Angel of Death

by Charlotte Lamb

  Miranda had dinner with Alex that evening, in the hotel restaurant. While they were eating a dessert of figs and crème caramel which was both very rich and very subtle, Milo brought him a folded slip of paper.

  ‘This just arrived from the office in Piraeus. They faxed it to us at once.’

  ‘Thanks, Milo.’

  When Milo had gone Alex looked at the printed words, his black brows rising. He glanced across the table at Miranda.

  ‘Finnigan isn’t coming after all. He says an urgent matter has arisen. He’ll make a new appointment when he’s free.’

  She breathed a long sigh of relief. ‘Thank heavens for that! I wonder why he changed his mind?’

  ‘No doubt the police have charged his son and Finnigan has to stay there to deal with the fall-out. Perhaps he and his lawyers are trying to get bail for the boy.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll succeed?’

  ‘I can’t see the police agreeing. This is a murder charge. They won’t want a killer roaming the streets. Not now they’ve got the evidence they needed to charge him.’

  She sipped her white Greek wine, staring at the candles on the table. Their flames flickered and dipped as someone walked past, pausing beside them.

  ‘Hello, Alex,’ slurred a sexy, sensuous voice and Miranda looked up to see Elena in a sensational white crepe dress which clung to every slender inch of her body.

  ‘Elena,’ he said, rising. ‘You look like a Greek goddess. Still enjoying your holiday?’

  She leaned towards him, her red mouth brushing his lingeringly. ‘Mmm . . . yes.’ Her dark eyes shot to Miranda’s face. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

  They had, of course, and she was sure Elena remembered.

  ‘Miranda is the hotel translator,’ Alex said.

  ‘Oh, just one of the staff,’ Elena dismissed.

  Miranda flushed under the icy sting of her scorn. But it was true, wasn’t it? She was just one of the hotel staff, whereas Elena was an old family friend who had once been engaged to Alex. She had hurt him badly once – was he still in love with her?

  ‘We must have dinner, Alex, talk about old times,’ Elena said.

  ‘Yes, we must do that,’ he agreed, standing. ‘Miranda, I’ll walk you back to your bungalow.’

  They were silent as they walked through the gardens. What was he thinking about? she wondered, glancing sideways at his hard, tanned profile. Elena?

  He insisted on going into the bungalow first, to make sure nobody had got inside, went into every room to check the place was empty. Miranda waited at the door. The emergency was over, Terry wasn’t coming, she was safe for the moment, perhaps for ever.

  Poor Terry. She couldn’t help being sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault his son was rotten. Some people might blame the parents, people often did blame parents for what their children did, but Sean’s weakness and viciousness was in his face, must have been visible all his life. His genes were to blame, not his upbringing. Heredity had determined how he would react that day. Who knew from which set of genes his weakness came – from his mother’s family, or his father’s?

  Terry was a worker, tough, determined, with guts and character. She couldn’t believe his family had provided Sean’s genes.

  Sandra was silly, self-indulgent, pretty worthless. She pursued her own pleasure whatever it cost others; her son included. She had left him behind and gone off because she wanted the life Jack offered her. Sean even looked like his mother; fair, with a smooth, epicene softness to his face, and the same greedy eyes and mouth.

  Poor Terry.

  Alex came back. ‘Everything’s OK.’ He walked over to her, gazing down into her face. ‘You look tired, poor girl. Better get to bed at once. You’ve had a busy day.’

  She leaned her cheek on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart underneath her. ‘How long are you staying? Now that Terry isn’t coming do you have to go back at once?’

  He put his face down against her hair. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

  She nodded, too shy to say it aloud, to beg, as she wanted to. Please stay, please don’t go away again, I need you here, I feel safer with you around.

  Alex slid his index finger under her chin, lifted her face so that he could look into her eyes. Her lids flickered up and down, she was afraid to meet his stare.

  ‘Miranda,’ he whispered huskily, then his mouth was on hers, heat between them, a fire that consumed her entire body, made her shake and shocked all the air out of her lungs.

