Exposure (30 page)

‘Me too,' he said. ‘The flat's like a bloody morgue. Pussy won't settle down either. We're both just too fond of you. Get this interview over and get back as soon as you can. I don't like you being out in the big world on your own. No signs of any followers at the airport?'

‘No, but I wouldn't see them if there were,' Julia pointed out. ‘If King's still got tabs on us, someone is probably on the island looking for me by now. So long as I connect with Watson before they pick me up, it won't matter. Then I'll think of an excuse and come home. Don't worry about me, darling. Take care, won't you?'

‘You too,' Ben said. ‘I love you. Call me tomorrow night. Doesn't matter what time.'

When he had rung off, Ben took the cat on his knee and skimmed through the book with the smiling young officer on the cover. He paused at the group photograph in the middle section. There weren't that many privately printed records of one man's war. A few dozen at the most. Memories of men grown old or dead who had fought in a war the world wanted to forget. But if he had chanced upon it, thanks to his War Office friend's suggestion, why shouldn't someone else with an interest in the subject? Someone with powerful resources at the push of a button, who knew what they were looking for … He shouldn't have let Julia go there alone. His instincts had been against it, and he'd let her overrule them. He swore at himself for giving way. Just twenty-four hours more. Then he would insist she come home or he would fly out, however much she argued. On that resolution, he was able to sleep.

Joe Patrick cursed the detective agency contact. They met at a pub in the City and in the seclusion of a corner table, Joe Patrick hissed four-letter insults at him. The man sat stolidly, not answering, showing no emotion, though a line of red crept up his neck from under his collar. Patrick leaned towards him, teeth bared, menacing as a rat at bay. ‘Jersey!' he spat at him. ‘Fucking Jersey and you lost her at the airport – Jesus H. Christ—'

‘We sent a man over on the next flight,' the agency man protested. ‘He checked all the hotels and she's not registered. Nobody answering our description has booked in anywhere. He even went round the bloody Bed and Breakfasts, and you know how many of them there are …'

‘I don't fucking know, and I don't care,' Joe snarled at him. ‘What else have you tried?'

‘Her office. We asked for an appointment. Her secretary said she was on a week's holiday. No contact number. Said she'd give us a provisional for ten days' time but couldn't confirm till Hamilton got back. Look, stop bollocking me for a minute, will you? Maybe she is on holiday. Staying with friends—'

‘Then find the friends,' Joe said. ‘Your job is to know where she is and what she's fucking doing twenty-four hours of the day, till I tell you to get off the case. You find her, you hear me? Or no payment. My boss pays for results, not some arsehole who can't get his act together because the cow gets on a plane!' He stood up, buttoned his long cashmere coat. He was white with rage and fear of King's reaction. ‘You can put the booze down to expenses,' he said. ‘And hope you get paid …' Then he pushed his way out through the evening crowd of drinkers. He was in a vile mood. Fear made him vicious. He needed to take it out on somebody. He unlocked his car and drove back to his flat, seething at the agency, at King, at the stinking luck that lost Hamilton on a stinking pissing little island. He dared not tell King. And he dared not keep him in ignorance either. That would be the most dangerous. King wanted daily reports. He conveyed that the immediate threat from Hamilton was over, but he never let up on his precautions. Belt and braces was King's motto. The bitch had taken a holiday. Just before the launch of the new ‘Exposure' feature in November. ‘Very likely,' Joe said savagely, cutting through the traffic. Leaving the lover boy behind. The team were still covering him, and he was in his office and flat, without any change in his routine.

Maybe that meant it was a genuine holiday … Joe bit his lower lip, trying to reassure himself. If Harris had gone with her, it might well have been an assignment. He could try that on King. He could try anything but it wouldn't stave off his rage. And that rage wasn't confined to a flow of insults and abuse. Joe didn't give a toss about that. Words didn't hurt him, but losing money did. That wounded him. King took a lump out of his retainer when he fouled up anything, and that made Joe Patrick bleed.

