CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THREE WOMEN
Doreen took her time dressing after Harry left for work. She thought of going West, towards Harrods or Harvey Nichols. She had never been to either, but knew roughly where they were, and toyed with the idea of wearing the black and white silk dress again, just once more, just out of bravado. But then she dropped the idea. She knew that she was on a path to much better things, providing she kept her nose clean, and the dress was much too smart for shopping. So she chose a little dress of her own. It was nothing very special, just a cheapie, really, by the standards she now had in mind. But it was fresh, and full of summer, and made nice little bosoms and a small waist and a tight little backside, and she knew men would admire it. Then she wondered again about the stuff in the wardrobe. Harry’s kitchen had some sharp knives, really sharp knives, and she felt sorely tempted, because she knew she could shred the lot in a matter of minutes, and was minded to clear all trace of his other woman out of the flat as thoroughly as possible. But she controlled herself, because shredding would really be such a waste, and Harry might take umbrage at finding stray bits of clothing everywhere. She would keep her nose clean, and go out shopping, and his other woman could clear her own things out. She was now just a memory, and her things were just leftovers.
She walked to Canary Wharf underground station and took a west-bound Jubilee line train, standing to avoid creasing herself too much, because the dress was not built to take much punishment, but counted a good crop of admiring glances nevertheless, and they made her feel good. She got out at Knightsbridge and asked the way of a newsvendor, a fat middle aged man with pouchy eyes, and browsed her way towards Harrods, holding herself very straight, because she now had three hundred pounds in pink grannies in her little shoulder bag, and the right to spend it just however she wanted.
Harrods dozed in mid-morning affluence. Doreen explored the cosmetic and fragrance counters, staffed by superior looking women in white coats and elaborate warpaint, and knew that she was better than them because she was fresh and young, and not obliged to stand around being smarmy. She moved on to explore fashions and lingerie. But she was shocked by the prices. Half the things that caught her attention wanted to snap every single pink granny she has right out of her bag in a single bite. She circled serried racks of improbable smartness, and knew that she could easily add a nought to Harry’s money in her spending. She must plan carefully, to take best advantage of his promised Saturday morning shopping spree, and have a comprehensive shopping list ready in her mind. She needed some nice sexy undies for a start, things to strip down to, and then some smart stuff to go partying, and some good everyday gear, things she could wear at Harry’s side and not let him down. Maybe a nice tailored trouser suit, and some more satin combat pants, because they made very nice backsides indeed, and some shirts of a masculine kind, to make her look sporty and open-air. Plus a good handful of flouncy silk skirts in bright eye-catching colours, and a collection of nice colourful tops to keep them company, and a few pairs of jeans for taking things easy, and of course several pairs of nice shoes, with some smart high-heeled sandals for really cooking days.
She counted all the time in her mind, in very approximate numbers, and closed her eyes for a moment. She was well past another nought, and climbing sharply. Perhaps Harrods had a juice counter, somewhere for her to sit a moment and think all these things through, because she knew she was going to have to bonk hard, and be wholly enticing, and here she giggled to herself, because she also knew she would win. Harry would want her to wear classy things, and pay up like a lamb. She thought of a silk kimono she had seen, in a nice shade of gold, which would really be wholly in keeping with the direction she was taking, and a really stunning little scarlet lace bra, just a little skimp of a thing and totally outrageous, that came with matching little bikini pants: just the right thing to pull a man who spent his time making money. She strolled through the store, preparing herself mentally, because she was going to give Harry the time of his life, and she knew he would reward her with the wardrobe of her dreams.
The juice counter was empty. Doreen perched on a stool, smiling sweetly at the dumpy little man in a white coat waiting behind the counter for her to order, and realised that someone had also perched on the stool to her right. She glanced sideways, checking without looking, and sensed a man’s presence.
‘You look as though you belong here.’
Doreen lifted her chin a fraction. The man sounded young, and spoke with a nice warm voice. But she considered his compliment rather double-edged, for she ranked herself a sight better than any woman working in Harrods. She ordered an orange juice, holding tight to her bag just in case he might be a marauder. She was not sure he had started off well.
A hand dropped some coins on the counter. ‘Be my guest.’
