Dark Powers

by Raymond Haigh

  The police had driven their two vans a short way down the track to block any escape from the farm. Dillon had reversed his car into the opening, just far enough to conceal it. They’d posted no guard over the vehicles, set up no road blocks; this had been a covert operation, one they hadn’t wanted to advertise.

  Sir Nigel Dillon was sitting, in some discomfort, in the back of the car, arms secured behind his back, his mouth gagged with the crotch of Annushka’s tights: the legs had been wound round his head and securely tied. He was still snorting, still making gargling sounds, as they cruised through Haverfordwest along Perrots Road. Samantha turned right on to the A40, then right again into Cartlett Road. The Riverside twenty-four-hour car park, its four floors dimly lit, rose up ahead. Samantha turned into the entrance, tugged a ticket from the machine and the barrier rose. The late-night scattering of cars became sparser as they ascended; the third and fourth floors were deserted.

  Samantha parked in an unlit corner, distant from the lift and ramps, then turned to Annushka. ‘Get the bags while I deal with Dillon.’ She stepped out of the car, tugged open a rear door and smiled down at her captive. Face brick-red, eyes wild with fury, he began to kick and thrash around. She pressed the muzzle of the gun against his throat. ‘Keep still, Nigel. If you move, I’ll kill you.’ She pulled off his shoes, tossed them in the front, then unbuckled his belt and tugged his trousers and underpants down to his knees. Shocked and outraged, he didn’t resist when she used the belt to bind his ankle to tubing beneath the driver’s seat. She rounded the car, opened the door, unbuckled tapes, dragged off his bulletproof jacket and took a mobile phone from his shirt pocket. She removed his tie; used it to secure his other ankle to the nearside seat support. Bloodshot eyes blazed up at her. He was sprawling across the back seat, legs spread wide, trousers down, his hairy genitalia exposed.

  Glancing at Annushka, she said, ‘Get me a bra and a pair of knickers from one of the bags.’

  Annushka groped around inside a holdall, found the items and handed them over.

  Samantha displayed the garments on the front seat, alongside Dillon’s braided cap, then took a lipstick from her bag and smeared his collar and neck and cheeks. As an afterthought, she tore open his shirt and smudged his vest.

  ‘Got to leave you now, Nigel, but I’ll make a call and ask someone to come and set you free.’ Smiling down at the apoplectic face, she slammed doors, picked up a couple of bags and led Annushka across the expanse of concrete to the lift. While they waited for it to ascend, she clicked on Dillon’s mobile and dialled. When the operator came on the line she named a red-top tabloid and asked her to put her through. After a couple of conversations she was passed to the man she wanted, and a surprisingly wide-awake voice announced, ‘City desk, night editor speaking.’

  ‘I’ve got a story for you.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘One of your readers.’

  ‘What kind of story?’

  ‘Sir Nigel Dillon, Metropolitan Police Commissioner, tied up and almost naked in the back of a limo at the top of the Riverside car park in Haverfordwest. He’s been enjoying a bit of bondage.’

  The man laughed. ‘You’re having me on, sweetheart.’

  ‘It’s true. We’ve just left him. He was getting a bit too kinky, turning nasty, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Who’s left him?’

  ‘Me and my friend. He picked us up in the town.’

  ‘Give me your name, love, and a number where I can contact you. If it’s true, we’ll pay. If you let us take your pictures and give us a story we’re talking serious money.’

  ‘We just do a bit on the side. Our husbands don’t know, so no names and no pictures. I’ve told you where he is. He needs to be unfastened and let out, so you’d better send someone quick if you’re coming. If you’re not, tell me and I’ll phone another paper.’

  ‘Just hang on a minute, love.’ The line went dead. After a few seconds she heard office sounds again and he was saying, ‘We’ve got someone covering the strike at the Milford Haven oil terminal. We’re phoning him now. He should be there, with a photographer, in about half an hour. Wait for him and give us a story, love. We can blur your faces in the photos. I’m talking big money here, at least ten grand.’

  Lift doors rumbled open. Samantha dropped the phone in a litter bin and followed Annushka inside.

  The girl let out a shocked little laugh before asking, ‘Where are we heading for now?’ The lift began to descend.

