Blast Page 5

  Her eagerness spilled over. ‘So what sort of work are we talking about?’

  Another chuckle. ‘The sort you know best.’

  ‘But – but what about my scars, Freddie? Is this a joke?’

  The voice on the other end of the line tutted. ‘Joke? Of course it’s not a joke. Look, can I bring someone down there to see you. Say at around 11 tomorrow?’

  ‘But I still don’t see—?’

  ‘Let me worry about that, sweetness. Trust me. Tomorrow then.’

  The line went dead.

  Mystified, excited, but at the same time not a little apprehensive, Lynn got up and showered, thinking carefully about the phone call.

  What on earth had Freddie arranged? She was suspicious of the devious little toad, but he had so many contacts that it was just possible he had managed to set something up for her. The idea thrilled her and she thought again of the money, the clothes and those golden-haired playboys with their Porsches and yachts. Could it be that she would be back to modelling again? So probably not lingerie or swimwear, but it was possible Freddie had fixed up a contract with some big clothing manufacturer for her to model dresses, coats or even shoes. Yeah, she thought with a bitter grimace as she remembered Felicity’s sarcastic comment about wearing a veil, maybe it was shoes then.

  Quitting the shower, she made herself a mug of coffee and took it out on to the little patio overlooking the cove, dressed in just a white towelling robe. She sat there for a long time, taking in the sun and watching the gulls wheeling noisily above her head. Then finally stirring herself to prepare a light lunch, she washed down a delicious crab salad with a glass of Chardonnay. She would have had a second glass too – after all, what else was there to do – but the pull of the azure blue sea was too much to resist.

  Making her way down to the beach in her white bathrobe and checking around to make sure her privacy was not about to be invaded yet again, she slipped out of the robe and once more plunged naked into the white-crested breakers. The water was ice-cold and for a second it took her breath away, but it was also exhilarating and she swam with the long-accustomed strokes she had mastered years before at school as a sixth-form athlete.

  Without realising it, she swam right out of the cove and around the headland so that her beach house was no longer visible. Instead, she saw the blaze of another small beach and above it, on the clifftop, a familiar white house. Well, well, well, so this was what Alan Murray’s place looked like from the seaward side.

  Motivated by a sort of inner compulsion, she swam slowly towards the shore for a closer look and only yards from the beach, she saw him. Swinging to her left behind some rocks, she crouched down in the water, feeling the sharpness of shingle on the soles of her feet.

  He was going for a swim and, like her, he obviously had not expected to meet anyone, for he was wearing nothing but a pair of black goggles. Archie was already in the water, barking and biting at the hissing foam around his feet. At least here Alan had no obstructions to bump into and his faithful companion could take some time off. But she could not help but wonder how he had managed to negotiate the steep cliff steps to the beach and she was filled with admiration for his determination to overcome the most difficult of obstacles, despite his disability.

  She was conscious of other more basic feelings too and studied the lean tanned body with a sense of excitement. The long straight legs. The muscular thighs. The wide, powerful shoulders. He was absolutely beautiful and she just couldn’t take her eyes off him. Why, oh why did a man like that have to be blind?

  Then he was gone. A bronze arrow cutting through the surf away from her, out to sea. For a moment or two more she remained where she was, anxiously watching his progress. How on earth would he know when to head back or in which direction land lay. But as she tensed herself for a rescue mission, she saw him execute a sweeping turn and head back towards the shore. There was one very good reason for the manoeuvre too. Archie was standing on one of the rocks behind which she sheltered, looking down at her with a crooked grin on his face and barking for all he was worth. What was it Alan Murray had said about his dog being the silent type?

  ‘Spoilsport,’ she mouthed and splashing the dog quickly with one hand, plunged back into deeper waters and struck out for home.

  ****

  Detective Chief Inspector Mick Benchley decided to drop in on The Philanderer’s Club the morning after his visit to Islington.

