“It’s timing,” I said calmly, because one of us had to stay calm. “You haven’t just been played, you’ve been herded. He wanted to make you behave yourself so no one else would stumble accidentally onto the story—and too early. He expected you to shut up and stop making speeches—but it can still come out after you get the gig…or not. You decided you weren’t going to play his game—after all, you did that awards thing. And so he’s forced to go to Plan B.”
“Which is?”
“He waits. If you’re thrown out of the running now, who knows which way the political wind will blow? But if you get Pretoria, your appointment will let some very dangerous corporate people know that the UK is coming out quite firmly against the Coltan trade. A sex scandal will embarrass London and hurt Britain’s prestige and influence with the African states.”
“Bastards!” she muttered again in frustration. “If they want me out of it so badly, why don’t they use spy cameras or bugs or whatever and—and simply video me fucking Neil or Lionel? All of these sick games!”
“We’re not dealing with a professional mercenary or operative here,” I said. “At least I don’t think so. Anthony’s rushed murder is a good indication of that. I think we’ve got a corporate executive who’s a wannabe spy. He happened on the strip poker craze, and he persuaded his masters this would be the perfect ruse to take you down. After all, he’s in. He’s accepted. He knows everyone. He’s been clever about the psychology, but he’s still making it up as he goes along.”
I pointed to Helena. “I don’t want to scare you, but that’s why I better stick around. I think our guy may start to worry that someone could put it together.”
Helena smiled faintly. “Someone has.”
“But I’m not a cop. Knock on wood, he doesn’t even know I’m after him. But he may start to believe someone could figure out this isn’t about sex. So he may try a ‘gratuitous’ murder to throw everyone off track. I think you’re the best target. If something happens to you, the agency will fall under the magnifying glass. For all I know, maybe you are part of his plan.”
“Maybe it’s time you told us who he is,” suggested Helena.
At that instant, my mobile rang. It was Carl Norton, sounding quite exasperated—with the murders, with the media, with me. This is not a good thing, I thought. But at least he had news for me.
I motioned to Helena I had to take this and jogged up to the master bedroom.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you,” Carl said tightly, “but that pill residue you tipped us off about?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s GHB. And you’re right, the blood is Anthony Boulet’s—from his right palm. A slash across it.”
“A knife?” I asked. “I thought he was strangled.”
“He was. And it wasn’t a knife. The pathologist says it came from a hypodermic needle. The tox screen couldn’t find traces of the GHB in his system, but perhaps he was given an extremely low dose, and that’s why he was less than manageable for his killer. Fought the bloke off as he tried to administer another kind of sedative—or something worse. As he lifted his hand, the needle raked across his palm.”
“So the killer whips out his cord or whatever and strangles him.”
“Right,” said Carl. “Did you see any glasses on his desk? Like he was having a drink with someone?”
No. No, I hadn’t.
“I wasn’t there, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” said Carl in an impatient snide voice. “You only had a psychic vision of what was in the room. Okay, for your information: when the forensics guys went through the office, they found the residue of Scotch in the loo sink. Like someone poured the contents down the drain, but didn’t bother to flush it with the tap. Didn’t need to, really. One glass left behind with only Anthony Boulet’s saliva on it.”
“Took his own glass away with him,” I said. “Smart.”
“Yep. A bottle was in the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Mr. Boulet liked his Glenfiddich.”
“The killer dropped one of his magic pills and inadvertently stepped on it. And it got forgotten in the commotion and his hasty cleanup. By the way, I bet if your people do a test, they’ll find drugs used on Lionel Young as well.”
“Way ahead of you.”
“So we’re looking for a doctor type, a pharmacist or perhaps a veterinarian.”
“I’m looking,” said Carl. “You are supposed to stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“No joke this time, Teresa. Please. I heard about how you gave the cops in Paris the slip during that whole au pair scandal thing.”
“What? What did I do?”
“You know what you did. I don’t know how you did it, but they must be really gullible or stupid or both.”
“What?” I asked innocently.
“Teresa! You do not look a thing like Michelle Williams.”
“Some people say I do,” I lied. “I could be in Destiny’s Child.”
“Uh-huh. And they let you through de Gaulle Airport? They bought the whole ‘assumed name’ rubbish?”
“Yes.”
“With what you were carrying?”
“Yes. In Milan, they bought that I was Macy Gray.” I adopted a throaty voice and started to sing: I try to walk away, and I choke…
He hung up on me.
I went back downstairs into the living room to find a still-anxious Janet and Helena. “That was our friend, Inspector Norton. The cops found GHB in Anthony’s office.”
Janet’s face went blank. “GHB…?”
“Gamma hydroxybutyric acid,” I supplied.
“It’s one of those date rape drugs, darling,” Helena told her.
I briefed them quickly about the GHB, feeling a little distracted because there was something bothering me about Anthony’s murder. I had the nagging sensation that I had missed an important detail or maybe something about the whole psychological rationale.
Of our victim? Our killer? I wasn’t sure. I would have to mull on it later.
Of course, the GHB told the cops—and me—that either Anthony Boulet knew his killer or that the guy approached him in such a way that it was natural for them to have a conversation over a friendly drink after office hours.
