A Class Apart (68 page)

She blinked, and the street was empty again.

Finally she had to accept that no one was going to come. Alone, in a place she had come to think of as home, she was now a stranger.

She picked up the phone and dialled.

“Morn?”

“Oh Ellamarie, it’s you. How are you, dear?”

“I want to come home, Mom.”

“But we’re going away, dear. Didn’t I tell you? No? Oh well, we are. Three weeks. We’re going down to Florida. Sure, I’ll give your love to Daddy. Did you call for anything else? No. Speak to you soon then, dear. Goodbye.”

Ellamarie could feel the precipice drawing closer.

With a relaxed, almost nonchalant air, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, Matthew strolled along the hallway of Jenneen’s flat. He looked around, as if he were seeing it for the first time. Once or twice he stopped to look at the photographs in their clip frames hanging on the wall. No paintings, only photographs. There were some of Jenneen on location, some of her with guests in the studio, and others, weird sort of abstract ones, taken by professionals. He walked on.

Jenneen followed him, her arms folded, and stopped whenever he stopped, as if she was showing someone round a gallery.

He had arrived earlier than she had expected him; she was wearing her bathrobe, a towel wrapped round her hair. She looked at her watch, praying that this wouldn’t take long. She was worried about Ellamarie and wanted to get over there as quick as she could.

Eventually Matthew pushed open the door of the lounge, went over to the dining table at the other end of the room and sat down. Jenneen was surprised by this. Normally he made straight for the whisky.

She followed him towards the table ‘but stopped halfway across the room. He was sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands still in his pockets. His chin was almost resting on his chest, but she could see that he had a smile on his lips, a pleasant enough one, and he was only half watching her.

She kept her arms folded, and shifted her weight onto one leg. “So, Matthew, here we are again. Things don’t change much, do they?”

He looked at her for a second or two, then taking a hand out of his pocket he put his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand.

“Well, at least you’re not drunk tonight,” she said. “So perhaps some things do change.” When he didn’t say anything she turned to a pile of books she had left lying on the small table under the window. She took them across to the bookshelves and began to slot them into place. He sat watching her, but still didn’t speak.

“Matthew, do you think we could get on with this,” she said, as she slid the last one in. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” She turned back to face him.

“Suits me,” he answered. “Exactly what is it you’d like to be getting on with?”

“Oh, cut the crap, Matthew,” she said. “You called me, remember? How much do you want? Fifty, a hundred, hundred and fifty?”

“Very generous of you,” he drawled.

“It’ll be the last you get,” she said. “After tonight there will be no more.”

“Oh? You’ve made up your mind about that, have you?”

“I have.”

“Good.”

She didn’t like the way he was behaving. This easy, relaxed attitude was not like him. “Well?”

He looked up at the ceiling, chewing his bottom lip and thinking. “I’m glad you’ve arrived at that decision,” he said after a minute or two. “It fits in rather nicely with my own decision. By the way, what news on the new programme?”

“It’s going into the spring schedules. But you probably know that already.”

He laughed. “You’re right, I do.”

She looked at her watch.

“And the roving reporter’s job?”

“Is gone. Bill appointed someone last week. It was his decision, I had no say in it.”

“Fine by me,” he said.

She eyed him warily. That was not the reaction she had expected at all. She folded her arms again. “Just what is this all about, Matthew?”

He lifted his arm from the table, and stuffed his hand back in his pocket. He looked down at his legs as he crossed one over the other, then lifted his head again. “How’s Vicky?”

Jenneen froze.

“Sorry,” he said, “I should have asked earlier. Very remiss of me, I know.”

Jenneen turned to face him, her eyes blazing with hatred. “You filthy, scheming, blackmailing little toad. Get out of here.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Obviously I’ve upset you. Let’s forget I mentioned Vicky, shall we? Let’s pretend I never said a word about her. After all, I didn’t mention anything about her being a lesbian, did I? And I didn’t say a thing about what you two dykes get up to in bed at night. So let’s forget I ever said anything.”

She glared at him, with loathing. “God, you really hate me, don’t you?”

“Hate you? No, I don’t hate you, Jenn. Not me. Now Maggie, yes, remember little Maggie? She hates you. Don’t ask me why, but she does. And I keep telling her, don’t worry, Maggie, I say, you’re not Jenneen’s type. But it makes no difference, she just carries on hating you. Still, I wouldn’t let it bother you, she’ll probably get over it.”

“OK,” said Jenneen. “OK. You’re right. Vicky and I are lovers. Yes, you’re right. We sleep together, and we make love together. Are you happy now? I’ve admitted it. Does that satisfy you?”

“Does it satisfy you, Jenneen?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re not?” He shrugged. “Anyway, I haven’t come here to discuss your perverted life with Vicky. No, I’ve come to say goodbye.” He walked across to the settee and sat down. “I’ve got a little something for you, actually,” he said. Delving into his jacket he pulled out a brown envelope, and handed it to her.

She didn’t take it, so he put it on the table. “No rush,” he said.

She looked at the envelope. Her curiosity got the better of her reluctance and she walked over to the table and picked it up.

Her voice escaped in a strangled cry as she saw the photographs inside, and for one horrifying moment she thought she was going to pass out.

“Nice town, Brighton, isn’t it?” he said.

Her face was ashen.

As he laughed she felt a white-hot furnace of hatred begin to rage inside her. He looked so ugly sitting there. His face unshaven, and angry red spots on his neck. His hair was greasy and uncombed. He looked like a tramp.