She hesitated, and took some coins of her own, pushing them towards the man in the white coat. He made no move to take either lot, but stood watching them with interest, to see who would win.
‘I’m paying for myself.’ She spoke with determination, pushing at her coins again, so that they lay at the very edge of the counter.
The man at her side covered her hand with his own, and she pulled away sharply. His palm was pressing down on her fingers, and she was angry. He might sound nice, but he was trying to control her, just like Frankie in the garden at Danny’s, and she would not have it. She swung off her stool, leaving her coins on the counter, and walked away quickly.
The two men stared at each other in disbelief. Then the man in the white coat swept up her coins in his hand, and smiled at the man on the stool. He was young, with dark eyes and dark curly hair, casually dressed in an open-necked shirt and chinos. Perhaps he had Latin blood. He looked a little taken aback: a man who had just seen his favourite girl-pulling gambit fall flat.
The man in the white coat raised his eyebrows in deferential interrogation, and the young man scowled. He was good-looking, in a spoiled sort of way, and it was obvious that he was not used to being gainsaid. He was silent for a moment, staring fixedly at the man in the white coat, and then reached to snatch his own coins back, and a moment later he was gone. The man in the white coat shrugged and opens his palm. He had just made three pounds. It was not much, but it was better than nothing, and it was wholly his without question.
Doreen marches purposefully into the lingerie department and made a beeline for the undies and kimono she has chosen. She was still fuming a little, for she disliked men who took her for granted. She held herself very straight as the woman behind the counter packed her purchases carefully, looking neither to left nor right. She had done with Harrods, at least for the time being. She would head up to Oxford Street and find a couple of temporary things, in a cheaper price range, just to coast her up to the weekend.
Barbara Hanson sat sipping coffee in her office with Martin Smith, Wide Horizon’s finance director. She had called him in, because she judged him handy as a second opinion. She wanted to help Anne Chapman, because of everything that was going on, but she did not want to take any risks. It was too early to take sides openly.
Martin twitched a little from time to time. He was a tubby man, one of a prosperous kind that breeds in the Home Counties, with fair hair and rather cold bluish-grey eyes, the colour of steel, and a penchant for expensively cut grey suits. Those who disliked him, and they numbered a few, viewed him as coldblooded, wholly bereft of any emotion beyond personal gain. But now he was nervous, because he knew too many secrets, and he needed insurance. Barbara had told him about Anne’s call, and he judged that a friendly smile might well come in handy.
‘How long has he got?’ Barbara spoke casually, but watched Martin carefully. She needed to know how soon Dreamstone would be calling the shots.
Martin winced. Time was moving too fast. ‘Jack’s got twenty-eight days, but time’s getting tight.’
‘Can we find her a place?’
He nodded cautiously. ‘We can if she’s good.’
They were both silent for a moment. Then a light began to flash on Barbara’s telephone and she touched a button. ‘This should be her. Maybe she’ll cheer you up.’
Julia had dressed carefully for the interview, because she wanted to make a good impression. She had not been long out of Wexham Park Hospital, and did not want to return. Drugs three times a day, and insipid food. Long games of cards with Murad, a male Moroccan nurse, before seducing him. Murad had been shocked, and called her wholly unprofessional. She thought she had been wholly seductive. Prisoners were bound by no rules of conduct. Nobody had taken her seriously, nobody had questioned her mission. Two doctors had diagnosed acute schizophrenia, both without comprehension. Nobody had sought to know why, even though she had screamed at them to open their minds. Nobody cared, not even Murad.
‘I represent truth.’ Her words at their first meeting. ‘The world must come to me and recognise what I am.’ Murad believed truth lived in the Prophet. So she had set out to open his eyes, by opening his pants, but he had feared her, after her first victory, and transferred to another ward. Men were just stupid. Stupid and blind.
She glanced at herself as she pushed at the glass door into the red brick building, and felt good. She had chosen her dark trouser suit, along with a pale brown silk shirt that teamed nicely with her hazel brown eyes, and brushed her hair well, to bring out its coppery highlights. No make-up, apart from some discreet eyeliner and a touch of mascara. She knew her eyes were her strength, in their ability to switch from dull blankness to sudden intensity, just like a searchlight, and trap men like moths. Men had burned themselves on her truth, seeking only to possess her.
