Dark Powers Read online

Rebecca glanced at Annushka. ‘Leave?’

  ‘Leave the flat, find another place, move on.’

  ‘You’re very perceptive.’

  Annushka let out a bitter little laugh. ‘My father sent my real mother to the grave, divorced my first stepmother, and now he’s got married again. I watch and learn.’

  ‘It became too intense,’ Rebecca explained. ‘He was possessive, a bit controlling, rather boring. When I told him it was over he was really upset. I’d been giving him hints for weeks but he didn’t get the message. I had to be very blunt with him at the end. I was a bit afraid he might become difficult and start pestering me, keep on calling at the flat, so I found somewhere else as quickly as I could.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Did he what?’

  ‘Become difficult?’

  ‘No, thank God. After we’d parted I saw him at our offices once or twice – his firm upgraded the computer system, that’s how we met – but when I said hello he just blushed and looked away. He seemed a bit crushed. I suppose he wanted to settle down and I didn’t. Anyway, he wasn’t husband material. I can’t think what Daddy would have made of him.’

  They careered around another bend, tyres screeching, road signs flaring in the headlights. ‘I really am worried about us running away like this,’ Rebecca moaned when she’d got her breath back. ‘It could make us look guilty.’

  ‘Guilty of what? They threw Nicole down from the landing. Trust me, it’s best to clear off. We both left early, remember, and we didn’t see a thing.’ They crested the brow of a hill, then plunged down into a shallow valley, fences and hedgerows a blur as they flashed past. ‘Have you got those mobiles?’

  Rebecca lifted the pillowcase from the footwell.

  ‘How many did we find? Count them and make sure they’re all switched off or they’ll be able to trace them.’

  She checked the phones. ‘Nine . . . No, ten.’

  ‘You hang on to them. Put them in a biscuit tin and hide them somewhere. And put mine in, too. I videoed them on the landing. It’s in my bag.’

  ‘Don’t you want to take care of them?’ Rebecca, uneasy about keeping the things, groped for Annushka’s bag in the gap between the seats.

  ‘The housekeeper and the security men are always nosing around. They’d be sure to find them and start asking questions.’

  Rebecca clicked the bag open, found two phones amongst the clutter. ‘Which one? The monogrammed white one or the red one?’

  ‘The red. The white one’s faulty. Battery always needs recharging.’

  Rebecca dropped the red phone in the pillowcase. ‘And why put them in a biscuit tin?’

  ‘Grigori told me mobiles had to be put in a tin or wrapped in cooking foil if you wanted to prevent them being traced. Either that or take the batteries out. He said the police and phone companies can sometimes locate them, even when you think they’re switched off.’

  ‘Who’s Grigori?’

  ‘One of my father’s security men. He was trained by the KGB.’ Annushka laughed. ‘He lusts after me. I torment him, let him catch glimpses of me in my underwear, but he daren’t touch me; he’d be dismissed on the spot. He’s gone with the party on the yacht. I think he was glad to get away.’

  As they climbed out of the valley, the car’s headlights probed a tunnel formed by the overhanging branches of trees. ‘I’ll take you to Cheltenham,’ Annushka said. ‘If the police come looking for me they’ll probably go to Underhill, so I’m going to drive on to our flat in London. Anyway, I don’t feel like going to Underhill. The housekeeper’s always going on about me being out all the time and threatening to tell Father.’ She frowned at Rebecca and made her voice stern. ‘Just remember, if the police talk to us, we left early, and we didn’t see a thing.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Samantha felt Crispin’s fingers under her chin, tilting her head. She closed her eyes. Scissors, cool on her brow, began to snip, and wisps of raven-black hair drifted down on to the towel draped around her shoulders.

  ‘You ought to keep out of the sun,’ Crispin murmured absently.

  She opened her eyes. He was concentrating on the heavy fringe that almost covered her brow, flicking at it with his comb, snipping with his scissors, deftly trimming and shaping. His features were softening, she reflected, becoming less youthful. If anything, it made him even more handsome. She said huskily, ‘Natural vitamin D: sunlight’s good for you.’

