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  The building was now deathly still, the silence descending immediately the heavy glass doors were closed, shutting out the murmur of the London traffic. The tap of her high heels on the polished woodblock floor of the front foyer sounded unnaturally loud as she strode past the now deserted reception desk and into the short, thickly carpeted corridor beyond.

  On both sides, the glint of stainless steel and polished wood, with the ubiquitous office rubber plants and giant ferns in big ceramic pots occupying shallow alcoves and gilt-framed pictures lining the Sanderson papered walls. Stupid bastard, she gloated, musing that Freddie may have invested a whole lot of time and money in creating the right company image, but the glitzy effect he had so painstakingly put together wasn’t much good to him on a mortuary slab, was it?

  Passing interview rooms, a large photographic studio and a couple of administrative offices, she mounted a flight of steel stairs to the upper level. More rooms now, including a reception lounge, conference room and another small studio. Then the corridor she was following ended abruptly before a panelled mahogany door signed “Carol Amis, Personal Assistant”.

  The door was locked, as she had expected, but she knew the security code for it too and punched the numbers in with renewed confidence, stepping into a cool, thickly carpeted room with an imposing workstation on one side and a row of steel cabinets on the other. Baxter’s inner sanctum was directly opposite and again the locked door with its security keypad was no obstacle. After all, she was a privileged member of staff and fully trusted.

  She smiled as she cast her gaze around the room, taking in the ornate gilt desk with its bank of telephones, the black leather chair set behind it and the brown leather sofa in one corner. That sofa had often borne the brunt of so much action between Freddie and herself after Carol Amis had gone home that she was surprised it was still intact and she had to admit that on such occasions she had always found the gilt-framed portraits on the walls a bit off-putting, imagining that the faces in them were watching the sexual spectacle beneath with rapt, voyeuristic attention.

  She wondered if the old men leering from the frames were watching her now and on sudden impulse, she directed an obscene finger sign at each of them in turn as she crossed the room to Baxter’s desk and dropped into the chair behind it. There was a small steel safe bolted to the floor underneath the desk and she stared at it for a moment. Freddie had always boasted it was force-proof and only he knew the correct combination – he had apparently not even entrusted his PA, Carol Amis, with that information. This could not have suited Dubois better. The last thing she needed was for Amis to be any the wiser than she already was, besides which it was commonly accepted that there was no honour among thieves, so why break with tradition? More importantly, though, it meant that what she had come here to retrieve should still be inside the safe. Provided – and she felt sick at the thought – that Freddie had not changed the combination since she had lifted it from his electronic tablet one night while he was showering in the adjacent en suite.

  Taking a deep breath, she bent down and slowly manipulated the dial, listening for each tell-tale click. She completed the sequence and turned the door handle, but it didn’t move. Shit! The bastard must have changed the combination after all. Now what? She sat back in the chair for a few seconds, thinking hard and trying to keep calm. So maybe she had just made a mistake with the number sequence. Try a second time, girl. What have you got to lose? Gritting her teeth and conscious of the fact that her fingers were trembling with the tension, she started again, carefully turning the dial left and right, as required. Once more the handle resisted her efforts and she felt a stab of panic. But then a sharp clonk and the heavy metal door swung open. The thing had just been stiff, that was all, and she emitted a shaky, relieved chuckle as her heartbeat began to return to normal.

  Getting down on her knees, she peered into the safe and saw a stack of £10, £20 and £50 notes resting on top of an A4 size black leather wallet. Feeling a thrill of excitement, she lifted the lot out and placed them on the desk in front of her. First the money. There had to be at least a couple of thousand pounds there. Well, alleluia! Reaching into her pocket, she tugged a couple of plastic supermarket bags free, chuckling repeatedly again as she stuffed the notes into them and tied the handles in secure knots. Well, why not? Freddie wouldn’t be needing the money, would he? And it would pay for all the weeks of misery she had suffered at his hands.

