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  Turning round to scan the room again, he tried to spot where a key might be hidden. But although it was a modern apartment, there were so many likely places and he just didn’t have the time for a thorough search. Dubois might have forgotten something and decide to come back or that cleaner might turn up any minute to clear up the mess the model had left behind.

  Yet he couldn’t just leave the place without making an effort. There were several vases in various places around the room and he checked those first. Nothing, not even underneath. The stainless steel standard lamp was clean too and a cursory examination of the television and an expensive-looking music system also produced a big fat zero. His frown deepening, he was about to turn his attention to the bedroom, when the cocktail cabinet caught his eye again.

  He shook his head. Surely no one would be stupid enough to hide a key in something like that?

  He was wrong. It was under the ice bucket. The right key too. A second later he had the lid of the bureau open and was peering inside, and he didn’t have to look far before he found something of interest. The gummed seal of the A4 envelope which lay on top of a pile of papers had been torn open and he glimpsed what looked like a photograph inside. Turning the envelope round so that the torn end was towards him, he eased it open a little further. Then inserting two fingers in the gap, he carefully pulled the contents out on to the now horizontal flap of the bureau – and with a sense of shock, found himself staring at a selection of really obscene black and white photographs involving a number of different naked men and women in various sexual positions, with Felicity Dubois occupying centre stage.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he breathed, his heart now pounding. ‘You dirty little cow!’

  He didn’t need the wisdom of Hercule Poirot to appreciate the fact that if pictures like these were ever to fall into the hands of the media, it would be curtains for Dubois’ career. So why had the model decided to hang on to them? Pretty obvious as far as Benchley was concerned and he smiled grimly as he thought of the envelope, which had obviously been torn open in a rush. Maybe it wasn’t a case of Dubois hanging on to the photos at all, but rather that she hadn’t yet had time to destroy them, which meant they had only just been received – or more likely retrieved.

  Flicking through the photographs again, he came across the confirmation – a couple of unsigned typed letters, addressed to Freddie Baxter and headed “Re FD Pics”, and asking for £1,000 payment.

  He smiled grimly. ‘So, nasty old Freddie’s did have a hold on you, did he, Miss Dubois?’ he murmured. ‘Just like Julian Grey said. Point is, did you pay him off to get the pics or maybe come up with a more permanent solution?’

  Gently sliding the prints and letters back into the envelope in the same order, he replaced the envelope in its original position before closing and locking the bureau and returning the key to its hiding place.

  Then quitting the living room, he wandered into the kitchen for a final check before leaving, noting with unashamed envy the expensive-looking double oven, the big American-style fridge-freezer and the stainless steel work surfaces over what looked like solid oak cupboards. But there was nothing of interest there – apart from the obvious fact that Dubois was an untidy bitch. The work surfaces were cluttered with dirty cutlery and cups and plates, and a loaf of sliced bread leaning out of its plastic bag had tipped a couple of slices into the sink. Either Dubois had left in a hurry or she didn’t have to worry about clearing up after herself anyway. Warning bells sounded in Benchley’s head. As he’d suspected – a cleaner. There had to be. Time to go.

  He returned to the hall, but stopped briefly by an ornate, gold-coloured telephone on a half-moon table. There was a memo pad on the table and he saw that it bore a scribbled note. Picking the pad up he scanned the two short lines quickly and his heart raced. “Blue Ketch Inn, The Lizard,” it read and there was a telephone number underneath. The Lizard? That was in Cornwall – where Lynn Giles had taken refuge. It was more than likely that Dubois had been booking accommodation, which meant she could already be on her way to the South West. That didn’t bode well at all, he mused, and he frowned as he turned to the door. But even as he reached for the handle, the sound of the key turning in the lock of the external door gave him an uncomfortable jolt. Shit! The cleaner had arrived and she had her own key with her. He had dallied much too long.

  He just had time to dart back into the kitchen and conceal himself behind the door before the main apartment door opened and closed again and he heard the swish of clothing in the hallway. Now what? He was trapped.

