CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: VERONICA
Hunter lunched alone in a Cafe Rouge not far from the Financeday building, confining himself - mindful of his waistline - to a plateful of charcuterie and a mixed green salad. The restaurant was pretty much empty, and he twitched a little when a man in a corner fixed him with a beady eye. But then he decided that the man must either be gay, or possibly Russian, and ignored him, ate in peace, and sets off for home.
He twitched again briefly as he pushed open the glass door to his block of flats, because he still nursed a shadow of anxiety. But Blake, the block's porter-caretaker and watchman supreme, waved cheerfully, and his wave flagged peace and quiet.
Hunter's flat was a haven of calm. He showered quickly before powering up his laptop to access Financeday's mainframe, and spent the next couple of couple of hours working on Cradock, polishing his outline and rehearsing his attack.
Goodman would be a piece of cake: he was a ranter, and ranters always crumbled under pressure. Hunter mapped out his moves: first a few quick underarm lobs to put him at ease, centred on his plans for being tough on crime, with a diversion into protecting the pound, and then a javelin blow straight to the jugular. He would watch Goodman squirm, and then sandbag him with a seamless transition, and watch shit splatter the fan.
He drank black coffee, completing his notes, cleared down his modem, and called Veronica Finch. He had completed his work for the day; and now it was time for pleasure. The thought filled him with lust, and he smiled to himself, and his smile held just a shade of a leer, because Veronica needed consoling, and was likely to prove rather more grateful than Chloe. He would be a man again, calling the shots, and possibly wreaking a little gentle vengeance.
Veronica was charm incarnate. She had been working a hard day: nobody at work spoke to her now that she was in disgrace, with the exception only of a rather sweet fellow trainee called Alice Carew, and she had spent the best part of eight hours snipping press cuttings from newspapers and pasting them onto sheets of copier paper. She was bored, and depressed, and had been waiting by the shared telephone in her flat with a touch of desperation: the prospect of dinner with a glamorous male was about the only thing keeping her from suicide.
Hunter ladled syrup. ‘We must go somewhere nice. I thought you might like the Belvedere, then we can thrash about a bit at a rave place in Fulham.’ He smiled to himself as he spoke. It would be one in the eye for Chloe, if she happened to be about, and bubbly for free.
His telephone purred. Veronica had never dined at the Belvedere, but knew it to be very smart, and a quantum leap from the cramped conditions in which she lived and worked: she shared a tiny room with four other girls in a flat close to High Street Ken, and occupied a mere space on a table at the FCO.
She replaced her receiver, racking her brains for suitable raiment: something stunning, but low-key, something seductive, but nothing flouncy. Her mind homed in on a little golden silk tunic dress, very figure-hugging, and not much more than a gym slip, with a golden chain link belt. Both were really sexy, and would suit her most admirably.
However both also presented a bit of a challenge, for neither lived in Veronica's half of a shared clothes cupboard, but belonged to Gabrielle, a French girl staying as a guest. Veronica frowned, and then smiled to herself. She would practise her French, and play a girl in distress, about to be sacrificed, and desperately in need of a knight errant. Gabrielle was a bit dumb, and a real sweetie, and should not prove too fractious.
She put on her most entrancing smile, and then scurried into the flat bathroom to practise it again. But sadly Gabrielle proved rather grasping.
‘It is almost new.’ Gabrielle was watching television with the three other girls, and she looked most doubtful - she had dark chestnut hair and a Cote d'Azur suntan and huge doe eyes, and gold suited her very well. But she was not sure that Veronica, who was paler, though darkhaired and darkeyed, would do it much credit. It was also a very expensive dress to clean, and Veronica was a tricky girl, not best known for paying her debts. ‘It was almost couturier. It was very expensive.’
Veronica had a distinct feeling that she was not refusing, but more trying to secure a quid pro quo. ‘I only want it for this evening.’
Sarah, senior girl in the flat, Gabrielle's hostess, and a bit of a maneater, pursed her lips. ‘Evening, or overnight?’
Veronica flashed her a look of pure fury, and simpered.
‘Have you shoes for it?’ Gabrielle knew that she had smaller feet, so she could limit her exposure.