He parked his car in the underground garage of the apartment block and took the lift up to the third floor. He opened the front door very quietly. He moved with the stealth of a stalking animal. He'd catch those two bitches out whatever they were doing. They wouldn't expect him to be back so early. They'd be sitting on their black arses taking it easy. He'd give them a nice surprise.

‘It is a marvellous place to unwind,' Julia said. ‘I slept so well last night.'

She didn't look particularly relaxed in Janey's opinion, but she didn't say so. She was living at a high pitch with that demanding job; it would take more than twenty-four hours of beneficial Jersey air and slow tempo to get through to her. ‘I'm so glad,' was what she said. ‘The Lejeunes thought you were a star. Madge phoned this morning. They say you must come over for lunch if you stay a bit longer.'

‘How nice of them,' Julia said, feeling guilty at the deception. ‘I'd love to – but I don't think I can take more than the week.'

They were such nice uncomplicated people. She thought suddenly, walking along the beach with Janey and David and the joyous red setter, that she had forgotten what normal couples were like. The island and the Petersons were light miles away from the brittle, power-hungry circle in which she had moved for so long.

And they weren't dull; their lives were busy and their interests were wide. They travelled, they read voraciously; there wasn't a single new novel they couldn't discuss. They were making plans to come over to London early in the new year and see the latest plays and go to the ballet. David was a fanatic balletomane. They lived comfortable, useful lives, and they based their lives on a set of simple values that had been derided in Julia's media world for so long that she had been in danger of forgetting them herself. When all this is over, she made a private resolution as they walked together, I'm going to think about changing things. I'm going to talk to Ben and see what he thinks. Then, dressing for this all-important dinner, Julia mocked herself. Opting out wasn't a real option for her. It was an indulgence, a fantasy, engendered by envy of her cousins' easy lifestyle. She'd go mad with boredom after a few months. And so would Ben Harris. No cosy domestic routines for them. Babies in prams and gardening at weekends. What a fool to have imagined it.

She looked very elegant in the long, pencil-slim velvet skirt. The cream silk shirt was simple, too, with the simplicity of
haute couture
. Her red hair blazed like a bonfire round her head. Richard Watson liked attractive women. She hoped he wouldn't be disappointed. She checked her watch. She was ready. Seven-thirty, and she was down in the hall waiting for Janey and David. Lateness made her very uptight. It was a bad start to what might be a difficult evening. She needed to be at ease with herself. And it might be an advantage to get there independently.

She knew where Watson's house was; they'd driven over there during the morning as part of a shopping, sight-seeing tour of the island before going out to lunch at Longueville Manor. She could drive there in Janey's car. She went up to the landing and called out. ‘Janey? Look would it be all right if I went on ahead of you? I'd rather like to get there dead on time and I don't want to rush you. Could I borrow your car?'

Janey's voice came through the door. ‘Wait a minute –' then the door opened and she looked round. She hadn't finished making-up her face. She was always late, and David wasn't much better. Julia thought he must still be in the shower by the sound coming from the bathroom.

‘We won't be more than ten minutes … Don't you want to come with us?'

‘I'd rather get there on time,' Julia explained. ‘It's one of my phobias, I'm afraid. I'd really like to set off now … sure you don't mind?'

‘No, no not at all. You can find your way, can't you?' Janey raised her brows at her cousin's eccentricity, but she didn't argue. ‘My car keys are on the hall table. Don't take David's by mistake, will you … he goes absolutely ape if anyone touches that precious new Volvo of his. See you there, then.'

As she went downstairs, Julia heard her shouting to her husband.

‘David! Hurry out of there, darling – Julia's gone. Got a thing about being late. Must be the crazy life she leads …' And then, muffled as Julia reached the ground floor, ‘No she
hasn't
taken your car …'

It was a lovely night, quite crisp with bright stars in the cloudless sky and a fresh breeze blowing in from the sea that made her huddle into her velvet coat as she crossed the courtyard to the garage. The drive took twenty minutes, because she couldn't drive fast on the twisting, narrow roads. Rich immigrants with their Rollers and Bentleys were a joke among the islanders. There were few inland roads wide enough for two cars to pass each other.