Her husband’s statement to the police had been wholly stupid. ‘We met when we were at college. We were both studying accounting. She was living with her parents, she seemed very nice. They were quiet people, her father owned a small engineering business. My parents liked her a lot. We went out together for six months, we liked going to pubs with our friends and watching football. Then we both graduated, and found good jobs. Marriage seemed the most natural thing in the world. We found a nice flat in Maidenhead, and began to save for a house. Both our parents helped. I thought we would start a family. But she began to grow strange. She had to have everything her own way. I wanted to spend evenings at home. She wanted to go out. We quarrelled. One night she came for me with a knife. I thought she was fooling about. Another night we went to a pub and met some friends. I was talking to a girl, and Julia attacked me. She became increasingly moody. Sometimes she was on top of the world. The next day she would stay all day in bed. I met a girl at work, I talked to her about Julia. Julia found out. I came home to find her in a strange mood, she seemed very sullen. I offered to cook, and she began to chop vegetables. All of a sudden she came for me. I think she was aiming for my face, but I managed to twist sideways, and she caught me on my shoulder. I was bleeding, but I managed to get the knife away from her. Her face was all screwed up. I really thought she wanted to kill me. I got out of the flat and called the police.’
The police had called an ambulance, and she had been sectioned. Wexham Park had calmed her, and she only remembered her marriage as a bad dream. She had gone back to her parents. Now she would start again, and find a new beginning. Geoffrey Harriman had been a mistake. He counselled patients, providing spiritual guidance, but lacked manly qualities. He had talked a great about the Holy Land, and miseries Jews were inflicting on Arabs, when he might more properly have focussed on helping her, in every possible way, because Julia knew evil forces held her in their sights. He talked of righting the balances of racial passion, when she wanted only to balance her own passions between right and wrong. He had equated Jews with evil, when she had equated evil with lust. Perhaps she had missed some connection. She had never met any Jews, lusting or otherwise. Perhaps the two went hand-in-hand. Murad had been much better. A bit slow, but ardent.
Now she could start again, earning a living, find somewhere of her own to live, and enjoy some bright lights. Providence might bring her a man capable of recognising her truth without burning himself. She kept her eyes lowered demurely as she spoke to the Wide Horizons receptionist.
Barbara Hanson glanced up curiously as her secretary ushered in her visitor. She was pretending to read an Elegance sales analysis. She smiled. ‘You must be Julia.’ She gestured towards the chair placed square in front of her desk, noting out of the corner of her eye that Martin had tensed into a body language men display when they scented a signal.
Julia held up an envelope. ‘I’ve brought my CV’.
Barbara beckoned, and took it out of her hand. It seemed all perfectly straight forward: Maidenhead College for Girls up to A-level GCE, then a spell at Thames Valley University in Slough studying accounting and using computers for business, work as a junior with a firm of Maidenhead accountants, then a move to a well known local print group. But the CV then stopped dead.
‘I hear you weren’t well.’
Julia looked up. She knew the man seated to one side of Mrs. Hanson’s desk was watching her intently, and that she possessed the power to dazzle him. But she needed a job to secure her freedom. There were times to proclaim the truth, and times to hide it under a bushel. She nodded. ‘I had a breakdown.’
The room was silent, and she realised that she was expected to continue. ‘I was under a lot of pressure. My husband was running around, and it got too much for me. I couldn’t cope.’
‘Have you recovered?’ Barbara Hanson’s voice was sympathetic, but sought a reply.
‘I’m not married anymore. My husband divorced me.’
Another silence, but Julia knew she had said the right thing.
Barbara Hanson passes the CV to Martin Smith, and he cleared his throat. The girl facing Barbara’s desk did not look at him, but he sensed a kind of compelling animal attraction about her, something drawing him towards her. He glanced at the sheet of paper. ‘Can you handle spreadsheets and databases?’
Suddenly Julia smiled. It was a transformation, almost a transfiguration, and her voice warmed. ‘I built my company’s database, and then designed a website.’
‘Standard portal?’
