Where was Yasmin? He ordered a bottle of Château Margaux and some bread sticks from a passing waiter and tapped his fingers on the table. And then he saw her walking towards him through the crowded restaurant, a vision in a short white one-shoulder DKNY dress, her matching white-blonde hair piled high up on her head in a slick chignon, a lightweight silk cardigan draped over her shoulders as she teetered over in his direction in the highest of Alexander McQueen snakeskin platforms.
She threw her matching snakeskin clutch down onto the table, leaning in to kiss him lightly on one of his full cheeks. It took every ounce of emotional strength she had left in her.
‘Sorry I’m late, darling,’ she said breezily, ‘I had something to attend to this morning, something that couldn’t wait – and the traffic was horrendous, as always. Joseph had to take a detour down the back streets.’ He noticed that her hands were shaking as she took a sip from a glass of San Pellegrino.
‘I took the liberty of ordering us a dozen oysters to start,’ Jeremy smiled affably, his earlier irritation gradually dissolving once he had seen how much of an effort she had made with her appearance. She looked positively stunning and, proudly, he was aware of all eyes on her as she took a seat.
‘So, what was so important that it kept you from your adoring husband?’ he enquired, flashing her an uneasy smile. She looked at him for a moment, wondering how he could’ve visually changed so much from the man she had just watched on film. She remembered her mother had once made the comment that ‘people eventually got the face they deserved in life’ and as far as she could see Jeremy was living proof of it.
‘I had to watch a film,’ she said cryptically. ‘One I’ve been waiting to see for a long, long time.’
Jeremy shrugged.
‘A film?’
‘Call it research,’ she smiled tremulously, her heartbeat accelerating due to the line of cocaine she had snorted in the back of the car on the way over. She hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, her nerves were in shreds and she had needed something to help steady them. All this business with the security guard having a heart attack had put an instant kibosh on their celebrations, that was for sure. It was only a matter of time before the police started asking questions.
‘Well anyway, you’re here now. Shall we order?’
Yasmin nodded. Nothing came between Jeremy Belmont and his stomach she thought, barely able to conceal her contempt.
‘I was thinking,’ she said as she pretended to scan the vast menu, her eyes unable to focus.
‘Hmm,’ Jeremy murmured, his mind already firmly on the Châteaubriand.
‘I think we should get away for a few days. Charter a yacht somewhere, the French Riviera perhaps … do a little snorkelling and sunbathing … maybe even some baby making,’ she added poignantly.
Jeremy’s eyes lit up.
‘What a splendid idea, darling,’ he said, thrilled at the suggestion. ‘I’ll make a phone call, have my PA onto it right away. When were you thinking of going?’
‘Today,’ Yasmin replied casually.
‘Today?’ he shot back.
‘Well, why not?’ she said. ‘Oh come on, darling, let’s be spontaneous. We’re rich, we’re in love – we can do whatever we want to!’
Jeremy laughed at her exuberance.
‘Anyway, I need a holiday,’ she pouted. ‘I’ve a wh
ole suitcase full of bikinis dying for an airing. What do you say we just throw a few things in a trunk and jet off this afternoon?’
It was a half truth. Yasmin did need to get away from all this ghastly business with Forbes Bank. She’d got what she needed; evidence she had spent years searching for, and now she had to finish this business with Jeremy once and for all before the cops came sniffing around.
‘But I’m supposed to be having a meeting with Duncan Reynolds about that property I was looking at in the Hamptons,’ Jeremy objected.
‘Oh darling, whatever happened to spontaneity?’ Yasmin purred, embarking on her charm offensive. ‘Surely there are some things in life that are more important than business, hmm?’ She rubbed his meaty thigh underneath the table, causing him to twitch inside his trousers.
Jeremy smiled, displaying bits of breadstick between his teeth.
‘Well, I suppose it could wait for a few days,’ he sighed, relenting. ‘I can always give Reynolds a call, arrange something for when I’m back.’