The house stood on a rocky promontory overlooking the beach and the sea far below. It was illuminated like a beacon in the darkness, and, as she crossed the driveway, the exterior lights came on automatically. She parked the car and got out. The sharp salty air stung her face. Two steps up to a large white-painted front door. She rang the bell. After what seemed a long pause, she rang a second time. Almost as soon as she took her finger off the brass button, the door opened. A tall man was silhouetted against the inner hall light. She said quickly, ‘Mr Watson?'

‘Yes, I'm Richard Watson. And you must be Julia Hamilton, David's and Janey's cousin. Do come in out of the cold. Quite a wind's come up tonight.' He stepped aside and closed the door. ‘I came ahead of them,' she said. ‘I hope you don't mind, am I the first?'

He smiled down at her and held out his hand. ‘Yes, you are. How very nice, it will give me a chance to talk to you before anyone else arrives. Let me take your coat. You know, Miss Hamilton, I recognized you from your photograph in the
Herald
. But you're even prettier in the flesh.' He had a gentle hold of her arm, and he guided her through the hall and up a short flight of stairs. The house was very warm.

Julia looked round and turned to him. ‘What a fabulous room. Oh, and look at that view!' She walked over to the floor-length plate-glass window that made up almost one wall. He came beside her. Lights from the house swept down the cliff; below them a cluster of houses with a bigger building rising up on the very edge of the dark shoreline, gleamed and shimmered with lights. And, far out, the sweep of a lighthouse beam flashed across the inky sky in warning of the rocks.

When she turned round he was watching her and smiling. He was a handsome man, with deep blue eyes. The hair was thick and grey, and a small well-trimmed moustache was like a relic of the soldier he had been so many years ago. He had the upright, lean figure of a much younger man. ‘It is even more spectacular in the early evenings,' he said. ‘The sunsets here are unbelievable … every colour in the rainbow. It's a shame it's dark, but it's still beautiful. That's St Brelades down below, with the Cour Rouge Hotel. It used to be marvellous, but it's always full of tourists now. What can I get you to drink? Gin, whisky, vodka, or white wine?'

‘Vodka,' she said, ‘with ice and tonic. That would be lovely.' He poured her drink and came back with a whisky for himself. ‘I do hope I haven't been a nuisance getting here dead on eight o'clock. I think the dear Petersons thought I was quite mad, but they weren't nearly ready, and I'm paranoid about being late.'

‘I'm delighted,' Richard Watson said. ‘It's rather unusual, isn't it? Ladies aren't famous for time-keeping. My late wife never managed it. How charming you look. It is a thrill to meet you, Miss Hamilton. And may I call you Julia?'

‘I was going to suggest it,' she said. His charm was washing over her, soothing and seductive. He must have been a serious knockout with women only a few years ago.

At that moment the doorbell sounded and Richard left the room.

Julia turned back to the window. He was right, daylight would be the time to see it at its best. Sunset, or dawn. But she wouldn't be staying.

A middle-aged couple came into the room, led towards her by their host.

‘Julia Hamilton, Bob and Fiona Thomas.' The man had a hearty handshake and a hearty voice. ‘You're Janey's and David's famous cousin, aren't you? We've heard all about you, haven't we, Fi?' He also had a hearty laugh. His wife was small, very thin and spoke in a very quiet voice. ‘Yes, we have. Aren't they here?' She looked round.

‘I was early,' Julia explained. She saw the woman's quick scrutiny of her clothes. Satisfied, she smiled at Julia. ‘I expect David was held up at the hospital, he works so hard. They've been telling everyone about your visit. You're quite a celebrity before we've even met you.' Small and thin, with that reedy voice, she was rather a bitch, Julia decided. There was only one way to deal with that. She smiled sweetly at her, and turned to talk to her husband.

‘This is my first visit to Jersey,' she said. ‘It's such a lovely island. I'm already determined to come again in the spring.' He beamed appreciatively.

‘I should hope you will. Come and see us next time. This is all in your honour, you know. Dick was just having us to play bridge and have supper till he heard you were here.'

‘I told you,' his wife murmured, ‘you're a celebrity … It's Janey … I can always tell when she's a mile off. One of those wonderful voices that carry.'