He reached out and took the envelope from her, turning it over in his hand as if he were making a study of it. “You know, it’s just occurred to me, do you think Vicky would like to see them? Jenneen on a day trip to Brighton? Well, I’ve got another set, I’ll let you have them, you can look at them together. Tell me, just out of interest, does the sight of two men fucking one woman turn you lesbians on?”

Her throat was dry and her voice croaked as she spoke. “There’s nothing you can do with those photographs, Matthew, and you know it. No newspaper in the land would print them. They wouldn’t be able to.”

“Oh, but they can. Not in their entirety, I grant you, but there are ways. And magazines of course. But they don’t get a wide enough circulation. And you want to be famous, don’t you, Jenneen? Sorry, I can’t help there. Well, I could, but I’m not going to. No, I’m not going to send these photographs to a newspaper or a pornographic magazine. No, I’m sending them somewhere quite different. The envelope is already addressed. Look, you can read it.” He pushed it towards her.

The thumping of her heart pounded through her ears and all she could do was look back at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll read it to you if you like,” and he turned the envelope over. “Number 23, Hallsinger Street, Oak . . .”

“Noooo!” she screamed. She rushed for the envelope and tore it out of his hand. And with unnatural strength, she ripped it into tiny pieces.

Matthew took another envelope from his pocket, identical to the last.

“You bastard! You fucking bastard! What have they ever done to you?”

“Your parents? Nothing. Leastways, nothing I can remember. No, I merely thought that they might be interested to know what their precious Jenneen gets up to, down here in little old London town. Or in this case, Brighton town.”

Jenneen felt her blood run cold. “How did you find their address?”

“Oh come on, Jenneen, it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work that one out. Maggie. Remember, dear little Maggie. She’s got a set too. I think she wants to send them to her mother. Lives quite close to yours, doesn’t she?”

Jenneen’s mouth twisted in disgust. “Vicky was right about you. You’re evil. Sick, evil, sadistic and callous.”

“Back to Vicky, are we? Course, Mumsy doesn’t know about Vicky either, does she? Wonder if I should drop her a line and tell her about that too.” He got up from the chair and tucked the envelope back inside his jacket. “Still, didn’t you say something earlier about being in a hurry? So I’ll be off. Just thought I’d drop in and give you the news. Goodbye, Jenneen. Good luck,” and he walked towards the door.

“Stop, Matthew!” she hissed. “Just stop right where you are.”

He was smiling as he turned. “Did you want to say some . . .”

“Give me the envelope, Matthew. Give it to me, now.” Her hand shook very slightly as she tightened her grip on the barrel of the gun.

Matthew’s smile faded.

“Give it to me, Matthew.”

“You haven’t got the guts,” he sneered. “It’s probably not even loaded.”

“There’s only one way to find out. Now give me the envelope.”

“Jenneen, darling,” he said, poking his head forward, “go fuck yourself.”

“I mean it, Matthew. Give me the envelope, and then you can go. But you are not walking through that door until you do.”

“You’re mad! You can’t kill me, and you know it. What would that do to your precious image? Nympho, lesbian, and murderer. Oh yes, it’ll all come out if you kill me. Have you stopped to think about that?”

She stayed rooted, pointing the gun.

“I said put it down, dyke! Go on, put it down. You’re not going to use it. You might be a pervert, but you’re not stupid. Look at yourself, you’re pathetic. Go on then, shoot me. Look, I’ll even hold up my arms for . . .”

“Shut up!” she screamed.

“Shoot me, you bitch, and I’ll come back and haunt you. Go on, shoot me!”

“JENNEEN, NO!” Vicky screamed from the door.

And the blast was deafening.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Conrad and Ashley rushed through Customs at Heathrow Airport, and Conrad silently swore a vow to increase Candice’s salary as he saw a board being held up with his name on it. It was something he had completely forgotten, how he and Ashley were to get into London when they reached Heathrow. Obviously Candice hadn’t.

Ashley gave the driver her address in Onslow Square, and sensing their urgency, the driver sped along the M4 and arrived in South Kensington in a record seventeen minutes.

As they got out the driver handed the keys of the black Mercedes to Conrad. “Mr Arbrey-Nelmes thought you might have need of the car,” he said, and turned and walked off down the street.

Ashley rushed inside. Thank God Conrad had threatened to send her back to London, otherwise she might already have left her flat. It was empty, cold and rather cheerless, but she didn’t notice any of that. As she ran to the phone it started to ring. She snatched it up, but her fingers were shaking so badly she dropped it. Coming in behind her, Conrad picked it up and handed it to her.

“Hello!” she gasped.

“Ash! It’s me.”

“Ellamarie!”

“I called your office, they told me what happened . . .”

“Oh Ellamarie!”

“Ash, is there anything I can do? Please, let me help.”

“Yes, no . . .”

“Shall I come over?”

“Conrad’s here. I’m sorry, Ellamarie, I’ve got to ring off,” and banging her fingers against the connectors she cut the line. Quickly she dialled again.

“I’ll make some coffee,” said Conrad.

“I need something stronger than that,” she said as she waited for the connection. “Over there,” she waved her hand towards the drinks cabinet.

“Coffee,” said Conrad. “You’ll need a clear head,” and he walked into the kitchen.

She waited as the steady ringing tone came across the line. She counted how many times it rang. She must stay calm. Whatever she did, she must stay calm. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three.

Conrad came back into the room.

“He’s not at home,” said Ashley, and her face began to crumple.

Conrad took the receiver from her hand and placed it back on the telephone. Then, taking her in his arms, he whispered: “It’s all right. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“But where is he? Why isn’t he answering?”

“Is there anywhere else he might have gone?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know. I can’t think. His mother, maybe he’s gone to his mother.”

“Have you got her number?”