But why would Anthony Boulet sit down with a representative of the Coltan trade over Scotch?
After I finished with Janet and Helena, I knew I’d better take a look at everything again. The timelines of the phone call, the discovery of the body. The digital photos I took inside the office. The works.
“You were about to tell us who you think is behind it all,” prompted Helena.
“Yes,” I said, coming down from the clouds. “I have no proof, and I hope I’m wrong. But I think it’s Simon Highsmith.”
“Why him?” asked Janet.
Why him indeed?
“For one thing, Simon Highsmith dropped out of medical school years ago but would still know how to administer narcotics and sedatives,” I answered. “That may sound very circumstantial, and it is, but I’ve had dealings with him before. In Sudan.”
“Wait a minute,” said Helena. “Simon Highsmith. That’s your Simon from Africa?”
“He’s not particularly my Simon,” I grumbled.
“But you’ve got history,” prompted Janet.
“Yes. And for me, he’s still the primary suspect.”
“If I’m guilty of letting my involvement with Neil cloud my judgement, isn’t it possible that you’re not totally objective when it comes to him?” she asked.
Never easy with this woman!
And there was Helena, waiting expectantly for me to tell more. My friend who had just blurted out this personal detail that now undermined their confidence in me. I was irritable because only a moment ago, I had calmly, painstakingly guided them through my logic over what was behind all this, and now when they asked me to point a finger at the culprit they assumed emotions were affecting my judgement.
“Sure, it’s possible,” I
conceded, “but the reason I think it’s him is because I do know him from before. I know what he’s capable of. I watched Simon Highsmith pick up a rifle and shoot a man right in front of me. Some of the aid workers I knew there were kind of like adrenaline junkies in a way, and Simon…Simon went all the way, became a mercenary on the side of the SPLA in the south. I think he’s done a Kurtz.”
My invented expression puzzled Janet. “Done a Kurtz?”
“Heart of Darkness,” supplied Helena, getting it. “You know, Janet—the bloke who goes into the jungle, supposed to be the great missionary, goes nuts and becomes a warlord? Didn’t you ever have a boyfriend who made you sit through Apocalypse Now?”
“No,” answered Janet with an arch of her eyebrows. She seemed to count herself lucky for it. And she was still baffled. “But if Simon Highsmith fought with the rebels, I mean his sympathies would…”
“Years ago, there was this American journo who went down to the Philippines to write a feature about child prostitution,” I offered. “He wrote this incredibly moving story about the kids, the corruption, the whole shebang, and then later he dropped out of sight. What happened to him? Another reporter goes looking, and lo and behold, the crusading journo is in Manila. Now he’s one of the pimps running his own child prostitution ring.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Helena.
“Somewhere along the line,” I said, “Simon may have gone from a white guy fighting for Africans because it’s the right thing to do or for good karma or whatever to thinking what am I getting out of this? From his perspective, maybe Africa hasn’t got better and never will. So he asks why not cash in? Big country, small world. Easy to walk across the street to the competition. It can’t be coincidence that he turns up flush with cash, crashing the party when there are all these Coltan links and you’re in the running for the High Commission. Can’t be.”
What had he said to me back in my apartment? It’s a different country this time. And I had assumed he meant Britain. Uh-uh.
“So why didn’t he blow your cover?” asked Helena.
“Truthfully? I can’t be sure.” I pointed to Janet. “He came over to my apartment and assumed I was working for you, trying to chase down a blackmailer. Told me you should book a holiday, and I should get out of London, too, that things were going to get uglier.”
“That sounds like a threat,” said Janet. So much for doubting me about Simon.
“No,” I argued. “That wouldn’t be his style. He knows I’d dig in my heels. If he outs me, I can out him back. Mutually assured destruction. My bet is he decided to try to be allies, to make me think he’s up to something else.”
“Which is?” asked Helena.
“I asked him who he was working for, and he wouldn’t tell me,” I said. “He won’t tell me right away because that would be too easy. But at the right moment, he’ll come back with some rubbish story to lead me in the wrong direction. I can almost guarantee it.”
“You’re still playing poker,” observed Helena.
Yes, I thought. Yes, I am.
“If not a threat then a warning,” suggested Janet, flip-flopping. “He told you things were going to get worse, right? He’d advised you—and me—to get out of town.”
“Which may sound very nice and sincere, but gains you nothing,” I countered. “It may even play into his hands if you’re out of town. The story can break while you’re off on this holiday, and you’ll be none the wiser. No chance for damage control. Remember: our blackmailer wants to set off his little media bomb on his timing, not anybody else’s.”
“So how can you stop him?” asked Helena. “He’s killing our friends, and it looks like he’s going to ruin both of us…”
“I prove he killed Anthony,” I said. “Or I prove he killed Lionel. Or both.”
Janet, her nerves eating her away, fell back on sarcasm. “Oh, that’s all! The police don’t have a clue, but you’ll have it sussed.”
