Private Lives

59



Anna had never been one of those little girls who wanted to go to ballet lessons or tap dance class. That was much more Sophie’s thing: amateur productions of Annie or solo spots in the school choir. All of which explained why Anna was particularly anxious tonight as she stood outside the Royal Opera House waiting for Johnny Maxwell: acting was not her forte. When she had introduced herself at the Chelsea Heights party, she had haltingly told Johnny that her name was Natasha and that she was a researcher at the Royal Academy, currently writing a paper on Canova. She had felt a wave of relief when Johnny had declared himself a complete dunce who knew nothing whatsoever about sculpture. Anna didn’t like to say that clearly he knew more than she did, as she had thought Canova was a painter. Either way, he seemed to buy the cover story, and they had discussed appreciation of the human form, which Johnny had clearly taken to mean that Anna-stroke-Natasha was up for a spot of Spin the Bottle or whatever happened at the Swann parties.

Anna looked anxiously up and down the road. Where was he? They had arranged to meet at seven, and it was a quarter past already.

‘Natasha, darling!’

Anna turned to see a man with white hair hanging out of a black cab window.

‘Over here, darling,’ he called, opening the door. ‘I’ve been screaming at you for an aeon.’

‘Sorry, Johnny,’ she said, stepping inside as elegantly as she could in her sexy academic costume of tight pencil skirt and sheer stockings. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Thinking about Canova, no doubt. What on earth are you doing working on a Sunday anyway?’

‘An academic’s life is busy, busy.’ She smiled nervously.

‘Well you’re here now,’ he said, taking her in with an appreciative smile. Anna had clearly hit the right note with her five-inch heels and a push-up bra under her crisp white shirt, like a naughty secretary. She’d guessed that subtlety was not required at this stage. Johnny himself was dressed like a country squire in a green and blue checked suit and shiny riding boots and holding a large lit cigar, despite the ‘No Smoking’ signs.

‘Natasha, meet Tanika,’ he said breezily, waving a hand towards a lithe blonde perched on the swing-down seat in the corner. Anna hadn’t expected any other passengers and was momentarily thrown, until Johnny whispered behind his hand, ‘Estonian, doesn’t speak any English, so we can say what we like.’ Anna nodded politely to the girl, who merely raised her nose and looked out the window. ‘Not the friendliest of girls,’ sniffed Johnny. ‘But I rather think the chaps like the mute model types who don’t speak. My idea of hell, though, sugar plum.’

The cab moved off into the network of back streets that only London cabbies seemed to know about, making quick progress westwards.

‘So tell me more about yourself, darling,’ said Johnny.

‘Nothing much to tell, I’m afraid,’ said Anna. ‘I go around cataloguing paintings and writing papers about them.’

‘Darling, you’re a female Simon Schama. Gorgeous but brainy, the perfect combination.’

Anna smiled. ‘I wish,’ she said. ‘As you can imagine, it’s a rather conservative atmosphere. They would be scandalised if they knew I was in a taxi with a man I hardly knew.’

He looked at her shrewdly.

‘And tell me, Natasha, what are you expecting from tonight?’

‘Whatever the night brings,’ said Anna, doing her best to sound sophisticated.

‘Splendid,’ smiled Johnny. ‘I do so hate it when I bring girls out to the house only to find they’re treating it like a posh version of some online dating agency. Most of our gentlemen partygoers are available, if you follow my drift, but back in Civvy Street you may find they have – shall we say – prior arrangements.’

‘Married, you mean?’ said Anna, shrugging. ‘I’m not looking to settle down, Johnny, I’m just here to . . .’ she paused and gave a little smile, ‘to have a good time.’

He grinned and squeezed her knee. ‘I think you and I are going to get along famously.’

Anna had spent the afternoon reading up on the art of the Renaissance in case she was asked about her background, but she need not have bothered. Clearly Johnny’s job was simply to provide the Swann set with suitable willing girls – ‘companions, not sluts’, as he had put it – not to do a thorough security check on them, and anyway, he was far more interested in talking about Johnny Maxwell and his pivotal role at the centre of society.

‘So who owns the house?’

‘James Swann,’ he said distractedly.

‘And how do you know him?’

‘We went to Eton together. He’s a very smart man. The party I’m taking you to, people would kill for an invite.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s where alliances are formed. People come down to mix with like-minded other people. Achievers. And of course they come to have fun.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

She didn’t have to wait long. The house was on the fringes of Buckinghamshire, which was just over an hour out of the city. The taxi swung through a pair of gateposts, each topped with a rampant stag, then into parkland dotted with ancient oak and beech and finally up a long drive leading to a white mansion with long gabled windows.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, as the cab pulled up and they clambered out. ‘How often do you come here?’