She shook her head. ‘People could open the door, and find everything they wanted. I used Front Page, Word and Access interchangeably, snapping in thumbnails for all the work we had done for clients, with clicks through to big pictures, indication prices, the lot. It was a pretty good picture.’
Martin Smith smiled. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘So am I.’ Barbara spoke a little dryly. She had a feeling that Martin was about to take off with the girl for the hills. ‘When can you start?’
‘When will you have me?’ Julia spoke to Barbara, but she glanced at Martin as she spoke, and her look flashed what might be gratitude, or perhaps even an invitation.
Barbara moved to regain command. ‘Come in tomorrow. I’ll ask someone to show you around.’
Afterwards, when Julia has left, she looked at Martin with interest. ‘She had you eating out of her hand.’
Smith reddened a little. ‘She’s very sexy, in a very controlled sort of way. She’s like a fire, when it dies down, but the heat is still there. She smouldered. Glowing embers.’
‘A girl for all men.’ Barbara was thoughtful. ‘Something for you, or for Jack?’
Smith looked at her quickly, and Barbara could swear that she glimpsed jealousy in his eyes, because she knew that Underwood would demand chairman’s rights, if he fancied the girl. ‘Yes, very much Jack.’
Barbara smiled. ‘Then I think we’ve done the right thing.’
Jack Underwood was generally an even-tempered man with a deal of charm, when it suited him, but Dreamstone’s bid put him in a black, black mood, and he was thinking evil thoughts and plotting wicked plans, because he knew that a successful bid would wholly finish him, and might even find him marching towards the law courts, with the prospect of spending several years in jail.
Wide Horizons held a number of secrets, and none of them nice ones. Underwood had built the group up during the dotcom boom by flashing blue sky technology to boost its share price, using a climbing share price to buy up businesses with cheap assets, having a dodgy valuer chum revalue the assets most outrageously, and then funnelling book value increases through the Wide Horizons profit and loss account to make it look as though the group was prospering. He had also set up a separate shell company through some rather questionable associates to buy machinery from a Wide Horizons heavy engineering subsidiary. Nobody wanted the machinery, but Wide Horizons counted the sales as credit deals. More profits. Another shell borrowed heavily from the banks on a Wide Horizons guarantee, giving Underwood the cash to pay out steadily growing dividends, without showing any matching increases in group debt. The stockmarket watched Wide Horizons snowball, and everyone loved him. The group built itself a big smart corporate headquarters out in the Surrey countryside not far from Underwood’s home, and all looked golden, before Dreamstone.
Underwood believed in Wide Horizons. He was convinced the group’s blue sky potential was about to come good, in truly spectacular fashion. He had felt justified in cutting a few corners on the way. Some of the corners had grown sharper and sharper. Some Wide Horizons directors had grown anxious, and one or two had complained. Underwood paid them off. One honest little accountant threatened to blow a whistle. The poor man found himself out on his ear, and then succumbed to a speeding car.
Now the chairman of Wide Horizons stared disaster straight in the face. He sat at the head of the long table in the Wide Horizons boardroom on the morning following Dreamstone’s press conference, with four group directors and a couple of group accountants ranged to left and right of him, and he drummed his fingers. He also looked as though he might have seen a ghost. Perhaps the honest little accountant had come back to haunt him.
‘Can we sell anything?’ He looked at each of the seated figures in turn. They were all men from the same mould as himself – tubby men tending towards overweight, with pasty complexions and bulging business suits.
His companions looked down at the pads of paper laid neatly in front of them, and none said a word. Several were busily trying to figure out whether they could talk Underwood into letting them resign immediately with big fat payoffs. But they stared at their pads sourly, because they knew he expected them to stay with him up to the bitter end. Martin Smith thought on his conversation with Barbara Hanson, and some plans Bill Laidlaw, the engineering director, had sketched to fend Dreamstone off by stirring up group shopfloor protests. But he placed no great store in agitation. He also thought about a secret Wide Horizons bank account in Zurich, and fleetingly about Julia. But he shared access to the account with Underwood, and could see Julia moving on.
Underwood grunted angrily. ‘Are we just going to let that damn yid steamroller us?’