  Her arms went round his neck, she clung to him, kissing him hungrily, wanting him in a way that was totally new to her, totally unexpected. If she hadn’t been so inhibited she would have told him, cried out her desire, babbling like an idiot, I want you, I want you.

  She didn’t need to say it, he gave a groan, said, ‘Oh, God, Miranda . . .’ then picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  He undressed her, hurriedly, roughly, while she trembled and burned, waiting for him, staring up at his white face, barely able to breathe.

  Their bodies merged with a shock like the collision of trains running out of control, unable to stop. She cried out in pleasure and need, twining with him, arms and legs around him, their mouths hotly devouring each other.

  It was too intense, too agonising; tears ran down her face, the piercing desire almost broke her body in two as she rode under him, with him deep inside her, driving her up the bed. She had never been so aware of being animal. Her mind wasn’t operating. Only her body worked, reacting to his, more and more wildly, until the clamour and tension broke and she let out a high shriek of exquisite, unbearable pleasure.

  She had known, the minute she first saw him, on that ship, that this was how it would be if they ever made love. The gentle affection between her and Tom had been a million miles away from this fierce mating. That was why she had rejected Alex, denied her true feelings, hidden them deep inside herself. She could not admit to them because they betrayed her love for Tom. Her guilt had made it impossible for her to face up to what she wanted. Now she had. The sharp, tortured desire emerged from where she had hidden it all these years, she moaned it out into the night air, sobbed and wept with it.

  Afterwards they lay still together, their breathing slowing, the heat in them dying down, the room no longer spinning round for them.

  Had she told him she loved him? She had no idea, could not remember anything she had said, or if she had spoken at all. All she knew was that she had never realised pleasure could be so painful, or pain so pleasurable.

  She felt she had died in this bed, with him; died and gone to heaven.

  But life was never that easy or simple.

  ‘I’d love to stay all night,’ he huskily murmured. ‘But I have too much to do. I’ll have to go.’

  He unwound himself and got up, naked and golden in the glow of the bedside lamp. Why was he leaving her? she thought, anguished. To find Elena?

  Pain pierced her breast. She had lost all control, had eagerly offered herself, lost to everything but her need for him. He had taken what she gave, but did he feel anything more than desire for her? Was it still Elena he loved?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bernie’s son and another man arrived promptly at ten o’clock. Terry greeted them himself in reception, forced a smile and made polite remarks as he escorted them up to his office. ‘How’s your father? I hope he’s well? And your mother? We go back a long way, you know. You won’t remember me but I remember you as a little kid.’ He laughed. ‘You’ve grown a lot since then, of course.’

  Andy Sutcliffe resembled his father as Terry remembered him years ago; wiry and potentially powerful, with rough brown hair and the same quick, easy, cheerful smile. He gave the impression of being laid-back, easy-going, but then so had Bernie. The charm was deceptive, hid a ruthless focus on getting his own way. Power, that was what Bernie had always wanted, and had got, by one means or another.

  ‘I’ve heard my parents talk about you. Afraid I don’t remember y
ou, myself; I guess I was too young to notice much when you were around. Oh, this is our computer anorak, Liam Grady,’ he introduced him and Terry looked hard at the other man, shaking hands.

  ‘I suppose you could say I was a computer anorak, too,’ he smiled. His obsession with computers in the beginning had led him to another world, a new career. What had begun as a passion had become a business. Sometimes he regretted that, wished he still felt the same eager excitement.

  ‘Yeah, well, we all need to understand computers and use them, or lose out in the modern world.’

  Liam Grady was dogmatic, a small, sharp Irishman with spiky yellowish hair, bright blue eyes and a touch of belligerence in his manner. No room for discussion or argument in his view of life. Liam Grady knew what he was talking about and anyone who didn’t agree with him had to be taught he was right. He was the type to have a fight in every bar he walked into. Terry had known a lot of men like Liam Grady when he lived in Manchester and moved in the Irish Catholic enclave centred on the local church and the social life held there in the club.