Johnny threw his arm around her and laughed.

‘I knew it!’ he said triumphantly. ‘You’ve only just got here and already you want to come back. Well, if you fit in here as well as I anticipate, I should think we’ll be back before too long. I do hope so; it’s not often I meet someone as intelligent as you, darling.’

He offered the girls an arm each and they walked towards the imposing iron-studded door.

‘So what’s the occasion tonight?’

‘Because it’s summer, my dear,’ said Johnny, gesturing flamboyantly. ‘Because the flowers are in bloom and the bees are making honey.’ He pulled her closer and chuckled. ‘Well, that and the bank holiday, of course.’

There were some serious-looking security guards flanking the house’s wide stone doorway, but they barely looked at Anna or her mute European counterpart clinging to Johnny’s other arm. The three of them stepped into the entrance, a warm, open hall with stairs to one side and a large fireplace in the centre, tonight filled with an extravagant flower display rather than crackling logs. With the well-heeled, well-dressed people laughing and chatting among uniformed wine waiters carrying trays of champagne, it immediately appeared to be just like any other country house party.

‘Come this way, ladies,’ said Johnny. ‘Time to meet the host.’ James Swann was not at all what Anna had been expecting. In his early sixties, but still handsome, he was tall and regal, with swept-back black hair the colour of liquorice. Anna immediately thought of the old Hammer vampire movies her dad loved, and suppressed a smile.

‘James Swann, may I introduce my two newest and loveliest aquaintances, Tanika and Natasha.’

Swann gave a slight bow and bent to kiss their hands, almost sending Anna into a fit of nervous giggles. He’ll be turning into a bat next, she thought.

‘Please, ladies, make yourselves at home, treat my house as you would your own. Nothing is out of bounds to my friends. Johnny, show them around.’

They walked into the drawing room. Piano, tasteful furniture. A bar at one end. Girls draped over red-faced men.

‘Those are my regular girls,’ said Johnny. ‘They know what makes a party go with a bang, if you follow, so they get invited back.’

‘You say some of these men are married,’ said Anna casually.

Johnny nodded. ‘A few of the wives even attend.’ He grinned. ‘I could introduce you to some couples . . .’

She picked up his coded meaning.

‘Let’s get a drink first, shall we?’

‘Very wise. But first, Tanika, why don’t you go and say hello to that nice old gentleman over there?’ he said, pointing to a rotund man in a double-breasted suit. ‘I believe his grandfather had significant business interests in your mother country, so you should have plenty to talk about.’ The girl dutifully walked off.

‘I just need to freshen up in the bathroom.’ Anna smiled.

Johnny nodded his approval. She found a downstairs loo and phoned the local taxi firm. ‘Have a car waiting for “Natasha” at the Swann house,’ she instructed. ‘I’ve no idea how long I’ll be. But be there as soon as you can, and wait. Tell security at the gates that you’re picking up a guest of Johnny Maxwell.’

She returned to Johnny.

‘Beautiful, darling,’ he purred. ‘Right then,’ he continued, leading Anna to the bar and perching on a high stool that gave him a view of the whole room. ‘Let me see if I can give you a run-down.’

He pointed to a sandy-haired man in a blazer.

‘Charles Butler-Cash, very well connected in the City, beautiful place out in Barbados, very good skier.’

‘And is he single?’

‘Course not. It’s the old golden handcuffs, you see? If any of these men got un-married, it would cost them tens of millions. That’s why they come here. They’re not after anything permanent, but like you and me, they want some fun.’

He continued his sweep of the room.

‘Over there is Piggy Allsop; he’s some big noise in haulage. Deadly dull, but pots of money.’ He glanced down at Anna’s legs. ‘Piggy likes very skinny girls, though, so he’s probably out.’ He nodded towards a good-looking man in his late fifties. ‘And that fellow in the red tie is Peter Rees. He works in oil and engineering.’

Anna’s heart skipped a beat. Peter. Could he be Amy’s Peter?

‘And is he . . . attached? To a girl, I mean?’

Johnny looked at her, a wicked smile on his lips.

‘Do you like him?’

‘Perhaps. Is he single?’

He shrugged. ‘Wife back in Gloucestershire of course, horrible old trout, although you didn’t hear that from me. But no lady friends, as far as I know. I think he got his fingers burned a little while ago.’

‘Oh. What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, looking away from her. ‘Sometimes they can get a little clingy. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

Peter was standing on his own, swilling bourbon around a glass as they approached.

‘Peter, I’d like you to meet Natasha. Natasha is a fan of the arts.’

‘Really?’ said Peter, smiling at her. ‘That’s very interesting.’

Johnny gave Anna’s arm a squeeze. ‘I’ll leave you two to chat,’ he said and melted into the crowd.

