Act of Exposure (19 page)

Of course
there was Valeria, but as Val Spendle, the only black, female
police commissioner in the country, she would definitely be wary of
participating in this kiss-and-tell exercise.

But somehow,
they did need to find other women who would bear witness to his
heterosexual nature and so doing, place doubt upon the likelihood
of him propositioning a rent boy. Even then, they would still be
floundering without definite evidence of who was really behind the
slur campaign being waged against him, and quite probably, the Swan
and Swallow fraud too. It was a daunting task.

'I need to
speak to the journalist who wrote the original article, and the one
who took the photograph.'

Stephen
nuzzled against her hair. 'The little bastard. I could wring his
neck for what he's done.'

'Hopefully,
you'd be wringing his neck for the murder of Carl Candel, but
somehow I don't think so. All we have against him is the fact that
he was the first to report on the incident.'

'I'd still
like to wring his neck.'

She didn't
answer. She understood completely.

They dressed
and continued to talk about Stephen's case, ready to make their way
back to Abby's office. She reached out and turned the handle of the
door she had earlier closed to ensure their privacy. It wouldn't
budge.

'Oh no!'

'Is it locked?
Let me try.' Stephen tried. It did no good.

Abby began to
beat her fists on the door and shout. It was a hopeless task. An
idea occurred to her. 'Have you got your mobile?'

'Yes.'

'Great! We can
telephone the caretaker, the police, anyone, and get out.'

He shook his
head. 'No. I brought it with me, but it's in my briefcase which,
unfortunately, I've left in your office.'

Both
experienced declining spirits.

Abby
shivered.

'Come on.
Let's walk,' said Stephen, and put his arm around her.

Cuddled
together like some slow starters in a three-legged race, they
walked up and down the aisles between the high shelves of old files
and the chipped and scratched metal cabinets.

Exasperated
that they might very well have to spend the night there, Abby
sighed as she huddled close. After a while her neck began to ache,
so she threw her head back and let her gaze sweep the ceiling and
the top shelves of buff folders.

Names printed
in faded ink on the backs of files slid dreamily past. Coloured
files from more recent times replaced the buff. To keep her mind
off being cold, Abby recalled the significance of those colours.
Yellow, disputes; pink for divorce; blue for libel. Every so often,
a passing file title would catch her eye, then disappear. Most
titles she saw but did not take in. After all, her main concern was
getting out of here and getting Stephen off the hook. It wasn't
about perusing litigation from the past.

'I suppose
we'd better think about snuggling down somewhere for the night.'
Stephen hugged her closer as he said it.

'I could think
of better places.'

'I could think
of worse.'

They were just
feet from the door when they heard the bolt being slid across.

As it started
to open, Stephen pulled at it and Christopher Probert practically
fell in.

'Christopher!'

'Good grief!
What the devil are you doing here?'

Christopher
Probert looked more horrified than surprised.

With smooth
efficiency, Abby immediately manufactured and delivered a suitable
excuse.

'I was
inclined to think there was an old case down here that was relevant
to my client's defence. Unfortunately, one of the cleaners, in her
most conscientious intent, decided the unbolted door was a security
risk. Voila! That is why we are here.'

'Oh!' Probert
managed a nervous laugh. 'Just as well I'm here, then.'

'Just as
well.'

Followed by
Stephen, Abby eased herself past the slick lawyer. Time for a quick
getaway. She wanted no awkward questions from him tonight.

It was only as
they were walking to the car park that Stephen asked Abby why she
was so thoughtful.

She took a
deep breath of night air before replying. 'It might be nothing.
Perhaps I'm getting paranoid.'

'Explain
yourself, woman.'

He was
smiling. He noticed she was not. Her brow was still puckered in
thought.

'Christopher
never questioned whether I had found what I was looking for.
Besides that, he didn't bother to explain why he had come back to
the office and down to the dungeons. Probert's usually like a
greyhound out of a trap when it comes to getting away from the
office. He never hangs around there till early evening, let alone
late at night.'