  Fists clenched and eyes closed tightly with the tension of the moment, he heard someone step into the kitchen and stop level with the open door behind which he was hiding. For a second he thought his presence had been detected and waited for the shout, which meant discovery. But instead he heard a muttered oath and the voice of what sounded like an elderly woman commenting, ‘Lazy bitch,’ as she evidently surveyed the mess on the work surfaces. Then through the crack between the door and the frame, he saw brief movement and heard the swish of clothes again as the woman went back into the hallway. The crack of a plug being inserted into the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room, then a vacuum roared into life.

  Leaving his hiding place, Benchley crept to the doorway and peered around the frame. A thin, dark-haired woman was busy vacuuming the thick living room carpet and she had her back to him. Gritting his teeth, Benchley took a chance and made for the apartment door. His fingers fumbled with the catch, but then it was open and he was back in the corridor. Closing the door gently behind him, he took a deep trembling breath. Bloody hell, man, he thought, that really was close, but had the risk been worth it? He gave a fierce, humourless grin as he pulled off his gloves and headed for the lift to return the key to the desk. In the words of movie star, John Wayne, ‘You betcha,’ he breathed.

  Angel was waiting expectantly and very nervously in the car park beside their car and she breathed a sigh of relief when he reappeared.

  ‘Been a naughty boy again, have you, Guv?’ she queried drily as she climbed behind the wheel.

  He smiled grimly and settled into the passenger seat beside her. ‘You could say that,’ he said and told her what he had found.

  She whistled, starting the engine. ‘Dirty bitch’ she exclaimed.

  He nodded. ‘My sentiments entirely. But it’s beginning to look like she is a lot more than that,’ he replied grimly. ‘Which is what worries me. Especially as it sounds as if she’s heading for Cornwall,where Lynn Giles is holed up.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘You really do think she was the one behind the bombing of The Philanderer’s Club then?’ she said. ‘No longer just a possibility?’

  He selected a cigarette from a half empty packet, lit up, then offered the packet to her, returning it to his pocket when she shook her head. ‘We can’t say anything for certain, even at this stage,’ he replied, ‘but think about it. Her boss almost certainly had a hold over her, just as Julian Grey claimed. That’s why she had to let Baxter screw her. My money is on the dirty pictures, which she probably retrieved after his death. Seems to me that her apparent willingness to give him what he wanted had nothing to do with trying to gain a leg-up in the modelling business, as Carol Amis seemed to believe. She was forced into it and I can’t think of a better motive for murder, can you?’

  ‘It’s certainly plausible.’

  ‘It’s a lot more than plausible. Think about the bomber’s MO. It was known that Baxter would be supervising the fashion show from the lounge, which was right next door to the room Dubois then insisted on vacating. And we have forensic evidence to say that this was precisely where the bomb was placed. It was just the bomber’s bad luck that Freddie was called to the other end of the building when the device went off, and Lynn Giles’ misfortune that she happened to be in that room in place of Dubois at the critical moment.’

  Angel nodded. ‘And if Dubois was the one who planted the bomb,’ she extrapolated slowly, ‘
it’s more than likely she was also responsible for topping our bomb-maker in the Islington doss and pushing her boss off the cliff in Cornwall?’

  ‘Very good,’ he commented. ‘We’ll make a detective of you yet.’

  She ignored the sarcastic remark. ‘Okay, so it’s possible she stiffed Petrović or arranged for someone to do it for her. But you forget that Carol Amis said Dubois was at a modelling shoot on the Sunday when Baxter’s body was found, so she could hardly have been in Cornwall when he took his dive off the cliffs.’

  Benchley nodded. ‘And you forget that Amis told us Dubois was off work on the Friday and Saturday, which gave her plenty of time to get to Cornwall and back again via our excellent motorway system after the murder was committed.’

  ‘In time for her photo-shoot on the Sunday?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Angel engaged gear and pulled away. ‘All nice and tidy then?’

  He scowled. ‘Far from it. At the moment it’s all hypothesis. I can’t prove a damned thing and I can’t use the pics in Dubois’ flat to establish a motive because my search was illegal in the first place.’