‘Actually, I’m very dull,’ said Anna. ‘Johnny was just trying to talk me up.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. What branch of the arts are you in?’

‘Sculpture, oils, the Renaissance,’ she said vaguely, hoping he wouldn’t be a collector and call her bluff. ‘I want to hear all about you,’ she said quickly, touching his arm. ‘What do you do?’

‘I’m on the board of Dallincourt.’

‘Oh really? What’s that?’

‘We’re an engineering firm, largely we build oil rigs, do the casing for mines. Things like that. Rather dull.’ He smiled.

‘What do you do there?’

‘COO,’ he said with a hint of pride.

Anna gestured at the room with her wine glass.

‘So do you come to these things often?’

‘Well, Jamie Swann and I have interests in common, so we’re often to be found close by, yes.’

‘Business interests?’ asked Anna.

‘Sometimes,’ smiled Peter. ‘Tell me, has Johnny given you the grand tour?’

He linked his arm through hers and led her towards the rear of the house, where there was another comfortable lounge full of sofas and alcoves, the lighting somewhat more subdued.

‘This is the red room, designed by Kenneth Sway in the nineteenth century, I believe.’ Anna looked up towards the roof, which was dominated by a crystal chandelier suspended from an elaborate gold-leafed ceiling rose in the shape of an eagle in flight. ‘I thought you might be drawn to that,’ laughed Peter. ‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’

They walked on through an orangery looking down on to moonlit gardens, then back into the hallway.

‘Shall we take a turn upstairs?’ asked Peter.

Anna was beginning to feel a little out of her depth and looked around for Johnny, not that he would be much use. He was hardly anyone’s idea of a chaperon.

‘Are you all right?’ said Peter, reaching up and touching her chin. ‘I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.’

‘I’m fine,’ smiled Anna. Don’t wimp out now, she told herself. Okay, so this guy was called Peter and he came to Swann’s parties, but that didn’t make him Amy’s Peter, did it? She needed more information, and the only way to get that was to press on.

‘I can’t wait to see the rest,’ she said as he led her up the stairs and on to a corridor. A door to their left was open, and Anna almost gasped as she saw an overweight man, naked from the waist down, thrusting into a woman half-wearing a scarlet cocktail dress. As they passed, the woman looked at Anna and gave her a knowing smile.

‘Some people like to be watched,’ said Peter, opening a door and steering Anna inside. ‘I myself am a much more private person. How about you, Natasha?’

She found herself in a bedroom suite overlooking the gardens dominated by an old oak four-poster bed, the only light coming from a small tasselled bedside lamp. As Peter closed the door behind him, she walked quickly over to the window in a vain attempt to put distance between them.

‘The house is so beautiful,’ she said, looking out at the grounds, hoping to start a conversation about design.

‘Yes, but not as beautiful as you,’ he said in a low voice. He touched his hand to her cheek and she flinched. She knew why Johnny brought girls to the party, but she had naively thought that any relationships would be started afterwards. She turned away from him and looked out of the big bay window.

‘You are one of Johnny’s girls, aren’t you?’ he said, coming closer behind her.

Her heart was hammering. Amir Khan had volunteered to come out to Buckinghamshire with her; he knew he would not be allowed access to the party, but had offered to wait in a nearby pub until she had finished. Now she wished she had taken him up on his offer.

‘Of course,’ she replied.

‘Good,’ he said, pressing himself into her as he kissed her neck softly. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he whispered.

She swallowed hard.

‘Let’s take this slowly,’ she said quickly.

His fingers began to pull down the zip that ran the length of her spine.

‘Fine by me,’ he murmured. She felt a cool rush of air on her bare back as the dress parted. Her mouth turned dry. She knew she had to get out of here, but not before she got what she came for.

She turned around to face him. Peter had begun undoing the belt to his trousers.

‘On the bed,’ he said.

She smiled coquettishly, although she was frightened. ‘I heard you were a good lover,’ she said, playing for time.

He looked pleased to hear it. ‘And who told you that?’

‘A friend of mine. Amy Hart.’

Peter’s face was only partly lit, but his expression told Anna all she needed to know. Amy’s name brought on surprise, quickly followed by fear, then anger. Not sadness, not shame, not even regret. You bastard, she thought.

‘Tell me, what did Amy say?’ His voice was almost a bark.

Peter Rees was Amy’s Peter.

‘She said that you were very generous,’ she replied, trailing her finger down his shirt. ‘In every department.’

His expression softened.

‘It was sad about her, wasn’t it?’ added Anna.

‘Sad?’

‘Her death.’

‘Yes, it was very sad.’ She saw his eyes narrow a fraction. Enough to register disapproval.

‘How well did you know Amy?’ he asked.

