Act of Exposure (16 page)

Abigail judged
he was getting agitated. 'So how did you know Carl Candel?'

The wide smile
constricted to pursed lips. A chillness turned his eyes a darker
grey.

'He went to
school with my son. Told me he was writing a thesis on financial
sleaze within Government and could I refer him personally. I said I
would have to speak to Stephen first, but being busy...'

'So, perhaps
someone else gave him the number?'

'Perhaps.'

In that one
moment, everything distinguished about the man now seemed decrepit,
washed out. No matter that his dark blue suit was still sharp, his
hair snowy white. His shoulders were suddenly hunched, and all his
vigour seemed compressed; shrunk within his clothes.

Abby knew what
he was going to say even before he said it.

'He's dead,
isn't he? Candel, I mean.'

'Yes.'

'I don't read
the popular press, but rumours have reached me that his ending was
pretty terrible.'

'Yes.'

'Poor
boy.'

'Perhaps you could enquire who
did
give him Stephen Sigmund's
telephone number.'

He nodded.

'And Stephen.
Could you testify for him?'

Douglas spread
his hands. 'Anything I can say that might help, I will.'

'Could you
testify truthfully that he was not known by you to be homosexual,
that his preference was most definitely for women?'

He thought for
a moment, then nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I think I could do that. Stephen
likes women as much as I do.' He smiled and his eyes twinkled. 'I
bet he's pleased at having someone as stunning as you to defend
him.'

Abby did not
reply. Instead, she got out her notebook and pen.

'Please could
you give me any details concerning Stephen and his predilection for
women? Any specific instances that you may recall.'

She felt no
jealousy in her asking this question. There was only her desire
that such happenings be well documented so she could judge how well
they might stand up in court.

'In full
detail, my dear?'

His eyes bored
into hers. She met them without blinking.

'In full
detail, sir. If you would.'

Douglas
sighed, leaned back in his chair, then cleared his throat.

'I did not
mean to be giving them undue attention, but it was at a country
house weekend given by some high and mighty civil servant. I saw
Stephen Sigmund talking to a young woman I knew as a parliamentary
researcher. Pretty enough girl, warm brown hair, big blue eyes, the
sort that Roedean mould and Paris fully fashions, if you know what
I mean.'

Abby nodded
and recrossed her legs. Douglas licked his lips before he
continued.

'She and
Stephen seemed to be getting on like a house on fire. It was
obvious they were going to end up having sex.'

'How do you
know that?'

Douglas shook
his head fitfully as though he were searching for the right words.
'Because it was obvious.'

'How obvious?
Did
they end up having sex together, and if so, did you see them
in the act?'

The patrician
jaw dropped like a lead-filled jam-jar. 'Do you mean... in detail?
Everything?'

The pen made a
snapping sound as she slammed it against the notebook.

'Sir. I cannot
possibly provide evidence purely on hearsay, on your assumption
that Mr Sigmund was really and truly heterosexual. I need an
eyewitness account. Did you actually see them copulating, and if
you did, I would much appreciate the details.'

Douglas
cleared his throat as he viewed her with a more jaundiced
expression than he had earlier adopted. 'I did, though I would have
thought it ungentlemanly to say so.'

Abby took up
her pen again and eyed him questioningly.

He sighed, and
clasped his hands on the table before him.

'I did see
them. They went to the stables.'

'At
night?'

'Yes.'

'And you saw
them clearly?'

'Yes.'

'Was there a
light on in the stables?'

'No, but there
was a beautiful moon. I remember it very well because it shone
through a window and lit up their flesh. They were naked by then,
and, she was on top of him.'

'So her bottom
was very white, very noticeable?'

His gaze
seemed to drift away from her, yet around her. As if it had become
liquid. She surmised it was not her he was thinking about, but the
memory of Stephen and the naked young woman.

He used his
hands as though he were feeling what he was seeing. 'Her bottom was
very broad, but very shapely. Rather similar in looks to a pear,
but, of course, it was not the colour of the fruit. On the
contrary, it was silver. It shone like the moon itself as she
bounced up and down on Stephen Sigmund's stem. I remember her
groaning, then laughing and crying out with delight as she turned
round to face me in my hiding place. Without once letting him slip
out of her, she carefully turned - you know - like a lemon on a
squeezer.'

He took a deep
breath and licked his lips again. He trembled slightly.

His mouth,
Abby thought, must by now be as dry as a desert.

As he
recommenced, Abby continued to make notes.

'I remember
her breasts were small. She was the original English pear all over.
But they were pretty breasts, and had big nipples that danced like
roses in a breeze as she resumed her bouncing on his member. Her
belly was round and curved down to a copious clutch of pubic hair.
I remember thinking it looked like Devon thatch in the moonlight.
I've walked around my Devon estate in the moonlight. I've seen the
effect it has on thatched roofs, and,' he said with a glint in his
eyes, 'on naked bottoms.'

Even your own,
Abby thought, but only nodded.

Douglas
continued. 'As she bounced, she cupped her breasts and threw back
her head. I could see Stephen's hands gripping her hips, forcing
the timing of her movement. Such a delicious sight, one I would
like very much to see again.'

Abby stopped
writing. 'How did you know it was Stephen? After all, you saw them
leave together, but there was a gap between that and you seeing
them naked in the straw, and Stephen, from your description, was
lying beneath her.'

He stirred
from his remembering. 'I could see his hands.'

'But could you
see his face?'

'Yes. Later.'
He looked stunned that she should ask, and that he could have been
telling a young woman such a lurid tale.

'Tell me.'

Her voice
demanded that he continue.

Douglas
flicked his eyes over the other diners, sipped his drink, then went
on. 'They changed places. She lay down in the straw, and he got on
top of her. I saw his face. I saw him come. I know it was Stephen.
I would know his face anywhere.'