  ‘What about asking for a search warrant?’

  ‘On what grounds? Again, I haven’t any evidence to put forward as a reason for one.’

  ‘So what’s our next move?’

  ‘Well, you are going to get the team stuck into some background inquiries, not only on Felicity Dubois but also other key staff at the New Light Modelling Agency. Check out Baxter’s jilted lovers and Lynn Giles’ ex-boyfriend, Greg Norman, too. His address is in the file.’

  ‘You are convinced that this conspiracy is an inside job then?’

  ‘Aren’t you? And I suspect there is more going on there behind the scenes than we at first realised. Let me know what you dig up.’

  She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘And what will you be doing while the rest of us are slogging away at all this?’

  He thought about that for a moment, then drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think I might take a drive down to the Cornish Riviera to see how our country cousins investigate suspicious deaths. Maybe I’ll even call on Felicity Dubois at The Blue Ketch too.’

  CHAPTER 15

  Lynn Giles stared at her “intruder” in astonishment.

  Tall and slender and with a figure any woman would have died for, Felicity Dubois was wearing the sort of figure-hugging black leather trousers and tight white sweater, which accentuated her assets to a T.

  ‘Felicity?’ Lynn gasped, dripping water on to the decking. ‘How the hell did you find me? No one but Freddie was supposed to know where I was.’

  Her former rival shrugged, adjusting the long strap of the designer bag she was carrying over one shoulder. ‘Does it matter? I’m here now anyway.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  The glint in Dubois’ brown eyes became even more pronounced. ‘I wanted to see how you were doing.’

  ‘You wanted to see how I was doing?’

  Dubois nodded and took a step forward. ‘Right on, hon. That was a bad thing you did, leaving us all without even saying goodbye.’

  Lynn held up one hand in front of her as a signal for her to stay where she was. ‘Yeah, I bet you were really cut up about it.’

  ‘Sure was, hon. I missed you lots.’

  Now Lynn laughed – a hard, humourless sound. ‘Did you now? Was that during or after shagging my ex?’ she sneered. Then before Dubois could reply she gave a long shiver as the cold from her dip started to get to her, and with a dismissive wave of one hand, she turned away from her visitor. ‘Now I have to get dressed, so goodbye – and shut the front gate after you’ve left, will you?’

  Throwing the patio door wide, she stepped quickly inside and closed it behind her, leaving Dubois standing on the decking, staring after her.

  She heard the door open again a few moments later as she was towelling herself down in the bathroom and grimacing, grabbed her robe to stride back into the living room.

  Dubois was standing by the settee, studying her with a faint, arrogant smile playing on her full, red-glossed lips.

  ‘I thought I told you to go?’ Lynn snapped.

  The other nodded. ‘So you did, sweetness, but we need to talk.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to say to you. I thought I’d made that plain? Does my ex know you’re here?’

  ‘Hell, no – and it doesn’t matter anyhow. Greg Norman and I are done.’

  ‘You mean you dumped him after he dumped me for you?’

  Dubois shrugged. ‘He wasn’t much of a shag, so I got bored – and he was only a distraction while I was screwing Freddie anyway.’

  Lynn gave a short laugh. ‘Freddie had more going for him in that department, did he?’

  Dubois chuckled and dropped on to the settee, crossing her legs at the knee. ‘Freddie – now there’s a thought. Well, he was a lot more imaginative, I’ll say that for him.’

  ‘So what was it like? The shagging, I mean? Did he take you up against the wall or doggy fashion? I’d really like to know.’

  Dubois chuckled again, unperturbed by her obscene innuendos. ‘Every which way, hon, and you’d better believe it.’ She produced a gold-coloured cigarette case from her pocket and flicking open the lid, selected a filter-tip. ‘So how’s the old memory these days?’ she went on, changing the subject and lighting up with a matching lighter.

  Lynn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Memory? What are you talking about?’

  Dubois tapped her forehead with her forefinger. ‘Still trapped in there is it? Who or what you saw the night of the bombing? Old amnesia still keeping it buried, is it?’

  ‘How do you know about my amnesia?’