Helena tried to rein her in. “Janet…”
“But this is way past a joke!” she insisted. “Men we know—one man I deeply cared for—are getting murdered. And with all due respect to your talents, Teresa, you’re not with the police. You’re not a forensics expert. You’re not even a trained investigator by your own admission. I think it’s time we gave up and went to the authorities!”
“Do that, and this bastard wins,” snapped Helena. “There’s no guarantee that what we tell them will lead to this creep’s arrest. But his employers over in Geneva or down in Jo’burg or wherever the hell these slimy types operate from will still get what they paid for! Please, darling, you have to be strong with me. Let Teresa do her job. She’s good at it.”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry,” said Janet, regaining control. “But I do hope to God you know what you’re doing.”
So did I.
12
I missed him. I wanted him back. Took me a while to figure out how to do it, if only for a little while. The obvious. Wendy the receptionist gave me an odd look when I made my request, but something in my eyes suggested that she please not pass it on to Helena.
Hell, it would turn up on Helena’s bill later anyway as expenses.
“I don’t usually entertain clients at my apartment,” said Neil when I turned up at his door.
He was knotting his tie as he answered it, a dash of bright purple against a dark purple shirt, subtle blue pinstripe pattern on his Armani jacket and trousers. God, his aftershave made him smell good.
I played innocent. I played it about as well as I can do a Yorkshire accent.
“I just thought this would be more convenient,” I said.
“You look lovely.”
I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn at the last poker game: long skirt with a deep slit up the side, the elegant halter top with the tie neck and sequins around the trim. Go with a winner.
“You don’t look happy to see me.”
“I thought you wanted me to call when I figured out what I want.”
“You didn’t call,” I said.
“Teresa…” Groan of exasperation.
“She doesn’t have much time for you again these days, does she?” I asked. “Doesn’t want you by her side when she shows up crying at his funeral?”
We didn’t have to pretend anymore that I didn’t know who she was. If Janet had gone remorsefully back to his place after her mini-orgy, no doubt she’d dropped a reference to me having been there. And what kind of behaviour I was up to.
“She’s a politician,” said Neil. “She’s got an image to maintain.”
“You minded it a lot more when she didn’t show up outside the police station,” I argued.
He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Nothing’s simple. Look, I do love Janet. You told me to go and ditch all this baggage over the games and my gigs with you when maybe that’s good advice I should used with her. Once and for all. You know…You didn’t call either.”
“I’m here tonight,” I said, moving in to him.
“You’re too late.”
“No, I’m not. I’m right on time, and I’ve paid for it. The Time. The full service. And I don’t want to spend tonight arguing.”
“Just because you rent my ass, doesn’t mean you get my ass, babe,” he laughed, leading me by the hand to the door. “Escort means I take you out. A show. Dinner. Whatever your pleasure—out there. In here is my choice.”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
I planted my feet, back to the door, and stayed put. I began kissing him. At first, sweet little pecks, then more insistent. My fingers felt his ribs and muscles under his shirt.
“So what’s it going to be?”
In answer, he sank to his knees in front of me and began to lift my skirt. I felt his large hands grip my buttocks, kneading them, sculpting them, and then I felt his breath hot and passionate on the inside of my thighs. I stumbled back against the door.
He had my panties tugged down in an instant, sucking my clit in h
is mouth and making me moan. I felt a concussive wave of heat flow from my groin through my entire body. My fingers in his hair, touching the fabric of his jacket. My skirt was cast aside, Neil gorging himself on my pussy, overwhelming me with pleasure. His tongue flicking and nudging inside my vagina. I tugged on his necktie to get him to rise, and we kissed again violently. My hands ripped down his fly and worked blindly at his shirt buttons, but I didn’t want him completely naked. Oh, no.
Shoulder blades hammering the door with our exertions, his brown cock jutting out of his pants, he penetrated me right then and there. Half-clothed. Wild abandon. I bit his lip and keened as his hands ducked under my top and fondled my breasts, revelling in the heat from his thighs, his huge penis, the touch of fine silk and cotton of his clothes. Shoe clunking to the floor as he hoisted my right leg. I panted as he increased his rhythm, and then he savagely yanked on my hair and kissed me, pumping me, fucking me, making me scream for mercy so that anybody out in the hall heard the show all the way down to the lift. And just as I thought I couldn’t take any more, I ripped his shirt open, buttons cascading on the tiles like spilled mints, and I let out a wail, sinking my teeth into his chest.
“Oh, fuck, baby!”
“Teresa!”
His cock boring into me with sweet and precious extra depth as it tensed and shot. He was so long. Hard like a rock inside me.
“Teresa…”
Of course, it didn’t resolve anything. But it felt good, and that was enough for this evening.
I left him three hours later, thinking it might be better not to sleep over this time. A cab took me into the West End, and it was still comparatively early. I figured I could always hail another ride to get me to Richmond. Helena should be all right tonight, having a couple of her friends over for a “night of normalcy,” as she put it. A wholesome game of Scrabble. And Sex on the Beach cocktails.
I was walking along the embankment, doing my mull thing over pieces of the case, when I noticed my shadow. He had tagged along since the cab dropped me off, and I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t have the talent for this or he wanted me to know he was there. Either way I wasn’t in the mood for games.
Strip Poker Page 23