  Why he had decided to go back to the scene of the bomb blast he wasn’t really sure. Something was nagging at him about the incident, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. ‘Wasting your time, Guv,’ DI Angel had said. ‘Be nothing for us there now. Scene is three months old.’ Maybe, Benchley thought, but something was wrong, he could feel it in his water. There was something he had missed on his original evaluation of the incident. But what?

  The club was shut up when he arrived. It was strictly a nocturnal venue as a rule, so he wasn’t surprised. Come 8pm each evening the bars would be heaving, but right now it was just an empty shell, taking a breather from its frenetic after-dark activities. A security guard, built like a brick shed, answered Benchley’s persistent knocking and treated him to a belligerent glare. ‘On your bike, arsehole,’ he growled.

  Benchley flashed his warrant card. ‘Open up, dickhead,’ he retorted and smiled his satisfaction as the man’s attitude abruptly changed.

  ‘I’ll tell the boss you’re here,’ the gorilla said helpfully.

  ‘You do that,’ Benchley replied.

  The boss turned out to be the club’s under-manager, Wilfred Kent, and he didn’t seem too pleased about the impromptu visit, accompanying his visitor with undisguised reluctance to the ornate function hall where the fashion show had been staged on the fateful evening.

  Money obviously talked because despite the damage the place had suffered in the blast, restoration now seemed almost complete.

  ‘Nearly back to normal,’ Kent said proudly. ‘Just one or two tweaks needed.’

  Benchley stared around the room, frowning at the garish red and gold decor. ‘You were on duty the night the bomb was detonated, if I remember rightly?’ he said. ‘I believe my DI interviewed you when you came out of hospital.’

  Kent nodded and pointed to the side of his face. The long narrow scar was very evident, running like a cord through his neatly trimmed black beard. ‘Got my own souvenir of it,’ he replied sourly. ‘Several of my staff and a few of the guests took some minor injuries too. But the young model … what was her name?’

  ‘Lynn Giles.’

  ‘Ah yes. Well, she got the worst of it. When it went off she was actually about to walk into the changing room, which probably saved her life.’

  Benchley grunted and pointed towards the curtained stage at the far end of the room. ‘You extended the catwalk from there, didn’t you?’

  Kent followed him across the room as he threaded his way among the small round tables. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘And we had tables set in rows on either side of it – the principal guests at the front.’

  ‘But none of them was injured?’

  ‘No, the bomb blew a nice hole in the studded wall over there, showering everyone with glass and plaster, but fortunately the VIPs were too far away to be at much risk—’

  He broke off and glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I told you and your guys all this at the time.’

  Benchley gave him his best smile. ‘Then you won’t mind going through it all again with me, will you?’ he said.

  Kent forced a smile of his own. ‘No, no, of course not, but I don’t see what else I can add.’

  ‘Well, let’s take a look at the dressing rooms for a start.’

  Benchley allowed him to lead the way, following him up a short flight of carpeted steps to the stage and then across it, through a curtained doorway to their right, into a small, even more thickly carpeted lounge area. Another curtain on the other side turned out to be masking a narrow corridor, with a row of doors on both sides and
a door marked “Emergency Exit” at the far end. The policeman remembered most of it from the night he had attended the club, but following the restoration the layout was now much clearer.

  ‘Could anyone have got in here via that exit door?’ he queried.

  Kent made a face. ‘No way. It was padlocked on the night. Fire service and the HSE weren’t very happy about that and we’ve just been told we are being done as a result.’

  ‘Quite right too. Any other entrances?’

  ‘Only the front doors and we had them covered by heavy security, with ticket-only entry.’

  ‘What about this lounge? Could anyone have secreted themselves in here? Pretended to be staff or something?’

  ‘No way. In any event, Mr Baxter, the owner of the agency who was running the show, was in here supervising the process for most of the night. Fortunately for him, he had apparently only just gone down to the end dressing room to speak to one of the models when the bomb went off. He was a very lucky man.’

  Benchley thought about that for a moment, then said, ‘And I gather your CCTV system covering the car park was down?’

  ‘Yes, been out for months. We have just had it completely replaced, so it is in full operation now.’