'And the girl.
Who was she?'

For a moment,
she thought he wasn't going to answer her.

'Fiona
Platter. Nice girl. Nice family.'

'Can you phone
her address through to me?'

He nodded.
'Yes. Will you question her?'

'Of
course.'

Colours danced
over Lance Vector's face as the images on the video screen altered
position, varied movement, and throbbed with passion.

Stephen and
Abigail had driven to the forest that day, and he had followed
them.

Stephen
Sigmund, his naked buttocks bunched with muscle, was making love to
Abigail Corrigan against the green rocks, among the curled leaves,
and she looked to be enjoying it. That fact alone made Lance more
and more irritable.

'I've had
enough of you!' As he shouted, he stabbed a well-scrubbed finger at
the remote control.

She was enjoying that man. He didn't want her to do that, to
show so well that she was relishing everything he was doing to
her.
It shouldn't be
Stephen
, he reasoned,
it should be me. It should always be me
.

His breath was
audible and his dark eyebrows met heavily above the bridge of his
nose. Pressing another switch on the remote brought the auxiliary
machine into play. The other machine played a different story,
though one character remained the same: Stephen Sigmund; a public
lavatory, a place Lance had been ordered to attend, a film he'd
been ordered to make.

The tape
played, but despite it showing Stephen Sigmund in a more shameful
light, Lance did not really see it.

Eyes staring,
he tiptoed through his mind and thought of all the things he would
like to do to the tall, slender young lawyer who spent so much time
with Sigmund.

First, he
would strip her naked. Then he would find for her one of those dog
collars with steel studs set into it. He would fasten it around her
neck, make her walk on all fours as he jerked the leash attached to
it. He would set her food before her on the floor and force her to
eat it from there.

In his mind
she was a virgin when he had first seen her. Certain people at the
Humphries gathering had called her the Snow Queen or the Ice
Maiden. Such names were enough to persuade him that what he
believed was indeed correct. To his mind, she had seemed
unapproachable, unsullied, and he wished deeply that she still
was.

But she had
sinned by lying with Stephen before giving Lance the chance of
lying with her. Such a sin had to be admitted to and purged from
her system. It would take a long time to humble her and make her
see the error of her ways. It would also involve his fantasies
becoming reality. Even now he was still following her around, still
getting used to her routine.

Tonight, she
was with Stephen, the man he had been ordered to pursue with a view
to exposure. He knew she would be there until morning.

Of course, he
could report back to his editor that they had spent the night
together. But he didn't want to do that. To do so would be
admitting that the woman he wanted had been tainted by another's
body. In his mind, that was not acceptable and anyway, Stephen
would deny that they had slept together that night. He had a big
house and invited many guests to stay. His denial would no doubt be
accepted.

It didn't
matter to Lance. He knew where she was in reality and where she was
in his mind. Another scenario was taking form. Again she was naked
in the basement and wearing the studded dog collar.

Sometimes, he
decided as his anger boiled within, he would make her sit like a
begging dog as he rebuked her for all her shortcomings. As he laid
down the law to her, he would squeeze her breasts, and stare into
her eyes, daring her to moan, daring her to say anything. In his
company, he would force her to be silent. He would only have her
talk in that prim and precise way of hers when he took her to tea
with his mother.

Of course, his
mother would not know that this young woman lived naked in the
basement, a chain connecting her collar to the wall. In his
mother's company Abigail would wear a dress of his choosing. It
would be black and have a white collar and white cuffs. It would
reach to the floor. His mother would like that. In his mother's
presence, Abigail would also have to wear underwear. He would
choose that too. It would be made of black satin and be tightly
laced at the back. Black suspenders with sharp barbs would connect
with the tops of equally black stockings. Buttocks and sex would be
left uncovered. His mother would not know that. Only Abigail and he
would know that particular secret.

The thoughts
made him smile. It was only one scenario that came to his mind as
he watched his favourite tapes.

Not that he
was taking in what was happening on the screen. He stared but did
not see the public lavatory, the three men standing, whispering. If
he had, he would have remembered that he had disobeyed orders, that
he had arrived at the place half an hour before he was told to.

It suited him
to shoot preliminary scenes before the main footage. That way he
could be sure he was getting a natural shot. He had shots of
Sigmund going into the lavatories, and a shot of him and the police
team coming out. From that footage, he had lifted the photograph
that had appeared in the paper. The rest of the stuff he kept "just
in case". In case of what, was of no consequence. When he had first
seen the footage, he had narrowed his eyes at the three men
whispering before Stephen Sigmund had actually arrived. All were
familiar, and one more so than the others.

Fiona Platter
had a flat in town down a pretty little mews in the heart of
Belgravia.

Money
whispered with the easy opening of the door, the dark charm of the
Spanish maid, and the smell of country flowers in the hallway and
the chrome and grey lounge.

Fiona did not
seem particularly pleased to see the tall, slender Corrigan. Her
smile was as false as her fingernails.

'You're the
barrister bitch, aren't you, darling?'

Her tone was
sharp, but Abigail was ready for her.

'Yes. And you
are Fiona Platter, darling, the high society bitch who was seen
tumbling in the straw with Stephen Sigmund at a country house about
two months ago. I want to ask you if it's true.'

Abby's
directness caused the colour in Fiona's face to vanish in a minute.
Her red lips pouted as she glared at her maid who was lingering for
instructions by the door.

The maid did
not wait to be dismissed.

Fiona
continued to glare at the closing door, then at Abby who sat
looking so efficient, so professional in her trim black suit, white
collar, black stockings and patent loafers. She sniffed impatiently
before she spoke.

'All right,
darling, all right. I understand you are defending Stephen about
this rent boy business. What has it got to do with me?'