‘Oh darling, that’s wonderful.’ Yasmin clapped her hands together loudly, causing the diners on the adjacent table to look over at them. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ she sang, raising an eyebrow provocatively. ‘You can deal with it all well rested and with a clear head on our return,’ she beamed, though inside she had already made her mind up. As far as Jeremy Belmont was concerned, this would be a one-way trip.
CHAPTER 52
Imogen attempted to apply her lip gloss in the mirror, only her hand was shaking so violently that she was making a right hash of it and eventually threw it down onto the dressing table in defeat.
Jalena had just called up to her room to say that Sebastian and a policeman were waiting for her downstairs in the library and that the policeman wanted to ‘ask her a few questions.’ Subsequently gripped by panic and paranoia, Imogen’s mind had spun into overdrive. Why would they want to speak to her? Did they know something? Was she about to be handcuffed and frogmarched out of her own front door? She bit her lip as she imagined the worst. She hadn’t had the chance to speak with Sebastian since he had made a U-turn back from Rio but a small part of her sought solace in the knowledge that had he known, or even suspected anything, she felt sure he would’ve flown up the stairs to her the minute he had walked through the front door.
Imogen’s heart was knocking so hard against her ribs that it was making her feel light-headed. She had to get a grip; stay calm, just like Cal had said. But she had never been a very convincing liar. Now she would have to stand before a figure of authority, as well as Seb’s watchful eye, and lie like her life depended on it.
Unsteady on her feet, her chest tight with anxiety, Imogen cautiously made her way down the winding staircase towards the library, her silky, cream Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit gently clinging to her curves with the momentum of her footsteps. Stopping for a brief moment, Imogen stared at herself in the mirror and forced a smile.
You had better make this good, she told herself sharply as she hovered outside the door to the library, the muffled voices within unsettling her instantly. Looking up at the ceiling, Imogen took a long, deep breath, said a silent prayer to a god she had never believed in and turned the handle.
‘I do apologise for taking so long, I was sle–’
She cut herself off as he turned round to face her.
Imogen stood, halfway in the doorway, paralysed by confusion, a torrent of adrenalin rushing so furiously through her system that she thought she might pass out. Holding on to the door frame for support, she did not hear the sound of shattering crystal as his glass slid from his fingers.
Her eyes told her it was him, though she could not believe them; the soft, dark hair was still the same, albeit a little shorter, a little tidier than it had been all those years ago; his face had retained that slight boyish prettiness to it, a prettiness he had always been at pains to hide with a five o’clock shadow. But it was the eyes that convinced her, those deep teal green eyes, now surrounded by the faintest lines of time, somehow indicative only of him.
Her first thought was that he had somehow found her, tracked her down after all these years, and her heart involuntarily soared. Had he spent the past fourteen years searching for her, just as she had searched for him inside her mind every day that had passed since they had parted? Questions shot through Imogen’s brain like a spray of bullets. Was he here to rescue her from this unholy mess she had found herself in?
Suddenly, Sebastian’s presence seemed very real and frightening as he stood, stony-faced next to a man she truly believed that she would never see again, shouting for Jalena to come and clear the broken glass.
‘Imogen!’ Seb’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts with all the subtlety of an axe felling an oak. ‘Imogen, are you alright? You look terribly pale.’ Sebastian feigned concern, desperate to give the somewhat clumsy DI a good impression of himself.
‘Yes … yes I’m fine,’ she lied, paralysed to the spot, her heart beating so loudly inside her ribcage that she was sure both men could hear it.
‘This is DI Mitch McLaren. DI McLaren, this is my wife, Imogen Forbes.’
Mitch McLaren? Surely he meant Michael, though she dared not question him. She could not allow Sebastian to suspect that they were familiar with one another, that Mitch McLaren was in fact Mickey. Her Mickey. The silent ghost who had been the third person in their marriage throughout all of these years. Suddenly she felt grateful for the fact that Seb and Mickey had never met – until now. She knew her husband only too well; he never forgot a face.