Veronica pondered for a moment. She had a pair of golden sandals that should pass muster, and a primrose matching bra and brief set freshly washed after supporting her yellow summer dress in her abortive seductress role.
‘What if it gets stained?’ Sarah had never liked Veronica all that much, and trusted her even less, but had always kept her peace. Now Veronica was going, and she could afford to be rather more stroppy.
‘I'll pay for the cleaners.’ Veronica had never liked Sarah all that much, but she would collect a generous relocation payment from the FCO, and could afford to be openhanded. She hesitated for a moment's reflection. ‘And I'll throw in my Chanel as well.’ She had a sizeable flask of scent, the remains of quite a passionate affair, and personally preferred Madame Rochas.
Gabrielle's huge doe eyes glowed. She had set her eyes on the Chanel ever since arriving in London, and she would inherit Veronica's place in the flat on her departure. She also had witnesses, so there could be no question of Veronica ratting out. She nodded, it was a fair deal.
Veronica took great care in her preparations. She had already washed her hair, and now she brushed it until it shone. She chose a full red lipstick, practising pouts as she brushed. Then she pranced around in front of her mirror, practising seductive steps.
She did not want to go to Singapore, she would do almost anything to avoid going to Singapore, and very possibly anything at all. But if she could not avoid going, then she would at least go in a blaze of glory.
Hunter arrived a few minutes early. He felt smart, and superior: tonight he had dressed to be beautiful in a sandy beige suit, pale blue City shirt, and pale beige tie with salmon motifs, pale brown socks and highly polished brown shoes. He was also armed with a bunch of carnations from the flowerstall in Kensington High Street, and felt in a conquering mood, capable of sweeping all before him. He parked, squaring up for his assault.
Veronica's flat was part of a redbrick Victorian block with cavernous corridors, fully automated with buzz doors and an entryphone. He was on the point of pressing her number when a middle-aged woman sailed up behind him. She was nothing much to look at, but he smiled politely, and she obviously approved of the carnations, because she held the door open for him. Hunter climbed a flight of stairs, found the flat, and knocked confidently on the door.
Nothing happened for a moment, and then the door opened, first a fraction, and then rather quickly. A very attractive girl with a deep tan and huge doe eyes and long raven hair looked out, inspecting him with obvious interest. She was barefoot, in a denim shirt and jeans, and her cleavage and curves were quite ravishing.
‘She was just getting ready.’ Her voice was husky, and very sexy. Her accent was very French.
Hunter was entranced. He could see two more girls in the background, but neither of them was Veronica Finch, and neither registered. He searched for words. ‘Vous êtes ... absolument ravissante.’
The girl lowered her eyes modestly, but did not seemed displeased.
He tried again, polishing his very best accent. ‘Je n'attendais guère de me trouver au ciel, face à face à une ange...’ His voice petered out. The girl was now smiling, and her face and body made Veronica look quite boxy. But she said nothing, and he remembered with a pang of conscience that he had come to squire a girl from the Foreign Office, not to make a pass at a foreign flatmate.
It was a moment of truth, but a most brief encounter, for Veronica immediately bounced into view, and the French girl melted tactfully away. Hunter held out his carnations quickly to dispel a shadow of a frown that seemeds on the point of creeping across Veronica's brow. He was a great man for form, and always punctilious in his manners, and he had no need to pick a fight: he could call and make a new French friend any time he pleased once Veronica had flown off to the Orient.
The flowers worked a charm, and an instant spell. Veronica's frown transmuted immediately into a radiant smile and she took them with an almost exaggerated care, cooing proudly as a couple of other girls gathered around her.
‘Oh, aren't they beautiful!’ She exhibited them triumphantly, and the two other girls took a good look at Hunter as they added coos of their own, ogling him for all they were worth. Both could see that he was a man of style, and a very acceptable taste in suiting, a generous soul, and altogether a very worthwhile target. Both consequently determined to be very, very nice to poor Veronica on her last days in Britain. Perhaps she would bequeath him to a favoured friend.