  Next the wallet. It was equipped with a zip, but not locked in any way, opening easily when she pulled on the tab. There were several A4 envelopes inside and the top one had the name “Dubois” printed in thick, black pen in the upper right-hand corner. Picking up a gold-coloured paper-knife from the desk, she slit open the flap with shaky fingers and emptied the contents out on to the desk top, then immediately closed her eyes in a brief prayer, even though she didn’t believe in a god – or anything else for that matter. Everything about her dodgy past was there including photographs, addresses and some very incriminating documents. All dynamite if they had got to the tabloid press. The only place they would be going to now, though, was into a shredder. She was in the clear. After all this time she could finally get her life back.

  Returning the whole lot to the envelope with a grim, satisfied smile, she slipped it inside her leather jacket, mouthing a brief ‘Up yours, Freddie’ at a framed photograph of Baxter on the corner of the desk. But she made no immediate effort to return the wallet to the safe and lock up again, for her gaze had suddenly caught sight of something else – a second envelope in the wallet, bearing the name “Giles” on the front in the same thick, black pen.

  ‘So what’s this, hon?’ she murmured. ‘You have your own little file, eh?’

  Slitting open the flap, as before, she emitted a low whistle as she leafed through the documents and revealing photographs clipped together inside. ‘Nice,’ she murmured with a soft throaty chuckle. ‘So, he had the dirt on you too, did he, sweetheart?’ Then, a second later, she started as a hastily scribbled note fell out of the clutch of papers on to the desk. It had obviously been torn from a spiral-bound notebook and she recognised Freddie Baxter’s neat hand immediately: ‘New Name, Mary Tresco,’ she read aloud, ‘The Beach House, Bootleg Cove, Near Mullion, Cornwall.

  Staring across the room at glossy portraits of six of Baxter’s models, including herself, which were displayed in a neat line on the far wall, she focused on Lynn Giles’ seductive, smiling face and treated her to a hard stare. ‘So, that’s where you’ve gone to ground, is it?’ she said softly. ‘Cool new name too. Well now, I think it’s about time you got a visit from an old friend – and I don’t think you’ll be too happy about that.’

  Sniggering at her own private joke, she tucked the second envelope into her leather jacket with the first before zipping the wallet up again and putting it back where she had found it – showing no interest whatsoever in the other envelopes inside. Then re-closing the safe and picking up her bags from beside the desk, she blew a kiss at one of the portraits on the wall and headed for the stairs, closing and securing both office doors behind her.

  Minutes later, she was swinging out of the car park on to the main road, a triumphant grin on her face.

  ‘RIP, Freddie,’ she sneered as she joined the traffic heading out of the city. ‘You have a nice death now.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Lynn awoke late to the sound of heavy rain on the bedroom windows. She could hear Alan banging about in the kitchen and she stretched with a slow relaxed smile. It was great to have a man in her life again, to know he was there if she needed him – and she’d certainly needed him the previous night.

  He’d been more than a little surprised when she had appeared on his front door step, but he had detected the anxiety in her tone and his welcome had been warm and genuine. After a light supper, bed had been the eventual and delicious consequence and now lying there staring into the grey overcast day, remembering his tender love-making just a few hours before, she couldn�
�t help feeling guilty over her earlier doubts about him.

  ‘Doing eggs and bacon if that’s all right,’ he called suddenly from the bottom of the stairs. ‘If you want to shower first. Be about 15 minutes.’

  She shook her head in disbelief. Cooking eggs and bacon without being able to see a thing? The man was incredible. Then she took a deep anticipatory breath as the aroma of frying fat drifted up into the room to stir her stomach juices. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stood up and stretched again. The en suite shower beckoned and she headed for it, closing her eyes in ecstasy in the steam of the big tiled cubicle and feeling the muscles in her arms and back relax with the heat. But everything changed the moment she stepped out on to the bathroom floor and started towelling herself down. There was a large mirror above the wash-hand basin and despite the partially clouded glass, she could see her slim body relatively clearly and the tracer-like scars down her face, breasts and stomach seemed even more pronounced than before.

  Sobbing bitterly, she returned to the bedroom and dressed herself – covering up the “damage” as quickly as she could before sitting on the edge of the bed, towelling her hair and staring out of the window into the grey day, which was once again in keeping with her own mood.