  ‘Brangwyn’s garage, collect the car, then on to Cheltenham. We’ll spend a couple of nights at that hotel you liked, then drive to Gloucester and see if Rebecca’s ex has those mobile phones.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Queen beamed with pleasure. Benders had replenished her Tupperware boxes. She selected an apricot, a couple of prunes, considered the figs for a moment, then thought better of it. As if reading her mind, the butler poured coffee into her cup and the under butler placed a jug of hot milk beside it. She reached for her spoon. Philip was unusually silent this morning, never a grouse nor a grumble; no reminiscences about sausages, no talk about scrambled eggs. His aged but still handsome face was hidden behind that vulgar little newspaper he borrowed from one of the footmen. She spooned Duchy natural yoghurt on to her fruit. ‘You’re very quiet, dear. I hope you’ve not forgotten we’re going to Stevenage?’

  He peered at her over the paper. ‘Stevenage?’

  ‘Civic reception, then we’re opening a new children’s wing at the Lister Hospital.’

  ‘Thought William and Kate were doing that?’

  ‘He’s visiting his charity for young offenders; she’s visiting a primary school in Lewisham.’

  The Duke’s head disappeared behind his newspaper and a clipped voice muttered, ‘I can’t believe it. I simply can’t believe it.’

  ‘What can’t you believe, dear?’

  ‘Dillon, caught with his pants down in the back of a car in Haverfordwest. There’s a great big photograph of him, clear as day, dishevelled, almost naked, private parts blurred out, women’s underwear next to his peaked cap on the seat.’ He read the headline again, savouring every word: Hullo, hullo, hullo! Pants-down Policeman, Dillon of the Met, Enjoying a Bit of Back Street Bondage in Haverfordwest.

  The Queen gazed, disbelievingly, at her husband. ‘Sir Nigel Dillon, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner?’

  The Duke began to chuckle. ‘Pompous beggar. He could bore for England. Sat near him a few times at civic functions, droned on and on. Bored everyone to sobs.’

  ‘Should one laugh, dear?’ The Queen’s tone was reproachful. ‘I thought him quite charming, and he was so dignified. Very much the man for the job. And his wife was most knowledgeable; she was a vet before they married. She gave me some very good advice about worming Holly.’

  ‘She ought to have neutered old Nigel,’ the Duke muttered inaudibly. The newspaper began to shake and the sound of wheezy laughter drifted across the table.

  ‘Your eggs are getting cold, Philip,’ the Queen said sharply. ‘I think you should stop reading that awful nonsense and finish your breakfast. The car will be coming soon.’

  Grace Fairchild opened her dressing gown and studied her reflection in the cheval glass. Losing all that weight had certainly worked wonders. Her stomach was flat again – well, almost flat; perfectly flat if she held it in a little – her waist was slender, her hips not too broad. There was the merest hint of cellulite on her upper thighs, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. She turned, flicked up her dressing gown, and contemplated her posterior. After her eyes, and possibly her breasts, it was, perhaps, her most striking feature. And her legs were long and still quite shapely. There was a certain chorus-girl heaviness about the thighs, but most men would consider that attractive. What man would want to look at a woman with scrawny thighs?

  She allowed her gown to fall back. She could hardly believe she was thinking what she was thinking, but the more she thought about it, t
he more plausible it seemed. And she wouldn’t be the first: a while ago she’d read about some American businessman’s wife doing it. She’d thought it utterly outrageous at the time, but it didn’t seem so outrageous now. Losing his cars would only make Alexander angry. She wanted to make him squirm; make him so embarrassed, so humiliated, he’d never dare show his face in public again.

  A feeling of excitement began to ripple through her. She’d do it. Why not? A couple of days in a spa – massage, manicure, pedicure, skin-toning, hair removal, hair stylist, make-up – then she’d be ready. She opened the wardrobe and lifted out her fur coat: Barguzin Russian sable, silky darkness relieved by bands of smoky grey. Almost ankle length and with a huge collar, it had cost Alexander a fortune. He’d bought it for her just after Vincent was born, but it still looked incredibly stylish. Things had been wonderful then. What had gone wrong? Fucking politics, that’s what had gone wrong. He no longer liked her wearing it; he was worried about the animal rights people, about it losing him votes. All the more reason to put it on. Seeing her in it, remembering how much it had cost him, would be a sackful of salt in his sore and bleeding wounds. And she’d wear those Christian Louboutin shoes with the red soles and killer heels. They really embarrassed him: tart’s shoes, he called them. Anything to make the bastard squirm. It really did seem so very doable, now. She must telephone the spa, book herself in, then contact his secretary and check his diary.