  ‘Take a tablet. The sun will ruin your hair, make it lose its shine, its body. And it ages women. Your skin’s too delicate, love. It simply can’t stand it.’ He frowned down at her while he teased her abundant, not quite shoulder-length hair with his comb. ‘You’ll do,’ he said presently. ‘When you comb it, draw the ends inwards and forward a little. It’ll keep its shape longer.’

  He unwrapped the towel from her shoulders, shook filaments of hair into the bath, then lifted the lever that opened the outlet. ‘What was that American woman – Fienburg, Finklestein, or whatever her name is – saying to you when we were leaving the dining room?’

  ‘She said you looked absolutely adorable. She can’t take her eyes off you. She’s been giving you longing looks ever since we arrived.’

  ‘Poor thing.’ He beamed; compliments delighted him. ‘Philippe said much the same to me, last night.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ She watched him wipe the sides of the bath and steer hair clippings towards the outlet.

  ‘It’s been pleasant, but it’s just a holiday fling, nothing serious. Have you decided?’

  ‘Decided?’

  ‘Which of those two dresses you’re going to buy?’

  ‘Can’t make my mind up. The skirt on the Vuitton’s a bit short and the Moschino’s rather severe, but they’d both be OK for the autumn.’

  ‘Your bum and tits really do something for the Moschino. You look sensational in it: sex on legs. You could charge double.’

  Samantha laughed. Crispin was convinced she was a high-class whore. She nurtured his illusions.

  ‘And those Escada shoes and bag were made for it,’ he chattered on. ‘The shade of grey’s perfect, and they’d stop it looking quite so plain.’ He squeezed out the sponge and stood up. ‘Your eyes are the problem, love. Brown or grey aren’t difficult, but that green can clash so.’

  She studied her reflection in the mirror over the basin. ‘It’s got to be the Moschino, then.’ Crispin was right, as usual. She pursed her lips and began to colour them the same vivid red as her nails. ‘I’ll collect it this morning. Are you coming?’

  ‘May as well. Philippe’s working.’ He slid a sleeveless silk dress from a hanger behind the door and passed it to her. Samantha removed her robe, stepped into it and eased the fitted skirt over her hips. A phone began to ring in the bedroom. Crispin picked up the robe and hurried out.

  She heard him asking, ‘Does she have a name? No. OK, I’ll fetch her, just a moment.’ His head appeared around the bathroom door. ‘It’s a woman, for you. Reception are holding the call. She wouldn’t give her name.’

  Samantha went through, sat on the edge of the ornate ivory and gilt bed and picked up the phone.

  ‘We have a caller for you, madam. She refuses to give her name. May I put her through?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The line clicked, then: ‘We have met and spoken before. Do you recognize me?’

  Samantha had met the woman only a couple of times, but the voice was unmistakable. Clear and commanding, this morning it had a tense, brittle edge to it. She said, ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘No need for names, then. I’d like you to come back to England.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now. I want you back as soon as you can get here.’

  ‘My contract ended more than a month ago.’

  ‘You can have another. I need you here.’

  ‘Something’s happened?’

  ‘Events are unfolding.’

  Samantha closed her eyes. Loretta Fallon contacting her personally:
it had to be something catastrophic. She didn’t want this right now.

  ‘Your flight’s been booked on British Airways: Paris Orly to London Heathrow. Departure’s scheduled for twelve noon. When you arrive in London, take a taxi to the Connaught Hotel in Chertsey, it’s a couple of miles outside the town, on the Shepperton Road. I’ll be waiting for you there, in the cocktail bar. It’s the room on your right as you enter the foyer.’

  The phone went dead.

  Crispin appeared from the bathroom. ‘Problems?’

  ‘A friend. She can’t keep an appointment with a client. She’s asked me to stand in. He’s a regular; she doesn’t want to let him down.’

  ‘You’re going back to England?’

  ‘She’s booked me on a twelve o’clock flight. Why don’t you stay here? There’s no reason why this should spoil things for you.’

  ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘Can’t say. I could be gone a few days.’ She turned her back to him. ‘Come and zip me up.’