  ‘Bit late though, eh?’

  Kent grimaced again but said nothing in reply. Changing his focus, Benchley flicked open a door on his right, staring into a small cubby-hole of a room fitted with full-length, wall-to-wall mirrors and equipped with a dressing table, sink and a wheeled clothing rail. The room smelled of paint and new carpet.

  ‘This is where the blast occurred, I believe?’ he said, turning towards Kent, who was standing behind him in the corridor, fingering his wristwatch impatiently.

  ‘So your people told us, and at the time this whole area was a bit of a mess. Could have been a lot worse, however, and I gather the bomb was thought to have been a rather Heath Robinson thing and not powerful enough to cause major damage. One of your chaps said they thought the bomb-maker was probably an amateur or someone using inferior materials.’

  Benchley gave a noncommittal grunt. ‘Looks like you’ve managed to repair the place nicely since the blast, though?’

  ‘We were lucky to be able to engage an excellent firm to do the job.’ An irritable sigh. ‘But listen, Chief Inspector, I really must get on. We have a variety show tonight and—’

  Benchley ignored him. ‘You were standing … where?’

  ‘Oh, out in the main function room, a bit too close to the wall, which blew out unfortunately.’

  ‘And remind me, this was whose dressing room?’

  Kent frowned. ‘Well, it was originally assigned to a black girl. Felicity something – Oh yes, I remember, Felicity Dubois. But she said it was too small for her and made her manager move her to one of the slightly bigger rooms further down the corridor.’

  Benchley raised an eyebrow. ‘So the room was changed on the night, was it? I didn’t know that.’

  An irritable sigh. ‘Yes, yes, Chief Inspector, that’s why this Lynn Giles person was given it instead.’

  ‘I don’t recall you mentioning this to us at the time?’

  ‘It probably didn’t strike me as relevant.’

  Benchley’s heart had begun to beat a lot faster, but his thought processes were easily outstripping it. Rooms being switched at the last minute? The one containing the explosive device occupied by a different model? What if, as Counter Terrorism Command had already suggested, there was no terrorist group at all, but a single person with an axe to grind against a particular individual? And what if the crime had not been committed by an outsider, but was actually an inside job? Could the Felicity Dubois he mentioned have been involved in some way with the bombing? Could she have changed rooms so as to be as far away as possible from the device, which had been smuggled into the club? Was this new information likely to lead to the break Benchley had been hoping for? Only time would tell.

  ‘Not relevant, Mr Kent?’ he echoed as he swung back towards the door. ‘You might be wrong about that.’

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘Well, am I or am I not a superb cook?’

  Lynn paused in the act of taking a sip from her brandy glass. She smiled at Alan across the table in the soft orange glow of the lights mounted on the corners of the low wall enclosing the seaward end and right-hand side of the patio. It was a secret knowing smile, which after her clandestine sighting of him that afternoon, said it all. Dressed in a blue open-necked shirt and fawn casual trousers, he looked very relaxed, although the ubiquitous dark glasses seemed to take away some of the warmth from his face and she couldn’t help wondering what colour his eyes were.

  Little now remained of the first-class meal he had set before her and she almost regretted having to wash away the taste of the mouth-watering profiteroles, which had completed it, even with the excellent cognac.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing you’re not,’ she said, a mischievous gleam in her almond-shaped eyes, ‘and that’s modest.’

  He laughed outright. ‘Modesty is for children and old people,’ he replied. ‘But,’ and he grimaced, ‘I’m not only immodest, I am also a fraud.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

  He nodded soberly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid you owe tonight’s culinary delights – the seafood platter starter, the rack of lamb and the excellent profiteroles – to Tremanny Enterprises, a local upmarket catering firm. They set it all up for me. Put everything where I wanted it in the kitchen, even provided the hot trays. All I had to do was show you to your seat.’

  Lynn laughed with him. ‘I don’t care who did the cooking,’ she replied. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening and it must have cost you a small fortune.’ Her smile faded. ‘Why did you do it?’