  Annushka touched her hair. ‘Do I look very different?’

  ‘Casual glance, from a distance, yes, very different.’

  ‘You look heaps better without that blonde wig.’

  Samantha smiled. ‘We’ve been blondes long enough. Now they’ve got two blondes fixed in their minds and written in their notebooks, it’s time we changed.’

  They’d spent the morning in a hairdressers. Annushka’s hair was brown now, shorter, not much more than shoulder length. Samantha’s was black and stylish again, the hairdresser having done her best to match Crispin’s more talented efforts. They were sitting outside a café that looked over the gardens at the Montpellier end of Cheltenham’s Promenade, Annushka cool and demure in a cream shantung dress, Samantha more business-like in a grey suit with a red pinstripe. They were both wearing sunglasses.

  ‘A man’s taking a good look at the car.’ Annushka inclined her head towards the Mercedes, parked about twenty yards away.

  ‘A man leaning against the park railings has been watching it for quite a while,’ Samantha added, ‘and so has a man standing outside the bank. They probably know a couple of blonde women have been driving around in a black Mercedes coupé. They’ll be waiting for us to go back to it.’

  ‘Who are they? Are they the police, or are they some more people sent by my stepmother? You get rid of one lot then another comes looking for us. Is it ever going to end?’ Annushka’s lips and chin were trembling.

  Samantha reached over the table and laid her hand on hers. ‘Try to hold on; everything’s going to be OK. We’ll abandon the car, go and have a lazy lunch somewhere, then hire another, something decent. When we’ve done that, we’ll go back to the hotel, collect the luggage and motor over to Gloucester and confront Rebecca’s ex.’ She squeezed Annushka’s hand and rose to her feet. ‘Come on. I know a very decent little Italian restaurant, tucked away behind the Promenade.’

  They stepped out from beneath the shade of the awning, into the sweltering brightness of the summer day. Annushka slid her arm through Samantha’s and they began to stroll past elegant little shops, heading down the hill, towards the town. When they reached the last of the Grecian figures that decorated the frontage, Samantha glanced back. The man who’d been walking around the car had joined his friend by the bank; the man leaning against the railings was still watching.

  Engine purring, air conditioning wafting out coolness, they closed on Gloucester, comfortable in the sleek silver car they’d hired a couple of hours earlier. Annushka pointed, ‘Over there, on your right: Melton Avenue.’

  The name plate was almost hidden beneath a swathe of crimson fuchsia. Samantha slowed, then turned into a tree-lined road. They cruised up a shallow rise, moving past big, bay-windowed 1930s semis, then made a left and began to meander through an estate of smaller, meaner houses: unadorned brick boxes with plain, uncomplicated roofs. After a couple of wrong turnings, Samantha found the narrow cul-de-sac where Lionel Blessed had his home. The dormer windows and long tiled porches relieved the drabness of the dwellings, but with the garage taking up most of the ground floor, they probably offered even less space for living.

  A metallic-blue hatchback stood on brick pavings outside number fourteen, its front bumper almost touching the garage doors, its rear projecting over the pavement. Samantha parked across the frontage, deliberately blocking it in. A curtain twitched in the adjoining house and the old man who’d spoken to her when they’d first called peered out. When Samantha emerged from the car, the net curtain fell back.

  ‘Can I wait here?’ Annushka pleaded. She was looking up at Samantha with frightened eyes.

  ‘You’re going to have to come with me. Things have got worse, not better. I daren’t let you out of my sight.’ Samantha reached inside the car, took her bag from between the seats, her notebook from the pocket in the door.

  ‘You won’t hurt him, you won’t kill him?’ Annushka unfastened her seatbelt. ‘Please don’t do anything to him while I’m there.’

  ‘Depends how he reacts. If I think he’s got the phones and he’s holding out on us, I’ll have to persuade him to talk. Just go into another room, but don’t leave the house. OK?’