  The scars would never fade, deep down, she knew that. They were there for the rest of her life. But what about the scars inside her head? Were they going to be permanent as well? Would she ever be able to lead a normal life again or was she doomed to spend the rest of it in lonely isolation? Alan was her last chance. If it turned out that he was treating this as just a casual fling, she couldn’t bear to go on. She needed commitment and a future, but it was far too early to ask that of him. She could only wait and hope.

  The sound of someone knocking loudly, followed by Alan’s yell, ‘You decent, Lynn? Can you get that? ’ abruptly shook her out of her self-pitying mood. Jumping to her feet, she headed barefoot down the stairs to the front door, still towelling her hair as she went.

  Detective Inspector Maureen O’Donnell raised an eyebrow in surprise when she opened up. ‘Ah, Miss Giles,’ she said, wiping some rain drips off her nose. ‘Just been around to your place. Didn’t expect to find you here.’

  The remark sounded almost like a criticism and Lynn stiffened. But then O’Donnell’s eyes sparkled and she grinned as Alan appeared in the doorway behind Lynn, shirtless and clutching a spatula. ‘Who is it, Lynn?’ Murray snapped, obviously irritated by the intrusion.

  ‘A police officer,’ Lynn replied. ‘An Inspector O’Donnell.’

  ‘Just making a few routine inquiries, sir,’ O’Donnell explained, eyeing him up and down. ‘The body of a tourist, a feller named Freddie Baxter, was found at the bottom of the cliffs near here on Sunday morning, not far from the old engine-house. We are treating the death as unexplained. Just wondered if you saw anyone about near there at between—’

  ‘He’s blind!’ Lynn cut in brutally. ‘It would have taken a miracle for him to have seen anything.’

  Immediately O’Donnell’s smile vanished and she winced. ‘Sure, I’m terrible sorry, so I am – I didn’t realise. We’re rather short-staffed at the moment and I was trying to follow up on a few things meself. I’ll … er … leave you in peace.’

  Lynn felt embarrassed at the way she had treated the detective and gnawed her lip as she watched her hurry back to a colleague who was waiting for her in a plain car parked at the front of the house, then drive away without a backward glance.

  ‘You were rather rude, young lady,’ Alan commented, adding insult to injury. ‘She was only trying to do her job.’

  Lynn nodded, more to herself than anything else, and closing the door, followed him back inside. Yes, she thought, not only rude, but bloody stupid. It never paid to antagonise police officers, especially one investigating a possible suspicious death, and she had a feeling that she hadn’t seen the last of the friendly Detective Inspector O’Donnell.

  ****

  Vernon Wiles had finished packing Freddie Baxter’s suitcase to take back to London with him and was hauling it along the narrow corridor to his room when he was confronted by Maureen O’Donnell.

  ‘Ah, Mr Wiles,’ she said with an engaging smile. ‘You’re not leaving us already, sure you’re not?’

  Wiles quickly shook his head. ‘No, no, no,’ he said, ‘just packing up Freddie’s things to take with me when I do go. Haven’t done mine yet.’

  ‘I’ll warrant you can’t wait to say goodbye to Cornwall?’ she said. ‘Especially after all that has happened?’

  He gave an insipid smile. ‘I prefer the city – but no offence,’ he said. ‘It was Freddie’s idea to come here.’

  She nodded with apparent understanding. ‘Have you time for a wee chat?’ she said, pushing his door open so he could go ahead of her into his room.

  He swallowed. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I was waiting for the police to let me know the result of the post mortem anyway before I left. I … I did agree to stay on until then, you know.’

  ‘Ach, but that’s very good of you, Mr Wiles,’ she said, staring out of the window. ‘But I’m afraid we have no option but to treat the death as unexplained.’

  Wiles dropped the suitcase and nearly pitched over. ‘Unexplained?’ he gasped. ‘I thought it was an accident?’

  ‘Aye, so did we, Mr Wiles, but the pathologist has suggested there could be another possibility.’

  ‘What … what sort of possibility?’

  O’Donnell shrugged. ‘Suicide maybe or … er … foul play.’