  He sat back in his chair and warmed his brandy glass in his cupped hands. ‘Why did I do what?’

  ‘All this … invite me to dinner in the first place.’

  ‘Why not … for a beautiful lady?’

  Lynn’s face hardened and the magic of the evening began to melt away in a surge of bitterness. ‘How can you say that?’ she snapped. ‘For all you know, I might be as ugly as sin.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Beauty is not just about looks, Mary,’ he replied. ‘It comes from the inside and has to do with you as a person. Looks soon fade with time, but the nature and personality of a person usually stay the same.’

  She hardly heard him, but stood up quickly and took her glass over to the patio wall. Staring across the two- to three-yard wide strip of shadowy low-level scrub which lay between the wall and the cliff edge, she studied the vast expanse of moonlit ocean stretching away to infinity. It was a velvet night, warm and clear. The heavens brimmed with stars and the ocean had a strange luminous quality as it chuckled and hissed over invisible rocks.

  She heard the scrape of Alan’s chair and the next moment he was beside her. She drew away from him as his hand ruffled her hair. ‘Why did you do that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Do what?’ she queried.

  ‘Pull away from me? Are you afraid?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, suddenly on the defensive.

  His hand was ruffling her hair again, then gently travelling down her face, strong sensitive fingers examining the high cheekbones, finely chiselled nose, partly open mouth. He was so close she could actually smell the aromatic perfume of his aftershave above the fresh salty tang of the air.

  She swallowed hard, conscious of a dryness in her mouth and a trembling in her knees. She wanted to draw away again, but was unable to make the move. Instead, she closed her eyes and tilted her head to one side, trapping his hand between her cheek and her bare shoulder.

  ‘No, please don’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Just don’t,’ she said more sharply than she had intended, then immediately regretted the way she had spoken as he quickly pulled away from her, freeing his hand quite roughly.

  His voice was cold when he spoke to her from a few feet
away. ‘I assure you I was not trying to seduce you,’ he said. ‘I was simply trying to capture a picture of you in my mind – and he added almost brutally, ‘It’s what blind people do!’

  She turned quickly, embarrassed by her own reaction. ‘Oh Alan, I’m sorry,’ she blurted, reddening in the darkness. ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Of course you did,’ he retorted, ‘and I’m sorry too. Now, I think I had better see you home before there are any other misunderstandings.’

  She shook her head unnecessarily, blurting out her tactless reply without thinking. ‘No, you won’t. I am quite capable of making my own way back.’

  Almost as the words left her lips she winced, realising too late how they must have come out. But she dug another hole for herself in trying to make amends. ‘No, what I meant was, it’s pitch black out there—’

  ‘And in my condition I might not be able to see where I’m going?’ he cut in, treating her to a smile which was as cold as his voice had just been. ‘Oh, don’t worry about the dark, Mary. I’m quite used to it by now.’

  And before she could think of anything else to say, he had made his way slowly through the living room into the hall, fumbling for her coat on the peg beside the front door, then holding it out for her.

  ‘Goodnight, Mary,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  You certainly handled that well, she mused bitterly as she struck out across the moonlit headland. Just like some neurotic, virginal teenager, in fact. So what if Alan had intended to bed her? What was wrong with that? He was hellishly attractive and he turned her on like no man she had ever met. And at least, being blind, he would not have been put off by her scars – not like Greg.

  She thought about her last ex with even greater bitterness. Poor old Greg. It must have been a real shock for him the night he had seen her naked in the shower while the scars were still healing. Couldn’t get it up after that, could he? Some sort of mental block. Psychological thing probably. Six months they had been together and yet he had dumped her just two days after she had been released from hospital. Needed time to work things out, he’d said, and he was apparently still working them out while he shagged the arse off the ever-accommodating Felicity, no doubt in every conceivable position. A perfect end to a perfect relationship, she mused, just like the perfect end to this perfect evening, and she wondered what else the nasty little gremlin, who seemed to have taken up permanent residence on her shoulder, was going to do to her next. It wasn’t long before she found out.