As they walked
the ramps to the fourth floor of the car park Stephen frowned, then
looked over his shoulder.

Abby caught
him looking. 'Is something wrong?'

He shrugged.
'No. I think I'm just tired. I thought I saw something.'

Abby looked to
where he had been looking. There were only cars. Not even shadows.
The stark brightness of the fluorescents saw to that.

She touched
his arm. 'Get some sleep.'

They kissed
before parting. Silently, both got in their separate cars. Perhaps
later, secretly, they might again come together.

Lance Vector
made a note in his diary. This was one meeting he would report to
his superiors.

Despite his
determination to continue his investigation into the Swan and
Swallow affair, Stephen was becoming uneasy. In his dreams, unseen
things came and went, half-formed notions, flitting suspicions.
Even in broad daylight, he experienced paranoia. With every corner
he walked round, each car journey he took across London, he fully
expected a barrage of reporters to leap out of a shop doorway or
cab window.

Sometimes the
journalists and photographers were laughably visible. Those were
the ones he didn't worry about. No. It was the feeling that other
eyes were watching him, eyes in a head and on a body he could not
see, didn't want to see, in fact. But that person, he persuaded
himself, wanted to see him. He phoned Abby and told her of his
fears.

'Are you sure
you're not being paranoid?'

'If I am, you
can get me committed.'

'Oh, I don't
think I need do that. Your madness is self-inflicted for the most
part, and none of your sins are illegal between consenting
heterosexual adults, even bondage, even games. I don't think you're
really paranoid. Crazy maybe, but then, so am I. Crazy for you, my
darling, my love.'

He laughed.
Her words had had the desired effect. That was good. Anything she
could say or do to lift his spirits was worth the effort. Now she
had to turn him to the matter in question.

'I want you to
come into the office.'

He stopped
laughing. Her tone was serious.

'Have you made
any progress?'

'I'll tell you
when you get here.'

By the time he
did get there, the last secretaries were leaving and the contract
cleaners were arriving.

'I'm sorry,'
he said breathlessly as he rushed into her office. 'I got delayed
There's been an accident on Westminster Bridge and I had a devil of
a job getting through it.'

'It doesn't
matter.'

No. It didn't
matter. Abby's spirits soared. He was here on business, serious,
legal business, and yet somehow she knew that things would go
beyond that.

Ruffled hair
and a pinkness in his cheeks gave him an innocent boyish look.
Given the chance, she would snatch that innocence and turn him back
into what he really was; one hell of a nice guy and a good lay.

But this was
business, so after he had kissed her, she bid him sit down.

'This man
who's following you, do you think he's from the press?'

He nodded.
'Yes. In fact, I'm almost positive I've seen him before.' A smile
came to his lips. It was alluring and warmed his face. Abby had to
stop herself rushing around her desk and kissing him right there
and then. 'In fact,' Stephen went on. 'I saw him at the same place
I picked you up.'

Abby eyed him
quizzically. 'The Red Devil Club? You've seen him there?'

'No, no.' He
shook his head. 'No. The second place. When I saw you as you really
are, as a barrister, not an erotic dancer.'

'Exotic,' she
said.

'Pardon?'

'Exotic. You
mean exotic.'

He smiled.
'Erotic, Abby darling. I know what I mean.'

A need for
truth replaced their momentary lapse into humour.

'So,' Abby
began, clasping her hands in front of her and trying her best to
keep her eyes above the level of Stephen's waist. 'You saw him at
the Humphries celebration.'

'Yes. I saw
you speaking to him. He was with your colleague who burst in on us
the other night.'

They said his
name simultaneously. 'Vector.'

'That's
right,' said Stephen. 'His name was Lance Vector and I didn't like
him.'