‘Barely. And you?’

‘The same.’ His eyes were cold.

Anna knew now what sort of people she was dealing with: men who would use young girls until they became inconvenient, until they threatened to undermine their cosy domestic situation – the golden handcuffs, as Johnny had put it – at which point they were disposed of like flat champagne, casually tossed down the sink.

‘Are you going to take off that dress?’ Peter said finally. He moved up against her and pushed her gently back on the bed.

Not a chance, she thought.

She stood up and stroked his cheek. Her pulse was racing.

‘Stay there and close your eyes,’ she commanded.

‘Where are you going?’ said Peter.

‘I’m going to get my friend Tanika, that tall blonde I came in with. I can see you’re more than one woman can handle.’

‘Wait,’ he said firmly, taking her arm in a strong grip. ‘Just you,’ he added quietly.

‘No,’ she said, trying to wriggle away.

He curled his arm around her waist and pulled her close. His hand pushed against the bare triangle of skin on her back.

‘Get back on the bed,’ he ordered, breathing strong whisky breath all over her.

‘Hang on,’ she said, pulling free and tugging her dress back on to her shoulders. ‘I’m getting Tanika.’

She raced towards the door, stumbling into the corridor and hurrying downstairs as fast as she could.

‘Having fun?’

Anna’s heart gave a lurch. Johnny Maxwell was standing at the door of the drawing room, a slight frown on his face. He’d clearly seen her leave with Peter and was wondering why she was back so soon.

‘Just stepping outside for a cigarette,’ she purred. My goodness, Natasha really is coming to life, she thought.

‘And what about Peter?’

‘Waiting upstairs.’

She scurried outside, inhaling deeply as if she had just come up for air.

The drive was empty. Shit, where are you, taxi? she thought, stepping from one foot to the other.

‘You all right, miss?’ asked one of the security guards, stepping forward, his hand on a heavy walkie-talkie strapped to his hip like a Western gunslinger.

She fumbled in her clutch bag for a cigarette and lit it.

‘Fag break,’ she said as casually as she could.

Come on, she pleaded silently, willing the taxi to arrive. She glanced back at the house, realising how stupid she’d been to come. It was one thing to infiltrate the society swingers’ ball posing as a bohemian good-time girl; it was quite another to reveal to Peter Rees that she knew something about his past.

But then, like the cavalry coming over the hill, Anna heard hope driving towards her. The grumble of a taxi’s diesel engine. She tossed her cigarette away and ran towards it.

‘Taxi for Natasha?’ she whispered.

‘Hop in, love. Where to?’

‘London. Richmond.’

The cabby glanced in the mirror, then pulled the car away. As it built up speed, Anna felt her fast-beating pulse slow.

She took her mobile out of her bag and tapped in a message to Amir Khan, Andy’s investigator. Amir had asked her to tell him the moment she knew anything new. ‘Amy’s Peter is Peter Rees, COO of Dallincourt. Any use?’

She pressed ‘Send’ and sat back in the seat. The car was surrounded by blackness, only the occasional farm or house revealed by a gap in the trees. She tried to relax, but her body was still tense, her heart thumping with adrenalin. At the same time she felt strangely dejected, wrung out. In truth, she’d been lucky to get out of there in one piece – and for what? She had Peter’s name, she knew he had been with Amy, knew that the mention of her name had made him frightened and angry, but where did that really get her? She had to admit to herself that she hadn’t thought any of this through properly; she’d just been stumbling from clue to clue, hoping that the next one would reveal how Amy had really died. The reality was that she might well never know.

‘Look at this wanker behind us,’ said the cabby, shaking her from her thoughts. ‘Pissed, I bet you.’

She turned in her seat, but she could only see the too-bright full-beam headlights of a car coming up fast behind, dangerously close.

The cabby sounded his horn, but the car only seemed to get closer, the lights filling the taxi’s interior. Then Anna grabbed the door handle as she felt a bump behind her.

‘Christ!’ shouted the cabby. ‘What’s he doing?’

The car had pulled out and had drawn up against the side of them. It was a black SUV, but Anna couldn’t make out any driver or passenger, as the windows were tinted. She heard metal scrape against metal as it slammed against them.

‘Shit!’ cried the cabby as the SUV banged into them again, forcing them up on to an embankment, skidding to a halt. They both watched in disbelief as the red lights of the other car disappeared into the distance.

‘You all right, miss?’ said the driver, turning in his seat. ‘Did you get his plates?’

Anna shook her head.

‘Me neither,’ said the cabby bitterly. ‘There goes my bloody no-claims. What the hell was he playing at?’

But Anna knew exactly what the driver had been playing at, and she had no doubt what that little road race had meant. She had been well and truly warned.