  He had been that way himself, when he was young, before he caught on that fighting wasted energy you could better use in making a success of your life.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said amiably, smiling at Grady.

  Andy looked at his watch. ‘I want to get back up to Manchester this afternoon, I have things to do in the office there, so do you mind if we cut corners? We need to see how your firm works – your order books, your accounts, everything. My father told you that, didn’t he?’

  ‘He told me. Come along.’ Terry led them into another room. The computers were all switched on and waiting, ticking like wound-up clocks, their screens blank but alive, shining in autumnal morning sunlight. Terry sat down, punched in the code to give access. The machine began to hum, to whir.

  Terry stood up again, impatient to get away. He found it hard to be polite to these intruders who were going to fumble through his business like policemen searching somebody’s knicker drawer.

  ‘You’ll find your way around without needing me here. I’ll leave you to it. If you do want me my internal number is on this pad. And the access codes to the computers are on it, too.’

  Liam nodded abstractedly. ‘Fine. OK.’

  He sat down in the chair Terry had used, immediately attentive to the screen in front of him, and began operating keys. The screen changed, numbers and figures swam up from somewhere. Liam read them, his fingers hovering over keys.

  ‘Can we have a tour of the premises later?’ Andy asked.

  Terry nodded. ‘Certainly. Just give me a ring when you’re ready. We can have some lunch across the road in the pub you can see from the window here. It’s an old house, but the food is pretty good and they have a huge range of beers and spirits.’

  ‘Sounds great then. See you later.’ Andy went over to another computer and sat down.

  Terry left, glad to escape their presence. He was too afraid of losing his temper.

  Since Sean’s engagement party and what happened next day, his mood was always volatile. After years of being amiable and even-tempered he had become aggressive again, just as he had been when he was young, but he could not risk losing his temper with Bernie’s son. Bernie would turn nasty if he did. When they met in Manchester, the old man had seemed a burnt-out case, a lion whose teeth had been drawn, but Terry was not deceived. Bernie would be a bad enemy to make.

  He was a bad friend to have, come to that. Ruthless, acquisitive, greedy, he was going to eat into Terry’s company, if he could, but if they were still, on the surface, friends, he would not go too far. If Terry let his temper rip, though, Bernie might turn nasty and step up his demands, no longer feeling he needed to pretend or mask his intentions.

  The strain of keeping calm was unbearable. He shut himself in his office and tried to concentrate on some work. His new secretary was not efficient; he had to check every letter she sent to make sure there were no spelling mistakes, bad grammar, stupid little errors of fact. She didn’t always get the name of the client right, and her filing was erratic, she was always losing documents. As he couldn’t shout at Andy Sutcliffe, he shouted at her all morning, reducing her close to tears several times.

  ‘Oh, don’t turn on the water works! Just get it right next time, and save me the trouble of telling you where you’ve made mistakes.’

  She went off, sniffing, a delicate little handkerchief dabbing at her eyes and nose, but he sensed the angry resentment underneath. She would probably start looking for another job but Terry did not care. There were plenty more fish in the sea.

  He got a call from his solicitor just before lunchtime. Edward Dearing sounded as weary and bored as usual.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Terry asked and Edward sighed.

  ‘They’ve broken for an hour, to eat lunch. They’ve sent sandwiches down for Sean, and a bottle of beer. I’ve gone across the road to eat a Chinese.’

  ‘How’s Sean bearing up?’

  ‘Not too well. To be frank, Terry, your son is far too aggressive with them, he keeps shouting. That never works. He’s making enemies.’

  That didn’t surprise Terry, Sean was an arrogant, hot-headed young fool. But it worried him. How did you guard against the boy’s own folly?

  ‘What about the evidence? Do you think they’ve got anything we need worry about?’