Perplexed,
Abby leaned back in her chair. 'Him! About twenty-six or so, though
I wouldn't swear to it. Types like him with tousled hair and pink
cheeks always look younger than they really are. And this one's a
real snake. He's the nasty piece of dirt who broke the news of your
"indiscretion", the one I've been trying to question.'

'I could call
him worse than that.'

'No doubt.
I've been trying to contact him. He's being elusive. Almost as
elusive as our friend Oliver Hardiman. I will have to make the
effort to question Archie Ringer about him - as Carmel of course.
If Vector is going out of his way to follow you, I will have to
find out who he is connected with. Do you think he follows you all
the time?'

'No. No, I
don't think so. In fact, I'm pretty certain he's following me only
when I'm with you.'

She stared.
Was she really that insensitive? Was there nothing in her intuition
to warn her when this creepy character was near? She shivered as
she spoke.

'We'll have to
be very careful in future.'

'We've been
careful.'

Suddenly, he
was looking at her and his eyes were sparkling like they used to.
He smiled. 'Has anyone fixed that bolt yet?'

Abby was ready
for him. All the while he'd been speaking, her sexual yearnings had
been surging just below the surface of her outward calm. All the
while she had thirsted for his lips to be on hers, hungered for his
body to be on her and in her. She was as hot for him as he was for
her. 'No. No one's fixed the bolt,' she said slowly as she closed
the file before her. 'But there again, the cleaners are already
gone. Come with me. I have to put this away. My clerk would do it
usually, but he's already flown the coop. Leave your coat on the
chair. You won't be needing it.'

Both knew that
the other was burning with desire. Both held it in check so they
could relish the full effect of it once they were down in the
dungeon. Yet neither touched the other as they walked along the
passageway which was well carpeted and warm.

As before,
Abby produced a key at this point, unlocked a door, and the carpet
gave way to shiny brown linoleum. Stephen followed, his eyes
studying her from behind, the curve of her spine, the slim waist,
the well-formed buttocks.

He glanced
over his shoulder. Was there anyone behind him?

There was
nothing. The door they had come through had already slammed
shut.

Lights with
china shades threw dubious shadows over row upon row of bundled
documents.

Abigail walked
a little way along. Something was nagging at her. Vector was being
elusive and she needed to question him. But now was not the time or
place to think on such things. Stephen was with her. They were
alone among a hoard of old documents, the building empty and
creaking as it settled down for the night.

As she hooked
up her skirt and felt the coldness of the wall against her bare
behind, and the heat of Stephen's penis nudging at her pubic lips,
she resolved to ensure she got to Vector the following day, or if
not him, she'd get to Archie and she'd ask him a few questions.

It was two
days before she saw Douglas Dermott-Embledon again, but this time,
he did not see her, or at least, he did not see Abigail Corrigan.
He only saw Jezebel Justice, and she was dancing naked on the
stage.

Her body shone
in the light of well-placed spotlights and made it seem as though
her skin was only a fragile suit that could be flayed away from her
flesh, leaving the real woman bare to the lustful eyes that watched
her.

Tonight, the
silvery hair that grew between her thighs was cleanly shaven.
Tonight, she was truly naked, the lips of her sex exaggerated by
the application of powdered rouge. Like a smiling mouth, she
thought, when she had studied her reflection before taking the
stage.

That night,
once her act was over, she avoided going into the bar. She knew
Douglas would be there, waiting to proposition the dark-haired,
dark-eyed, and most alluring Carmel. Again, he would ask her to
inspect his ship - the battleship on the water and the one between
his legs.

From the
shadows that hid her, she watched him. He was tall, so his eyes
were always above the milling crowd. He was looking for her. She
could see that much.

What she saw
next was unexpected.

Douglas smiled
broadly when Archie approached. Their heads closed together until
it almost seemed as if one had eaten the other whole - like twin
turnips that had grown into one.

Another man
joined them.

Abigail - who
was now Carmel - recognized Oliver Hardiman, the man who had wanted
to be introduced to her on the night she had met Stephen. The man
who fixed overseas investments.