Dark Powers

by Raymond Haigh

  Samantha rose to her feet, slid the gun on to a worktop and folded Annushka in her arms. The shaking girl began to sob. ‘I heard a dreadful noise. I thought someone was hurting you, so I took the gun from under your pillow and I came and . . . and I killed him.’

  ‘You wounded him,’ Samantha insisted. ‘You didn’t kill him. I killed him. You just watched me do it.’

  ‘I shut my eyes. I didn’t see.’

  The girl couldn’t be allowed to carry so heavy a burden of guilt. ‘You wounded him, in the shoulder. And the way you were waving the gun around it was a miracle you hit him at all. I killed him, just now, that last shot.’ Samantha’s gown was streaked with the dead man’s blood. She shrugged it off, drew her torn pyjama jacket over her shoulders, then led Annushka to the bedroom and wrapped her in a duvet. ‘You need something to steady your nerves. There’s some brandy somewhere. I’ll find a glass and—’

  A bleeping sounded, faint but persistent. Samantha reached for her bag, took out the encrypted phone and keyed it on.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Chelsea. In the mews flat.’

  ‘Are you OK? You sound tense.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Samantha said. ‘Absolutely fine.’

  ‘Everything’s been resolved. The girl can be taken back to her home, the place called Underhill Grange. Her grandmother’s waiting for her there. Marcus sorted out a visa and arranged the flight, had her met at Heathrow.’ Loretta fleshed out the details, answered the occasional question, then asked, ‘The box of phones. You still have it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Leave it in the flat. I’ll have it collected.’

  ‘The place is in a bit of a mess. And there’s a body.’

  ‘A body?’

  ‘A man; he seemed a little crazy. I shot him and his voice was becoming faint, but I think he was trying to tell me the Major sent him.’

  ‘Could have been Sir Kelvin Makewood, one of the Queen’s Lord Lieutenants, the one who went to Darnel Hall the night the girl died. Perhaps he decided to act when Dillon lost control of things. I’ll send a team in to clean the place up and dispose of the body. Where will you leave the phones?’

  Samantha tried to gather her thoughts. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll put them in the fridge. They’re in a red and gold biscuit tin.’

  Annushka’s slender body was hunched and shaking violently beneath the duvet. Samantha sat beside her on the bed and slid an arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all over,’ she murmured. ‘You’re no longer in any danger. You can go home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘To Underhill Grange.’

  The girl drew in a shocked little breath, then turned and gazed at Samantha, scarcely able to believe what she was being told. ‘Would you stay there with me? For a while, at least, until I can be sure I’m safe. I couldn’t bear to be on my own. I’d be too—’

  ‘Your grandmother’s waiting for you.’

  ‘Babushka’s at Underhill?’

  Samantha nodded. ‘Do you want to drive there tonight, or shall we—’

  Annushka burst into tears. ‘Tonight. Please take me tonight. I want to go to Babushka.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Samantha paused beside the reception desk of the Connaught Hotel and glanced into the cocktail lounge. The red-carpeted room was deserted, save for a solitary woman, sitting in a far corner, gazing out over sunlit gardens.

  Loretta Fallon glanced up as she approached and gave her one of her rare smiles. Samantha lowered herself into a chair. ‘Would you care for some tea?’ Loretta gestured towards a tray on the low table. ‘It’s still drinkable.’

  Samantha shook her head, tugged off crimson gloves and laid them on her crimson bag. Loretta’s cool grey eyes were appraising her. This had better not be another job, Samantha fumed. If it was, she’d refuse.

  ‘That’s a beautiful suit,’ Loretta said. ‘Such a perfect fit, and the red’s quite stunning. Matches your car: I presume the Ferrari in the car park’s yours?’

  Samantha nodded. ‘Car’s fairly new but the suit’s ancient. I bought it in Milan, three or four years ago. Versace: they have a boutique along the Via Monte Napoleone. Their seamstress took it in for me here and there.’