They bore the carnations away, to arrange them in a suitable vase, and Hunter escorted Veronica to his car. Her radiance dimmed a little as she recognised it as a Clio: she was really a Mercedes and BMW and big four-wheel-drive girl at heart, and Clios were really cars for solid middleclass drivers and their obedient daughters, well-mannered, but a touch downmarket. However she quickly pushed such snobbish thoughts out of her mind. Small cars made quite good sense as town cars, and perhaps it was something special. Besides, no girl in her right mind should sniff at a free evening out.
Hunter scented her uncertainty, and smiled to himself. He had a Clio Williams that pretended to be an ordinary family car, and this little girl was due for a rude surprise.
Veronica's flat was just a buzz along Kensington High Street from the Belvedere, but he put the car through its paces at a couple of lights, squealing round a right-hand bend into Melbury Road at speed, narrowly missing an oncoming Sierra that howled with rage. Veronica held tight to her seat, roundeyed with excitement. Hunter was plainly a wild driver, but this was a family car to knock spots off family cars.
She was still shivering with excitement and fear as he edged into the Belvedere carpark.
‘Do you always drive like this?’ She pitched her voice low, because huskiness was a golden colour, and she wanted to show that she had not really been afraid.
Hunter smiled the smile of a champion, and walked round the car to open her door. ‘Only when I'm trying to frighten people.’
Veronica looked up at Hunter and toyed for a moment with the idea of leaping out, throwing her arms around his neck, and vamping him something rotten. But then she remembered that she was in best manners mode, and managed with great willpower to keep herself under control. This man was shaping into a really nice bundle of pent-in thrills and concealed passions, and becoming more and more collectable by the minute, particularly as she already knew from some smart research that he was single and prosperous, with a flat of his own. But she must not seem forward: she would play Diana, baiting him stealthily with her body, before making herself irresistible, and moving in for a kill. She would charm and sate Hunter in a world where desire fashioned all men, and - all being well - would throw Singapore to the winds.
She smiled her most alluring smile, making sure that she was showing plenty of leg, not to mention generous cleavage, as she got out. Gabrielle's little gold dress was going to have to work overtime.
Hunter mirrored her smile. He faced a hard, sleepless night, but he was certain he would enjoy it.
The Belvedere was almost empty, and the manager personified charm as he ushered them up a flight of stairs to the first floor restaurant. The sun was setting, but it was still light, and the restaurant's huge picture windows framed a rose garden in full bloom.
Hunter picked the best table, set in a corner with picture windows on two sides, and a deferential waiter demurred not at all, even though the table was laid for eight. Veronica glowed: Hunter was a star, and she felt like a princess.
Wine arrived, and they talked a little elegiacally. Hunter tried to map out details of the Treasury plot, but Veronica was deliberately vague. She suspected that he might well misplace the spirit of girlish adventure that had prompted her to accept a starring role, and feared that talk of screaming rape might well conjure up nasty thoughts of revenge.
‘I was told that you were a rotten bastard, a real lech.’ She smiled to show that she now thought quite the reverse. ‘Then I saw you, and I knew you were nothing like it. I wouldn't have gone through with it. I couldn't have.’
Hunter patted her hand gently, to show that he quite understood, and blessed heaven for never testing him. Veronica profited from his touch to take his hand in hers, and smile tenderly, and the past was forgiven, if not wholly forgotten.
The waiter brought food, smoked salmon and whitebait, and they began to eat. Hunter encouraged Veronica to continue talking, listening benevolently to tales of teenage prosperity and burgeoning ambition as she painted a picture of a girl going places. But then she looked sad.
‘I suppose I'll have to junk all my dreams now.’ She paused, inspecting her smoked salmon sorrowfully. ‘I was really very silly to get so carried away. I wanted to be a spy.’
She looked up from under long dark lashes, and Hunter was sure he glimpsed a small tear sparkling like a perfectly formed diamond.
He smiled wryly. ‘Maybe you watched too many James Bond films.’
‘No, really.’ Veronica leaned forward, and the curves of her breasts made a dark cave burrowing into the gold of her dress. ‘I wanted to get into the intelligence services and work my way up. I used to dream of being a Mata Hari figure, vamping prime ministers and heads of state.’ Her lower lip drooped with failed hope. ‘Do you think I would have been good at that?’
Hunter salivated a little. He had a vision of Veronica swaying lasciviously, draped in quite diaphanous veils, and the vision made him swell quite alarmingly. He leered, and Veronica smiled to herself, because she was sure that now she would soon have a puppet dangling at the end of a string.