Tentatively Imogen made her way into the room, putting her hand to her chest in a bid to calm the thud within. She felt Mickey’s eyes on her and, conscious of her every move, made her way towards him, holding her hand out. As he took it, shook her hand lightly, she felt she might collapse. The sensation of his skin against hers made her want to close her eyes and moan softly. Did he recognise her? she wondered, searching his face for clues.
Rooted to the spot, his eyes met with hers. She looked the same yet somehow different. Her face had only slightly changed in that indefinable way that a person’s does with age and time. She was still beautiful, perhaps even more so, he felt as his eyes drank her in. Her dark hair, still shiny and glossy, was longer, much longer now, and it suited her. And those lips he had kissed almost as many times in his dreams as he had during the short time he had spent with her were still full and fleshy, the same rosebud shape as before. Her cheekbones had remained prominent, accentuated as the fullness of youth had gradually slipped away. And her eyes, oh God, those dark, almond-shaped eyes …
It was her. Imogen Lennard. His Imp. She was here. In front of him. And suddenly Mitch McLaren was that young man in the British Library again. Painfully self-conscious and confused. Standing next to her husband in the professional capacity of policeman and investigator. And right now, more than anything, he needed to get a grip.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Forbes,’ he added softly, his teal green eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment. ‘I must apologise for the mess.’ He gestured to the shards of crystal glinting against the dark oak floor like diamonds.
Imogen shook her head graciously and wondered if he was thinking the same as she was: that it would be wholly inappropriate to make their recognition known. After all, what would they tell Sebastian? ‘Well, darling, would you ever believe it, but DI McLaren and I were once lovers …’
‘Likewise,’ she replied, her voice a low, husky whisper as she struggled to regain her composure.
‘DI McLaren would like to have a few words with you, if that’s alright. Nothing to be worried about, darling,’ Sebastian reassured her. ‘So I would like you to do whatever you can to help, yes?’
Imogen was listening with only half an ear. ‘Yes?’ Sebastian repeated himself firmly.
‘Sorry, yes, of course,’ Imogen said, distractedly. ‘Though I could use a drink,’ she added, glancing at the decanter of brandy on the sideboard. Frankly, it
was the understatement of the year. Sebastian looked surprised. Imogen rarely drank alcohol this time of the day, not even in a social capacity. Still, he supposed these were extenuating circumstances.
‘My wife and I haven’t had a chance to talk since my return from Rio,’ he explained to Mitch. ‘So I’m afraid we will have to fill her in on everything.’
Imogen suddenly remembered herself.
‘I’m so sorry, Seb,’ she said, turning to her husband who had begun to fix her a brandy. ‘It’s terrible news about the break-in at the bank. You must be devastated,’ she said tremulously.
*
Mitch watched her closely, enjoying the sound of her voice, absorbing every word. It was strange, he thought, how despite not having seen her for so long, she could remain so familiar to him.
Imogen lightly touched Seb’s arm as he handed her the drink, a gesture that seemed somehow contrived to Mitch’s watchful eye, and it bothered him. Years of studying other people’s body language told him that they were not close, that the laboured and stiff exchanges between them were not indicative of a close, happy marriage, and he felt ashamed of himself that this observation gave him a small slither of satisfaction.
‘If it’s OK with you, Mr Forbes, I would like to speak to your wife alone,’ Mitch said after a few moments. ‘Like I said, it’s simply routine.’
‘Do what you can to help the inspector, darling,’ Sebastian instructed her, switching to his bullish default setting. ‘We’ll talk later. I’ll be making calls in my office if you need me.’ He rose from the chesterfield and shook Mitch’s hand.
‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Forbes,’ Mitch said. ‘In the meantime, if there’s anything you can think of, anything that springs to mind, however insignificant you think it might be, then please, call me direct.’ He handed Sebastian a card with his details. ‘And try not to worry – get some sleep.’
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