It was a rhetorical question, but a small fat man two places to the left of him frowned. Michael Moss, Wide Horizons’ marketing director, was Jewish himself, and proud of it. But he was also afraid of Underwood.
Underwood scowled. ‘I want some ideas.’
His six companions all had ideas, all had the same idea. They all devoutly wished him dead. But they were all too frightened to tell him.
The board meeting broke up in a flurry of avoidances, and Underwood’s companions trooped out of the room, each deep in thoughts of personal salvation. Underwood remained in his seat at the head of the Wide Horizons boardroom table. Laidlaw had left with the rest, taking with him his daft scheme for stirring up bother. Underwood realised that he stood at the edge of an abyss. It is a hard thing for an ambitious man to realise that he has run himself to an end. He mused for a moment, and then got to his feet. Desperate situations tended to call for desperate solutions, and he still had a card to play.
Later that evening he sat a corner table in a pub somewhere between Streatham and Lewisham in South London, sipping from time to time at a half pint of bitter. He had found the pub after searching for some time, because it was not in an area he knew. The saloon bar was large and impersonal and pretty much deserted, and Underwood knew that a man seated in the corner was watching him. But he had been told to come, and to wait, and he waited, and knew that he would wait as long as might need be. He had practised frightening others often enough to know the tactics of fear. Waiting was a dispiriting thing, because expectation began high, and nothing happened. Yet the waiting could not be broken, because to break waiting was to wait no more, and then there could be no more expectation. Need waited, because need must have satisfaction. But he could feel doubt gathering within him, doubt as whether he had chosen the best possible path, and doubt as to whether he had even come to the right place, and knew his doubt was corroding him in a steady trickle of anxiety.
‘Mr. Underwood?’
He started. A tall man in a dark suit stood looking down at him, a man with eyes shielded by dark glasses. He was black, and Underwood did not know him. He nodded wordlessly.
Once, some years before, he had employed a man suggested by an associate to smooth out some trouble at a business rival. Well, the company had been competing with Wide Horizons in a tricky trading werea, and Underwood wanted it to refocus its interests elsewhere. He had been given a name, and had made a phone call. Some money had been paid. Quite a large sum, considering. Wide Horizons’ rival had suffered some trading problems, and had duly refocussed. Everything had gone very smoothly. But he had never met anyone face to face. Then he had had dealt with the whistle-blowing accountant, a matter of small fry. But now he was dealing big time, and needed speedy action.
Dreamstone’s bid had triggered him into a flurry of action. He had quickly bought a new mobile after the Wide Horizons board meeting, through a dodgy connection to avoid laying any trail, and made a few calls. Some faces had come back with a price, a third down, two-thirds on completion, and he had packed some hundred euro notes, most handy for moving cash, into his wallet. Now he was in the pub in South London.
‘You want me to sort out a problem.’ The man’s words were a statement as much as a question.
Underwood nodded again. He was not happy with what he has chosen to do, but it was the only solution he could envisage.
‘Do you have a picture?’
Underwood pushed a large manilla folder across the pub table. The black man bent to pick it up, opening it to pull out a large glossy photograph, and study it thoughtfully. It was a picture of the Dreamstone board, taken at the previous day’s press conference. Underwood had circled Levon with two rings in black felt tip, with another ring around Harry, and written Dreamstone’s address on the back.
‘You want me to wipe those two?’
Underwood nodded, pointing at Levon. ‘That one first, then the other. Both together if you can.’
‘You know the terms?’
He point to the folder. The money lay neatly in a transparent freezer bag under the glossy picture.
The man in the dark glasses took the notes out of the freezer bag, to count them quickly. Then he replaced them. ‘Are you in a hurry?’
Underwood nodded again. The clock has begun to count down, and he urgently needed protection.
The black man was silent for a moment. Even executioners are sometimes curious about their victims. But he knew better than to ask. ‘Okay.’ He barely murmured the word. ‘It’ll take a couple of days, but you’ll know when it’s done.’
Underwood shifted nervously in his seat. ‘Can you make it look like an accident?’
The black man laughed shortly. ‘Brother, I can’t take a biblical line. You’ll know when he’s dead. But you won’t get his head on a silver platter.’