  ‘Maybe a little bird told me.’

  ‘So what’s it to you anyway?’

  ‘Well, think about it. If I can find you so easily, other people not as nice as me can do the same.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re concerned for my safety?’

  Dubois didn’t answer, just blew smoke rings. ‘Big mistake talking to Old Bill you know?’ she said, her expression suddenly bleak.

  Lynn snorted contemptuously. ‘You won’t get anywhere trying to frighten me,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t come all this way to frighten you,’ Dubois replied, ‘but after what happened to poor old Freddie, I’d be remiss not to point it out. I hear the police are treating his death as suspicious?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Dubois waved one hand airily. ‘Local gossip, hon. It’s all around the place.’

  ‘And what has it got to do with me?’

  Dubois studied her intently for a moment, as if trying to visually reinforce what she was about to say. ‘Could be fat Freddie was the target in the first place,’ she said. ‘Maybe someone finally got to him down here, which means some very nasty people could already be on your doorstep?’

  ‘So why haven’t these so-called “nasty people” tried anything before now?’

  ‘Possibly because of the heat generated by Freddie’s death. They could be biding their time until things quieten down. Seen any dodgy strangers around lately, have you? Or had any suspicious things happen?’

  Lynn thought about the hooded man on the clifftop and her recent break-in and felt a sudden chill crawl down her spine. ‘Not so as I’ve noticed,’ she lied. Then abruptly crossing the room to the patio doors, she indicated the still open door with one hand. ‘Now, I have absolutely no idea why you came here, but I suggest you leave anyway.’

  Dubois’ smile this time was one of contempt and climbing to her feet, she deliberately stubbed out her cigarette on the polished top of the coffee table set to one side of the settee. ‘Oh I don’t think so,’ she said softly and slid a hand almost casually into her bag, which was now back on her shoulder. ‘Because, you see, I’ve got a little present for you.’

  Lynn picked up the menace in her tone and stiffened, wondering after the model’s sinister warnings exactly what she was about
to pull out of her bag.

  She never found out. The voice on the patio behind her put a stop to any further interaction between Dubois and herself.

  ‘Miss Tresco?’

  Lynn looked up quickly to see a young man, maybe in his mid-teens, dressed in faded jeans and a denim jacket, standing there awkwardly, clutching a large bouquet. She hadn’t heard a vehicle arrive at the bungalow and for a moment was taken aback by his sudden appearance.

  ‘For you, Miss,’ he said, then added with a cheeky grin, ‘Somebody loves you.’

  As Lynn stepped out on to the patio to take the bouquet from him, Dubois quickly squeezed past her. ‘Watch your back, hon,’ the model breathed in her ear. ‘See you again.’ Then treating the gaping delivery boy to an extravagant suggestive wink, she disappeared round the corner of the building.

  Lynn stood for a several minutes at the front window of the bungalow after Dubois’ BMW had driven away in a cloud of exhaust fumes, followed closely by the old white Ford van of the delivery boy.

  Fear was welling up inside her like a hungry beast. Why had Felicity come all the way down from London to see her? Why was the model so keen to find out whether she had recovered from her amnesia? Why had she been at such pains to suggest a possible connection between The Philanderer’s Club bombing and Freddie Baxter’s death, and to emphasise Lynn’s vulnerability?

  ‘Big mistake talking to Old Bill,’ she’d warned. ‘Watch your back.’ What was meant by those words? Were they intended as a thinly veiled threat? In which case, was she somehow mixed up in The Philanderer’s Club bombing and the death of Freddie Baxter? And what had she been about to produce from her shoulder bag before being interrupted? A gun? A knife? Did she have murder in her heart? It didn’t seem plausible. Felicity had always been a “wild child” and intensely ambitious, which was why she and Lynn had become rivals. But murder and planting a bomb? Somehow that didn’t fit. Yet her parting shot, ‘See you again’, had certainly sounded ominous and Lynn’s first instinct was to make a point of checking round the bungalow to ensure the front door and patio doors were locked and all windows securely closed, just as she had after being followed home by the hooded man days before.