  ‘Took it in? One finds one usually needs things letting out.’ Loretta glanced down. ‘And the red shoes are simply gorgeous: such heels.’ She laughed. ‘Talking about high heels, I don’t suppose you’ve heard about Grace Fairchild’s performance?’

  Samantha shook her head and relaxed back in her chair, thinking she’d never seen Loretta quite so animated.

  Loretta laughed again. ‘I’d have been surprised if you had. They’ve kept it all very quiet. It seems she visited her husband at the Foreign Office: the one built to intimidate and impress in Whitehall, not the Old Admiralty Building. He was chairing a meeting of European Foreign Ministers in the Locarno Suite. She managed to get past attendants and secretaries, burst through the doors, pulled out a chair and climbed up on the table.’ Loretta pressed the tips of her fingers together and let out another delighted little laugh. Recounting the tale was giving her considerable pleasure.

  ‘The table in there’s yards long and the men were all sitting at the far end. Grace sashayed towards them like a model on a catwalk, stiletto heels gouging away at the polish. She was wearing a rather splendid ankle-length fur coat – one of the secretaries said she was sure it was Barguzin sable. When she came close, she said, “I’d greatly appreciate the thoughts of the wise men of Europe on a matter that’s been perplexing me,” then threw it open. She was stark naked underneath, not a stitch on. She just stood there, smiling down at her husband, hands behind her back, holding the coat open, lifting it off her backside, and said, “What I want you to tell me, gentlemen, is why my husband would cast me aside for a skinny little schoolgirl?” Then she began to strut up and down, asking each one in turn which they’d prefer: pubescent girl or mature woman.

  Loretta laughed again. ‘The German Foreign Minister blushed crimson, snatched up his papers and scurried out but the others sat back and enjoyed the display; I gather the Italian was very complimentary. Fairchild started screaming at her to get out, asked her if she’d gone mad, said he’d call the attendants and have her thrown out. She just kicked his glass of water over him and went on flaunting herself. When she’d had enough, she said, “Wise men of Europe? You’re just a bunch of leering imbeciles, no better than my husband,” then closed her coat and strutted off down the table. When she reached the end she looked back and said, “By the way, Alexander, Johnson and Mullbery auctioned your car collection this morning. It made a record price. I’m just going to collect the cheque,” then climbed down and swept out. Fairchild resigned the next day, from his ministerial post and his parliamentary seat.’

  ‘Hell hath no fury,’ Samantha murmured.

  ‘She destroyed him, just as you destroyed Dillon.’ Loretta laughed and gave her a naughty-naughty look. ‘That was a wicked thing to do.’

  ‘He deserved it. If you hadn’t warned me, we’d have been butchered in our beds.’

  ‘Dillon’s wife’s left him. She refused to believe him when he said he’d been set up.’

  Samantha steered the conversation onto different tracks. ‘I didn’t get a chance to check the video on the phone. I presume it gave you enough leverage to resolve the situation?’

  Loretta nodded. ‘It was quite dreadful. A gang of naked, drug-crazed louts, laughing and shouting while they manhandled a screaming girl. They just threw her off the landing. We were able to identify them all: list read like pages from Who’s Who and Burke’s Peerage. I took it to the Prime Minister in the early hours. After he’d viewed it he asked me to destroy it. I reminded him the treatment of the Russian girl had been high-handed and contrary to law. He blamed Dillon, said he’d failed to keep him properly informed, that he’d exceeded his remit; then he asked me to arrange the girl’s protection and make it clear to her that her safety depended on her silence. I moved Marcus
in. He dealt with the details.’

  ‘And you destroyed the phone?’

  Loretta’s lips curved in a smile. ‘Downloaded the video on to a disk, then had its memories professionally erased. It’s been given back to the girl. And we identified the owners of the other phones that were in the box, recorded their names, stored all the images.’ Loretta lifted a briefcase onto her lap. ‘Where are you heading now?’

  ‘Paris. Resume the holiday, enjoy what’s left of the summer.’

  ‘Crispin going with you?’

  ‘He’s meeting me in Folkestone. We’re crossing over from there.’