  Annushka joined Samantha on the pavement. They squeezed past the blue car and rang the bell. Chimes ding-donged beyond the white plastic door. Seconds later it opened and a tallish man with straight dark hair and wearing a blue-striped butcher’s apron frowned out at them.

  ‘Mr Blessed?’ Samantha smiled up at him. ‘Mr Lionel Blessed?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We’re from a leading recruitment agency. We called a few days ago, but you were away. We have a proposal we’d like to put to you.’

  ‘Mathew told me you’d be calling.’ His voice carried a lingering trace of a Birmingham accent; his tone was brusque and unwelcoming.

  ‘Mathew?’

  ‘My next-door neighbour. Look, I’m really not interested in a move. I’m happy with my present contract, the work’s interesting, I don’t do too much travelling, and I’ve just bought the house. I’m settled here. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.’ He managed to meet Samantha’s gaze for a moment, then his eyes left her face and wandered, in a somewhat covert way, first over her pinstripe suit, then over Annushka’s filmy summer dress. What he saw seemed to overwhelm and embarrass him, make him less sure of himself.

  Samantha sensed he was a shy, withdrawn sort of man. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, exposing a pronounced Adam’s apple. His pale cheeks and chin were dark with evening stubble, his hands clean and carefully manicured; his arms, bare to the elbow, frosted with black hair. A large and complicated-looking watch was strapped around his wrist. Samantha made her voice coaxing. ‘I’m sure you’d be interested in what we have to say. It’s a big project, you’d be a member of an impressive team; a great thing to have on your CV.’

  His frown deepened. Discomfort was burgeoning into irritation. ‘I’ve told you, I’m really not interested. Like I said, I’m perfectly happy with—’

  ‘Just let us come in and give you the details,’ Annushka begged. There was desperation in her voice. She wanted to get this over with. ‘Five minutes, that’s all it would take, then we’d be able to say we’d spoken to everyone on the list. They won’t like it if we go back to the office and we haven’t contacted everyone. If you’re not interested after five minutes, we’ll go.’ Blue eyes wide, her beautiful young face appealing, she gave him a ravishing smile.

  Lionel blushed. He sighed, his body relaxed and he gave a resigned shrug as he muttered grudgingly
, ‘OK, come on in.’ He opened the door wider and stood back. ‘But no more than five minutes. My dinner’s in the oven and it’s almost ready.’

  Samantha glanced at Annushka, inclined her head in a you-go-first gesture, then followed her into the narrow hall. Lionel closed the door. Flustered by their nearness, their fragrance, he flattened himself against the wall as he moved past them. Immediately on their right was a door to what Samantha took to be a downstairs toilet. On their left, and a few paces along the narrow beige-coloured hallway, bright light was escaping around the edge of the not-quite-closed connecting door to the garage.

  He led them, their high heels tap-tapping on imitation wood strip, down the side of a flight of stairs and through a door at the end of the hall. It opened into a dining kitchen at the back of the house. Annushka perched on a spindly chair, he leaned against the worktops, Samantha remained by the door, inhaling the pleasant aroma of cooking food. Smiling across at Blessed, she said, ‘This isn’t about jobs, Lionel. It’s about Rebecca Fenton. I understand you knew her; that you were more than friendly.’

  Alarm then anger flared on his face. ‘What is this? You can’t just trick your way in here and—’

  ‘We can and we have.’

  ‘And what’s my relationship with Rebecca got to do with you?’

  ‘We’re not interested in relationships, Lionel. We’re trying to locate a box of mobile phones that’s been take from her home.’ She watched him intently as she said that. Bushy eyebrows had lowered; he’d begun to glower.

  ‘What would I know about a box of phones,’ he muttered defensively. ‘I’ve not seen her for ages, not since we split up, and that was about six months ago.’ A bleeping sounded. ‘That’s my dinner. It’s ready. I’d like you both to leave. I’d like you to leave now.’ He crossed over to the cooker, picked up a towel to protect his hands, opened the oven door and lifted out a casserole dish. When he’d balanced it on the hob, he closed the oven door and turned to face them again. ‘I don’t know anything about phones, and I don’t want to know anything about her. She made a complete fool of me. I fixed up her flat, helped her decorate it, sorted her computer, and when I’d done every job she could think of, she told me to leave, just like that. And if I’d known what she was really like, how vile she was, I’d never have got involved with her in the first place.’