They progress on to fillet steaks and fine claret, cheese and luscious gateaux and coffee, until finally they were both replete. Hunter paid by credit card, adding a generous tip, and they danced together out into the warm evening air, to stroll hand in hand between the carefully tended flowerbeds of Holland Park like two young lovers.
It was a touching scene, and quite divine. But Veronica was not much of a walking girl, and her sandals began to pinch. She felt that it was time to start making progress, and stopped to admire some flowers, mistook her footing, so that she fell against Hunter, and a moment later they were entwined.
‘Oh, you are such a wonderful man.’ She cooed her words, soft as a turtledove, and paused between kisses to nibble gently at his earlobe, though a wicked inner voice whispered that she should really be sinking her fangs into his jugular. Half a bottle of white bordeaux and another half bottle of claret had inflamed her blood to boiling point, and she was sorely tempted to drag Hunter under a pathside bush. But she remembers that she was being a good girl, and restrains herself.
Hunter was equally torn: Veronica was hot against him, and the curves of her body were far more tempting than any thought of making Chloe jealous. But he had promised to take her slow dancing, and a promise was a promise.
Fortunately a drift of fellow evening strollers eddying towards them quickly resolved these tricky problems, for the strollers slowed to catch a good eyeful, and they parted in embarrassment.
Hunter straightened his tie as Veronica patted a handful of errant tendrils into place. He stared down at her, lust filling his eyes. ‘Are we still dancing?’
Veronica smiled a smile filled with promise, but also restrained, for she felt that whilst she might seem willing, she must not be too acquiescent. ‘It's not bedtime yet.’ She squeezed Hunter's hand gently, to show that deferral was not dismissal, and felt a surge of triumph at his visible disappointment. Now her puppet was dancing nicely.
Jim's nightclub was already starting to fill, with a long queue of hopeful young swingers stretching along the block, but the doorman stepped forward and raised the welcoming hand of a man espying a good tip as Hunter eased in to the kerb, and a second man hurried out of the club to ferry the Clio to safekeeping. Veronica revelled in the jealous curiosity of a hundred envious eyes as she waited for Hunter to peel a fiver out of his wallet, and walked into the nightclub holding herself very straight and proud.
The dancefloor was heaving with bodies swaying to several megawatts of sound, but she edged expertly into a fissure and began bopping with all the frenetic enthusiasm of a new arrival. Hunter stayed close, matching her movements, and began to lust again, because now they were rehearsing thrills yet to come, and hope honed his imagination. Then the music stopped, and they paused to regroup. They were both panting a little, and Veronica's eyes were now smouldering.
Hunter smiled, because time was now counting down. But then he frowned, for something caught at his sleeve: it was a hand, holding fast, and one of Jim's men was making signs for him to switch upstairs to the management suite.
He filtered Veronica reluctantly out of
the crush, and they climbed the stairs. The suite was packed with men, all
drinking hard, with a small island of women in one corner, and Nash himself
holding court by the bar. He waved to Hunter, inspecting Veronica appraisingly,
and drooped an eyelid. The barman had already begun to fill two champagne
glasses.
‘Saw you downstairs. Thought you might like a bevvy.’ Jim smiled benevolently as the barman pushed the glasses towards them. Hunter was a handy man to have on side, and the Russians murmured his name with respect. His friend was also a bit of a peach, a juicy little number maybe worth collecting. He made a mental note to have one of his people mention his interest - some things gain status by proxy.
Veronica simpered and Hunter smiled the smile of an ace romeo. Then he stiffened. Nash was one moment flanked solely by a small knot of henchmen, a man in a group of none but men. But now - a blink of an eye later - Chloe had materalised at his elbow. She was neat and secretarial in a pale apricot suit, and smiling demurely, but something in her body language hinted at the ghost of a rather more proprietorial relationship. It was plain that she intended staking a prior claim, even if only as a mark of past conquest, and trouble suddenly scented the air.
The two women eyed each other coolly, and Nash's henchmen watched expectantly. Veronica first essayed an uncertain pout, and then began to bristle a little, and Nash licked his lips and wondered whether he would dine on peach salad.