  Edward was dry. ‘Terry, they’ve got the body, and these days that can tell them a lot. Forensic evidence can make a case, and they have a lot of circumstantial evidence, too – that he was involved with the girl, that he had a strong motive for wanting to get rid of her. It all mounts up.’

  ‘Surely they can’t have much evidence from the body after all that time in the sea?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. They’ve got DNA evidence, proof of identity, and that carpet . . . they know where it came from. They’ve got photographs taken in your office flat that show an identical carpet, in the hallway. Do you know if any was left over, when it was laid? Was there a spare roll somewhere?’

  ‘In a cupboard, yes.’ No point in lying – they would only check with the cleaners and find out. It had been there ever since the flat was furnished.

  ‘And is it still there?’

  ‘I haven’t looked.’

  ‘Then do so, at once! We need to know exactly what we’re up against. Well, we’ll put up what defence we can, but, frankly, it isn’t looking too good. I think they’re going to charge him, perhaps today, maybe tomorrow – but the probability is they will charge him sooner or later.’

  ‘But even if they can prove he knew this girl, that he slept with her, and it was his baby she was carrying, that isn’t enough to prove he killed her. I can say I threw the carpet away.’

  ‘You will say you threw it away,’ Edward pointedly told him.

  ‘Yes, yes, that is what I’ll tell them.’

  ‘Hmm. They’ll want to know where you tipped it, and when. They’ll also be relying on the evidence of this witness, this girl who worked for you. She is the bedrock of their case, I think. She heard the murder, she links everything up. Have you found out where she is yet?’

  ‘She may be somewhere in Greece.’

  ‘Try and find her, Terry.’ A pause, then Edward said, ‘Of course you won’t threaten her, or anything. But we need to know exactly what she might say. Ah, my lunch has arrived. Beef in black bean sauce – smells great. I’ll talk to you tonight.’

  Terry put down the phone and stared out of the window. He would have to go to Greece. Miranda was now even more of a danger. If Sean was charged her evidence would be vital to the police case.

  He might be able to get away tomorrow; just for a few days. He had had a wonderful time in Greece last time he was there. The Manoussi family were charming and hospitable, he had loved being there.

  It had been a culture shock for him, seeing how they lived, visiting the Athens museum, glimpsing the Greek past, the incredible statues, the gold, the beauty of ancient jewellery. It had all b
een so strange to him; the food, the buildings, the markets in that place . . . what was it called . . . the agora? Or had that been the old market, no longer in operation? He had loved the narrow alleys and lanes filled with stalls selling junk for tourists, reproductions of Greek vases, little statuettes, or selling army surplus boots, or fruit, or modern curtains. The noise, the bustle, the cheerful friendliness . . .

  Oh, yes, he had loved Athens.

  This time would be very different.

  Miranda woke up next morning in a state of depression, hating, despising herself, for allowing Alex to use her the way he had. He must despise her, too. She had collapsed in front of him, like a crumbling wall – she had made it easy for him to take her then walk away.

  How was she going to face him? She wasn’t hungry and skipped breakfast, walked into the office feeling very shy, wondering if people would be able to see what had happened between her and Alex. One of the other two girls was at reception as she passed, dealing with a telephone query. She waved a hand and winked at Miranda, who waved back, forcing a stiff smile.

  As she passed the manager’s door she saw it was slightly ajar; she could hear Alex’s voice inside. Was he talking to Charles?

  She paused, listening, to see if she could pick up Charles’ voice, and meaning to go in to talk to Alex, then realised Alex was talking on the phone. Through the open door she could glimpse the whole office. Alex was alone; standing by the window gazing out while he talked, one hand raking back his thick black hair.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept her here for you, haven’t I? She won’t get away – this is an island, remember? She’ll be here whenever you want her. Come over and get her any time.’

  Miranda went cold, a frown etching itself between her brows. Who was he talking to?

  No prizes for guessing who he was talking about. Her. He meant her.

  What did he mean, he had kept her here and whomever he was talking to could come and get her any time?