  Wiles could feel a faint trickle in his underpants and realised to his horror that he had just wet himself. ‘Foul play?’ he whispered, dropping on to the end of his bed. ‘Suicide? But … but why?’

  ‘Ah,’ O’Donnell replied, ‘y’see we were wondering if you could help us there?’

  ‘Me? But I didn’t do anything.’

  O’Donnell laughed, but her eyes were hard and watchful. ‘Ach, no one is suggesting you did, Mr Wiles. No, we were just wondering if you had any idea who might have had it in for Freddie Baxter?’

  Wiles shook his head several times. ‘No … no one that I know of. Everyone liked Freddie.’

  ‘Well that’s real nice, so it is. Did you like him, sir?’

  ‘Me? Er … yes, we’d known each other a long time.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘It’s just that one of the waitresses in the bar downstairs says she overheard a wee argument in the bar between the two of you the night Mr Baxter died – something about him withdrawing his financial support for your business?’

  Wiles felt sick. ‘Yes, but it was only in jest.’

  ‘Not a threat then?’

  ‘No, absolutely not a threat.’

  O’Donnell’s smile was undiminished, but she said nothing and waited for him to go on.

  He licked his lips, something he knew she would notice and interpret as nerves, and inwardly he cursed his stupidity. ‘Freddie … we were discussing a forthcoming film,’ he lied, ‘and Freddie wasn’t sure he wanted to support it, that’s all.’

  Her smile broadened. ‘Ah, well, that sorts that out then, so it does? Thank you. What about suicide then? Do you think he might have had worries, which could have caused him to decide to kill himself?’

  Wiles shook his head quickly. ‘No … no, Freddie would never have done that.’

  She nodded again, thinking for a moment. Then, abruptly changing tack, she said, ‘What sort of film business are you in, Mr Wiles?

  He gulped. ‘Oh, romances mainly.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Romances, is it? What Gone With The Wind sort of thing?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  There was a slightly contemptuous curl to her bottom lip and he knew she was baiting him. ‘D’ye think I’d like your films, Mr Wiles?’

  He shook his head with a short cynical laugh, which he hadn’t intended. ‘I … I don’t think so.’

  ‘What, too hot for me, are they?’

  He could
feel himself getting rattled and tried to keep control of his rising anger. Who was she to criticise what he did for a living? Bloody bimbo cop!

  ‘You know what sort of films they are, Inspector,’ he snapped.

  She smiled again. ‘What, pornography, you mean? Aye, Mr Wiles, I do know what sort of films they are, but what I would like to know is what you and Mr Baxter had planned to film on our lovely stretch of coast here?’

  ‘We … we were just looking at options, that’s all.’

  ‘And Lynn Giles, was she to be part of one of those options? Is that why you both came down here, to see her?’

  So the truth was out. No point in denying the obvious. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We offered her a contract, but she … er … declined.’

  ‘Told you to piss off, did she?’

  Wiles started, taken aback by her sudden crudity. ‘More or less, yes.’

  ‘But you were still going to go ahead with it, that’s why you were on the cliffs?’

  ‘There are plenty of other actresses about who would grab the opportunity.’

  Her eyes gleamed. ‘I’m sure there are. Good money in depravity, is there, Mr Wiles?’

  He didn’t answer but stared sullenly at his feet and after a pregnant pause she changed the subject. ‘One final question, Mr Wiles. I know you’ve been asked this before, but when you were up on the cliffs the night Freddie Baxter was killed, did you see anyone on foot in the vicinity. Someone sleeping rough perhaps – maybe a vagrant?’

  Wiles cleared his throat, conscious of the fact that he was sweating profusely. ‘No, no one,’ he lied. ‘I didn’t see a soul.’

  For a moment she just stared at him and he shrivelled up inside. But then she turned for the door. ‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s been grand talking to you, Mr Wiles, so it has – very interesting.’

  ‘Can I go then?’ he blurted.

  She faced him again, looking puzzled. ‘Go?’

  ‘Yes, back to London?’

  ‘Well, ’course you can, Mr Wiles,’ and her eyes bored into him, ‘though I have to say it would be most helpful to the police investigation if you could stay on for another couple of days, just in case any other questions come up—’