  He crossed over to the bed, slid the zip up from her waist, then linked the tiny fastening at the back of her neck. ‘I may as well say goodbye to Philippe and travel home tomorrow. I don’t particularly want to stay on if you’re not going to be here, and I ought to get back to the salon.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘There’s not much time. I’ll fetch some cases from my room and help you pack. What about all the stuff you’ve bought?’

  ‘Bring it in the car for me.’

  ‘And the Moschino?’

  ‘Buy the Moschino and the Vuitton, and the bag and shoes. If you see any other shoes and things you think are OK, get them, too. I’ll leave you my card.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to cram it all in the Ferrari. I’ll be ages going through customs. And heaven knows what they’re going to make of all the underwear.’

  Samantha wandered across a sea of blue and gold carpet, stood by an elegantly curtained window and gazed down the tree-lined boulevard. ‘It’s been pleasant here, Crispin. Best hotel we’ve stayed at this year. I think I’ve enjoyed it more than Venice.’

  ‘You seem a bit down, love.’

  She turned and smiled at him. ‘Back-to-work blues, that’s all. I’m not looking forward to a night and a day, perhaps a few nights and days, of smiling and pretending. I can be myself when I’m with you.’

  Lionel Blessed settled himself a little lower, a little more comfortably, into his seat. He was concealed beneath the trees at the back of a tiny car park. His was the only car; the residents of the narrow street had either gone to their places of work or driven away on other business. From here he could study the house where Rebecca lived: bottle-green front door and tall sash window on the ground floor, two smaller windows above. Glass gleamed darkly against cream-painted stucco, and a parapet hid the roof. It was all very Regency, very Cheltenham. He could hear Rebecca saying, ‘Such a sweet little house,’ in that sexy top-drawer voice of hers. Daddy must have bought it for her, just as he’d bought her the flat and the car. She was letting the flat now. He’d seen it advertised in an estate agent’s window. One evening, a few weeks ago, desperate to discover her new address, he’d followed her as she’d driven home from work. This was where she’d led him.

  Afraid of the dark things he might uncover, he didn’t care to think too deeply about why he was here. His motives, his urges, were too tangled and confused to confront. He came here twice, sometimes three times a week, almost always during the day when the car park was deserted, and spent an hour or so gazing across at the tiny house where Rebecca ate and slept, bathed and dressed. It wasn’t rational, he knew that, and he’d always prided himself on being an ordered, rational person: his job demanded it. Quite soon after they’d parted he’d realized it was more than an overwhelming physical attraction he’d felt for her. He’d loved her; he’d loved her very deeply. He still did. She was constantly in his thoughts. In fleeting moments of brutal self-honesty he was forced to admit he was sad, obsessed and unbearably lonely.

  The pain and longing wouldn’t go away. He seemed to miss her more and more. The six months they’d been together in her flat had been the happiest of his life. Even when she’d stopped being affectionate, when she’d become critical and hard to please, being with her had been preferable to this miserable loneliness. That old proverb, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, was utter nonsense. In his experience it was far better never to have met than have to bear this intolerable pain, this overwhelming feeling of loss. At least he’d been spared the torture of jealousy. She’d not inflicted that on him. On the admittedly few occasions when he’d seen her leave and return home, she’d always been alone, and there didn’t appear to be anyone else living here.

  They’d met when his firm sent him to Cheltenham to oversee the upgrading of a computer installation at Volmack’s. The offices were luxurious, located in what had once been a Regency mansion close to the town centre. Her manager had had responsibility for the project, and he’d assigned Rebecca to deal with day-to-day problems. Refined, poised, full of public-schoolgirl confidence, she’d bowled him over. And she’d always been so tastefully dressed; dark haired, dark eyed, shapely not skinny, her pale silky skin always so fragrant, and her . . . Lionel swallowed hard, blinked back tears, admonished himself. He was stupid, sitting here, staring at her house, dreaming, remembering, scratching away at the scabs, endlessly reliving the pain. He really must try to get a grip.

