London Broil (22 page)

He took off his
sunglasses and his eyes traveled up her body. She watched,
feeling her blood heat, as his gaze lingered on certain parts of
her. "I wish we could freeze the moment in time and stay like
this forever," he said. He rose, and taking her hands in his,
drew her to him. "What would you like?"

"I'd like you to
take off every stitch of clothing, slowly, while I watch and sip
my Champagne. And then I want you to touch me like you did the
first time we made love, and then I want you to fuck me silly."

"Right then. You
can keep this on if you like."

"No, I want to
feel your skin on mine."

26.
Laura's Guilty Pleasure

Afterward, she
lay on the plush blankets, looking up at the skylights. He'd
been as good as his word, stripping off his tie and laying it
like a trophy over her breasts while he removed the rest of his
clothes. He had given her what he called "a good seeing to" that
left her throbbing and breathless, and then drawn her legs up
against his chest so that her feet stuck out past each of his
shoulders. She would be sore the next day. Now James rose and
picked up their clothes to put them on hangers. He came back
downstairs in the dark silk boxer shorts and white tank-top
style undershirt that he'd worn beneath his suit. "Would you
like another cocktail? What do you normally drink?"

"In the Fall I
like Manhattans. I don't suppose you have bourbon on hand."

"No, but I can
make them with Irish whiskey." He pulled out some Jameson's 1780
from a kitchen cupboard and started to mix the drinks. "I have
real Italian marasca cherries. You'll love these."

He brought the
Manhattans, some glacéed apricots, and a tall glass of water for
her on a tray. "Drink the water," he said. "And put that
see-through thing back on. I fancy you in that." The CD of
Jacquet was long finished, so she scooted over to the low shelf
with his collection of vinyl and began to flip through the
albums. This must be the music he'd bought as a young man. The
Beatles. The Who's
Quadrophenia
.
Van Morrison. U2's albums from the early 80's. John Lee Hooker.
And..."Julie London?" she asked, surprised. There were several
original albums showing the sultry Julie in evening gowns. One,
called
Julie is Her
Name,
featured a head shot with bare shoulders and full
decolletage; only a hint of her gown could be discerned. She
looked like a cross between Rita Hayworth and Jane Russell.
Laura was familiar with her music, but had never seen the
original album art from the fifties.

"Those belonged
to Fergus. I kept them because I liked her voice. A guilty
pleasure, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, she's
an absolute sex bomb. Have you ever heard her sing 'My Heart
Belongs to Daddy'? Or 'Go Slow'? But why would you feel guilty?"

"You don't think
I'm a bit sexist for being keen on her? Or some of those songs?
I thought you were more of a feminist."

"Of course I'm a
feminist." She paused to consider his comment. "I have certain
aesthetic standards and if I enjoy something that doesn't fit
them, it's a guilty pleasure. Like eating Doritos." He laughed
at this. "But I don't apply moral standards to the enjoyment of
art," she went on. "So taking pleasure in art that happens to
have sexist --or sexy-- elements doesn't bother me. In fact, why
don't you put that one on?" she said, pointing to the bare
shouldered Julie, and settling back on a pile of cushions and
pillows with her Manhattan.

As the first
bars of "Cry Me a River" flowed through the room, she said, "I'd
forgotten what a ritual it used to be, playing a record. Just
now you removed Miss Julie from the cover, and then you gently
pulled off the inner sleeve. The knickers, if you will. And then
you laid her down on the turntable, and tenderly placed the
needle in her groove. Now tell me, could anything be sexier than
that?"

He set both
their drinks on a tray and climbed onto her, pressing her down
against the pillows. "Only the sight of you in this wee frock,"
he said. "I can't take my eyes from you." He started to kiss the
side of her face, and her neck, little nibbling kisses. "Tell me
what your guilty pleasures are," he said into her ear. "What
doesn't meet your aesthetic standards, but you like it anyway. I
want to know."

"In music? Well,
you have to consider my age. I was a teenager in the late
seventies and early eighties.
 
And I wasn't listening to U2."

"Oh no," he
said, looking up from his kisses. "I think I know what you're
going to say."

"
Saturday Night Fever
came out in 1977." His only response to this was a pained look.

"Yes. I really
liked the Bee Gees. And --I know you'll abhor this-- I also
liked ABBA. Still do."

"ABBA? Laura,
that is utterly revolting," he said, an almost gleeful note in
his voice.

"I knew you'd
say that. It's a weakness of mine."

"It's okay," he
whispered. "I love you anyway."

Looking into his
eyes as he said this, she believed him. The rush of joy she felt
in hearing him say the words was tempered by a feeling of
despair. "What are we going to do?" she said. "It seems an
impossible situation."

"I don't know.
We'll think of something. We have to."

Because she
couldn't bear to discuss it, she changed the subject. "I saw
what they wrote in the papers about you and Jenna. Especially
the
Sun
."

"It's just what
I would have expected from that prick Jacques. He and I used to
compete for stories, and I usually got the better of him. And
what they wrote about Jenna, and the pictures. That's to be
expected in our profession as well, but still, I'd like to beat
them to a mis--" he stopped suddenly and bit his lip.

She couldn't
help laughing. "Don't bother to deny it. You were going to say
you'd like to beat them to a miserable jelly."

27.
That Which Men Call
Death

On Monday
morning her phone rang as she was working amid the controlled
chaos of the study desk in her flat. She normally made and
received very few calls, so when it rang, she always felt a
frisson of worry that it might be bad news from home. She
managed to grab it before it went to voice mail.

"Laura? This is
James. Where are you right now?" His voice sounded odd. She
could tell he was in the newsroom by the background buzz of
conversation and office noises.

"I'm at my flat.
Why, what's happened? Are you okay?"