Chloe fluttered her eyelashes at Hunter as though they were all on their own. ‘I meant to call you.’ Her voice was sweetness itself. ‘I might have left my hairbrush in your bathroom last night.’
Hunter tried to defuse this boobytrap with an urbane smile. ‘Not mine, I think.’ His tone made it plain both that his flat was completely clear of visiting hairbrushes, and that Chloe's suggestion was wholly unwelcome.
‘Oh, then perhaps by your bed.’
Veronica's face had grown as black as thunder.
Hunter's urbanity grew strained. ‘No.’ He glowered at Chloe, willing her to go away. But he could see that she was plainly enjoying herself.
‘No?’ Now her sweetness was pure saccharine. ‘I'm sure it'll turn up.’ Her smile widened to encompass Veronica. ‘You know how it was, first thing in the morning, and I had a hangover as well.’ She spoke as though to an old friend, but her tone held a mocking edge. Then her voice took on a reflective note. ‘But he did say that I'd make a hard act to follow.’
Veronica tried to force a smile, but her face contorted instead into a grimace of pain laced with pure fury.
Chloe's eyes flashed in momentary triumph. But she was also instantly contrite, and sympathy itself, and stepped forward to pat Veronica's arm gently in a way suggesting the most tender commiseration. ‘Oh, dear, I suppose you're next. Perhaps you can be a runner-up.’
Veronica's mouth opened and closed, and her face crumpled. For a moment she was silent, huge tears welling in her eyes, and then she began to weep in a great gust of wrath, her head thrown back, her hands clenched into two fists of rage. But Chloe was gone.
Hunter moved quickly to throw a comforting arm around golden shoulders, but the damage was done.
‘Get me out of here. I w-w-want to go ho-ome.’ Veronica's voice was a wail of pure misery.
Hunter looked around wildly for salvation. The barman was already holding out a small towel, and he snatched at it, clutching at a straw, and dabbed at Veronica's tears. Nash also signalled, and a glass of brandy slid quickly towards him, and was immediately proferred as medicine.
Veronica stopped weeping, and snuffles damply. She eyes the glass with suspicion, but then takes it and downs it in a gulp.
Nash patted her hand comfortingly. ‘She was out of order, girl, right out of order.’ He slid the glass deftly back for a refill, and watched approvingly as Veronica put it to her lips again. Hunter's friend had a nice body, and Nash was already savouring the sweet syrupy flavour of peach brandy.
Hunter tightened his comforting hold. Veronica had stopped weeping and begun sipping delicately at her refill. She was still furious at having been so publicly ambushed, but it was consoling to have two men vying so publicly to put her back into good spirits. It was a time to be brave, and ladylike, and maintain a stiff upper lip. She sipped a final sip and nestled into Hunter's arm, drooping her lower lip with all the sadness of a nice girl who had been much wronged as she patted gently around her eyes with the barman's towel. The movement enabled her to take a quick look down at the bustline of Gabrielle's dress, and she breathed a silent prayer. But all seemed well: the dress showed no signs of tear stains or mascara stains, and she sighed in silent relief.
Nash tried to pat again, but she withdrew her hand. She had been wronged, and she merited a great deal more than pats.
‘I think I'd better go home.’ She measured her words with dignity. It was up to others to mollify her and make her smile again.
Hunter nodded sympathetically, and wondered whether a stroll through the soft night air of Kensington Gardens would bind and heal her wound.
Nash eyed her thoughtfully, and reached down into his hip pocket to take out a small wallet and extract a card. ‘I'm sorry, girl, I really am.’ His voice was gruff, and tinged with both regret and something plainly bearing the hallmark of hope. ‘Any time you want to come back, enjoy a free bottle of best bubbly, have a good time, just wave this card.’ He scribbled on the card quickly, pressing it into Veronica's hand. ‘Whatever you want, won't cost you a penny.’ He remembered Chloe. ‘Let my people know you're coming, and I'll make sure my secretary has a night off.’
He squeezes Veronica's fingers gently, and it was both a gesture of invitation and a promise, and Veronica smiled at him a little damply, because she felt that she had just made a useful new friend, and Singapore now seemed to be definitely receding into the distance.