  ‘He seems to be taking great care of you,’ Loretta said enviously. ‘You can send him to me when you get tired.’ She took two envelopes from her case. ‘A statement of the payment we agreed. It’s been transferred into your Swiss account. And I also have this for you. It was sent care of Marcus Soames. I think it’s from Annushka Dvoskin.’ She fastened the briefcase and rose to her feet, a tall and somewhat angular figure. ‘I’d better get back. I just wanted to hand these things to you personally, and to say thanks.’ She began to head off, then turned, let out an embarrassed little laugh and said, ‘I almost forgot. You might be interested to know I’m mentioned in the New Year Honours list. I’m to be made a dame.’

  ‘Dame Loretta Fallon?’ Samantha gave her a quizzical smile. ‘Are you going to accept?’

  ‘I have to, for the sake of the Department. I daren’t show disdain for the very institutions I’m sworn to defend.’

  Loretta strode off between the tables. She didn’t look back. Samantha waited a while after she’d gone, then gathered up her bag and gloves and followed her out into the car park. She slid behind the wheel of the Ferrari Fiorano, slammed the door, then tore open Annushka’s letter. It was brief and penned in handwriting that was spiky and bold. She read:

  Dearest Georgina,

  I was dismayed when you just disappeared after driving me to Underhill. Did you have to leave me like that? There was so much I wanted to say.

  I’m recovering. There are days now when I don’t keep looking over my shoulder; days when I forget to be afraid. A man called Marcus Soames has been so kind and helpful to me, so charming to Babushka. He has told me that the past must be forgotten: that any mention of it will expose me to danger. I could not bear that again.

  I shall be in Moscow for the rest of the summer, living with Babushka and attending meetings with my Russian trustees. I may have to give evidence at the trial of my stepmother and her father; they were arrested by the authorities when the Ocean Empress docked at Odessa. Marcus Soames has advised me to be circumspect, cautioned me to be discreet. I think he has also whispered words in high places so that I will not be much troubled by it all.

  Next year I shall go to America and read business studies at Harvard. What better place to learn than in that cradle of unfettered capitalism? I shall gradually assume control of my father’s many enterprises; become one of the entrepreneurs I once so despised.

  I constantly think about the time we spent together. I have come to realize how shallow my life was, how vain and superficial my attitude to things. You were endlessly patient with me, always kind, constantly vigilant. I was often arrogant and rude. I am deeply sorry.

  I know now that my father didn’t send you, that you came to me from some organization of the State. As Babushka says, we are all at the mercy of dark powers. I am also profoundly aware that I owe you my life, and for this, and so many other things, I shall be eternally grateful. Thank you.

  With great affection,

  Annushka Dvoskin

  Samantha relaxed back into the soft leather, closed her eyes and reflected on the events of recent days. Fairchild had been destroyed by his lust for a girl who was little more than a child; Dillon by perverted loyalties. Power and its attainment had blunted the moral sensitivities of both men. And the establishment, the elite, the great and the good, had managed to draw a veil of secrecy over the shaming circumstances of a young girl’s death.

  A feeling of having been used, of being tarnished by it all, was growing in her. Perhaps she should have taken matters into her own hands, released the incriminating video to the media so that what passes for justice could have run its course. Samantha slid Annushka’s letter into her bag and keyed the ignition; the Ferrari snarled into life. Still, she reflected, she’d done what she’d been hired to do: she’d protected the girl and recovered the phones. What was it that the soon-to-be-honoured Loretta had said when she’d given her the job? ‘We’re all whores, Miss Quest. We all have to sell some part of ourselves for food and clothes and shelter.’

  By the same author

  Death Care

  Colder than the Grave

  Cripplehead

  Gigolo

  Dark Angel

  Kiss and Kill

  The Doll Doctor

  Innocent Blood

  The Spider

  Resurrection

  Sister Slaughter

  © Raymond Haigh

  First published in Great Britain 2015

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1934 6 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1935 3 (mobi)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1936 0 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1757 1 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Raymond Haigh to be identified as

  author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and

  Patents Act 1988