"Ellen Porteous
is dead. She was found in a hotel room on Sunday night." Laura
was silent. She felt as though her brain synapses had been
dipped in cool molasses and were now moving very sluggishly. She
sank back onto her desk chair, nearly missing it.

"Laura, are you
still there? Say something."

She forced
herself to speak. "How? How did it happen?"

"She was
stabbed, but that's all we know at this point. This is going to
be in all the papers. It's huge. I wanted to prepare you. I'm
sorry; I know you liked her."

"Hamish did it,"
she said, before she realized she was speaking out loud.

"What? What are
you talking about? Laura, you spent a lot of time at their
house. Is there something you're not telling me? What reason do
you have to think Hamish is involved?"

"I don't know,"
she said miserably. "It's just a feeling. I'm sorry, I'm getting
dizzy. I need to put my head between my knees or lie down."

"Right. Don't
leave your place. Lie down. Do you want me to stop by after
work?"

"No, I think I
want to be alone. But we'll see each other on Saturday?"

"I'll have to
work this weekend. I'll call you as soon as this blows over." He
hung up after giving her instructions to drink a shot of the
Talisker scotch before lying down. Laura went to the bathroom
and bathed her face in cool water, and lay on the bed for about
an hour. Then she got up and opened her laptop. She found the
website for the Metropolitan Police and searched through the
Specialist and Crime operations listings until she found the
name: Magdalena Banacek, Detective Chief Superintendent. She saw
no direct number, so she called the "Non-Emergency" number
recommended to report a crime.

"My name is
Laura Livingston. I would like to speak to DCS Magdalena
Banacek. It's about the murder of Ellen Porteous."

"DCS Banacek
oversees a large number of cases. It's Detective Chief Inspector
John Middleton who's supervising that case, ma'am. I can put you
through to his office," said the operator.

"No, I want to
speak to DCS Banacek. It's important." she said. She needed to
meet Magda and take her measure. Romantic rival though Magda
might be, Laura had at least seen her before and knew something
of her. And she was a woman. The idea of telling her story to an
endless succession of males in the police station made her feel
queasy.

After a few more
transfers of her call and a few more repetitions of her request,
a cool voice on the line finally said, "Miss Livingston? This is
DCS Banacek."

"Thank you for
taking my call," said Laura.

There was a
pause on the other end. "You're seeing James Whelan, aren't you?
May I ask what this is about?" So someone, most likely James,
had mentioned her name to Magda.

"I've been
working nearly every week at the Porteous home. Some things
happened while I was there, things that you should know."

"DCI Middleton
is the senior investigating officer--" Magda began, but Laura
cut her off. "I want to talk to you."

"Can you be at
the Westminster Station in two hours?" She gave Laura
instructions for the tube and hung up. When Laura arrived, she
was taken to an interview room and left there alone for twenty
minutes. Finally the door opened and Magda walked in, wearing
one of her fitted suits and a pair of three-inch heels. In the
bright lights of the interview room, it was clear that Magda was
in her late forties or early fifties, though still very
attractive. Even with minimal makeup she had a fine, smooth
complexion. Her dark blue eyes held intelligence, but didn't
look particularly friendly. With her was a fit-looking man in
his early forties. He had ruddy skin and strawberry blond hair,
and was wearing a tie, already slightly loosened, but no jacket.
He looked like someone with too much to do. "This is DCI
Middleton," said Madga. "Miss Livingston, I hope what you have
to say to us is worth our time."

"You'll have to
be the judge of that," said Laura. She related the story of her
visits from Ellen, the Porteous children's refusal to let anyone
see their father, the note in the Pine's Horace, and how the two
men had shown up thereafter to speak to Mr. Porteous. At that,
DCI Middleton looked surprised and leaned over to whisper to
Magda.

"Do you still
have this note?" asked Middleton. She drew it from her purse and
handed it over. "What about the men's names? Are you certain of
them?" Laura pulled out her notebook, in which each day's notes
were dated, to show them the names John Curtis Esq. and Mr.
Terence Drake.

"Miss
Livingston," said Middleton, "what exactly are you trying to
tell us?"

"I believe Mr.
Porteous' mail is being monitored, he likely has no phone, and
he is bedridden so he has no way to communicate with the outside
world. I think he changed his will that day and told Hamish that
he'd done so." She described the sudden unexpected visit from
Hamish and his
t
ê
te
à
t
ê
te
with her in the
kitchen. "He acted very seductively toward me, but all the time
he only wanted to know whether I'd spoken to his father. I said
no and it was the truth, but not the whole truth."

"Did Hamish
Porteous appear to believe your statement?"

"Yes, he did."

"Did he mention
a will?"

"No."

"When was the
last time you saw Ellen Porteous?" asked Magda.

"The day I gave
her the note for her father," said Laura. She was feeling very
tired now, but there was something else she needed to know. "Was
Ellen sexually assaulted?" she asked them.
 
"Did she have sex
before she was killed?"

"Miss
Livingston, we can't share that information with you."

Laura's mind
drifted back to the image of Hamish hooking his arm angrily
around his sister's waist. "If there's DNA, check it against
Hamish," she said.

28.
Ashes in the Mouth

By that evening,
the news was out on the web, and the next day's papers were full
of the story. There were numerous pictures of Ellen, looking
stunning in evening gowns or designer suits, and a shot of the
budget hotel in Brixton where she was found. Laura purchased
several papers, and noticed that the
Herald
seemed to have
more extensive coverage than the rest. Jenna's was one of the
bylines, and she read that all the members of the Porteous
household had been questioned. There were lurid details about
the state of Ellen's murdered body. She wondered how the
reporters had obtained the information. Weren't such things
often kept confidential, at least until a murder was solved? She
followed the stories over the next couple of days, making a
point to read Jenna's contributions.