  She’d asked him to fix her laptop, sort out her internet connection, get her printer working properly. He’d gone round to her flat, she’d given him a meal and he’d offered to do a few jobs for her: fix the sagging doors on the kitchen cupboards, replace light fittings, help her with the redecorating. After a while she’d said it was senseless him travelling to and from Gloucester every day, and he should move in. It was then he’d assumed they were in a serious relationship.

  That public-school assertiveness had been very evident in the bedroom. Always the one to take the initiative, she’d been completely uninhibited, shedding her refinement with her clothes. In the end he’d been slow to realize what was happening, that her interest was waning. Her nights out with the girls had become more frequent. When he’d protested, they’d had arguments. When she’d returned, sometimes in the early hours, she’d rejected his advances. And now he couldn’t get her, or the things they’d done together, out of his mind. It was like a loop of film, endlessly turning, reviving memories, arousing him, intensifying his sense of loss.

  He’d tried to divert himself; to fill his life with other things. He’d moved into a new house, renewed his hi-fi system, changed his car, done some freelance work. And he’d joined an internet group called Pickcraft. Its members practised and perfected lock-picking skills. Just as a hobby, of course; their slogan, Stay Within the Law, was repeated like a mantra. The craft demanded intense concentration. A mental picture had to be formed of what was happening inside the lock, a delicacy of touch had to be cultivated. It was a distraction that had done more than anything else to soothe and relax him; to prevent him sliding into total despair.

  Cylinder locks had been fairly easy to master. After practising for a few nights, he’d become quite adept. He’d bought an expensive set of picks but experience had taught him that two were enough; none at all if you just ‘bumped’ the lock with a deeply serrated key. No one realized how easy it was to open a cylinder lock. Knowing how, and becoming able to do it with such ease, had given him a great feeling of satisfaction.

  Mortise locks were more difficult, but even these soon yielded after the skills had been acquired. Getting hold of locks to practise on had been a problem, but members of the club circulated locks through the post, and they were generous in sharing experience and giving advice. Once you had a selection of picks, it was simply a case of practice, practice and more practice. The lonely evenings had given him plenty of time for that.

  An idea had formed in his mind while he’d been honing his skills. Perhaps it had be
en there from the very beginning, lurking in some dark recess before creeping into his consciousness. He’d begun to contemplate using his newly acquired skills to gain entry to Rebecca’s house; explore it, look through the cupboards and drawers, touch her clothes, her underwear, breathe in her fragrance, read her correspondence. He felt that, in some mysterious way, it would enable him to share in her life again, to enjoy, once again, their former intimacy.

  The back garden was accessible only from the house; the tiny paved area at the front was enclosed by iron railings and a dense hedge that hid the refuse bin. A couple of weeks ago he’d checked the profile of the key aperture on the cylinder latch, checked the keyway for the mortise lock. There’d be no problems. The locks were conventional. Picking the mortise lock would take no more than thirty seconds; the cylinder lock could be ‘bumped’. The street was usually deserted, seldom any pedestrians, just the occasional car going to or coming from a small luxury housing development on adjoining land. And the hedge limited visibility; a person would have to stand in the gateway to see what he was doing at the front door.

  But not today. This afternoon he had to commission an installation in Oxford, and once he was inside the house he wanted to linger and savour the experience. No point taking the risk without maximizing the satisfaction.

  Rebecca closed and locked the front door, kicked off her shoes and headed down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. She filled the kettle, switched it on, then went up to her bedroom to change. Through the windows she could see the tiny residents’ car park where her little white Fiat and Mrs Novak’s blue Micra were parked in the shadows beneath the big trees. The terrace was full of single women: working, retired, divorced, widowed. There were no families. The houses were a bit too small for families. In fact, her new home wasn’t much bigger than the flat she’d left, but it was more interesting, had more possibilities. She suddenly wondered how Lionel was. Probably still plodding along in his boring old way. He’d have been useful here for all the fixing and decorating, but she couldn’t cope with his quiet dullness, his inhibitions, his controlling ways, the jealous anger when she went out on her own and the unpleasantness when she returned. She craved the excitement of new experiences, the freedom to find herself. She shivered. Last night’s adventure had been chastening. She didn’t want to go through anything like that again.