Sleeping Cruelty (2 page)

As she closed her door behind her, she was sure she heard the boy call her a stupid bitch. She looked at her watch. It was almost four in the morning. She shivered as she remembered their hands on her body. Was it possible she had been mistaken? But when she relived it, she knew she had not. Then the noise on the roof started again. She felt the draught as soon as she stepped into the corridor. The trapdoor was open. She climbed the stairs to peer out and scan the roof. What she saw froze her to the spot.

Their small frames doubled under the weight, the two children were dragging a body, using all their strength, and trying to roll it over the edge of the roof. The rain had left pools,
which were now blood red, as were the awful marks where they had hauled their burden across the roof. The children seemed wounded; their blond hair was matted with blood, their night-clothes were drenched.

‘Dear God, what’s happened?’ she whispered.

The boy spun round. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, continuing to heave the body closer to the edge of the villa roof.

‘No one will do anything,’ added the girl, helping her brother. ‘We’re only children.’

The nanny knew without even seeing his face that the body was their father’s. ‘Just like they did nothing about Mama.’ The little girl strained as she pushed at the dead weight. As the body rolled over the side on to the ground with a dull thud, both children smiled, as if congratulating each other, then turned to face their nanny.

‘Nanny, will you help us bury him?’ they asked in unison.

Chapter One

W
illiam Benedict was fifty-three, and regarded himself ‘well preserved’. He had never been a vain man, but recently his creeping paunch and loss of hair had started to play on his mind. It was the latter that he really hated. His blond hair had always made him look younger than he was and although you could never have described him as handsome, his boyishness had given him a certain attraction. Even the press nicknamed him ‘Boy Wonder’. But his youthful looks had gone.

Standing just under six feet tall, William stared down at the scales: despite hiring a personal fitness trainer he had not lost a single ounce. Why waste time and money on press-ups and weights for nothing? And the pills, at least thirty different vitamin and mineral supplements, irritated him too – they seemed to stick in his chest for half the morning.

William muttered with annoyance as he inspected his face in the mirror. He struck a pose, sucking in his cheeks and raising an eyebrow. He was all right, really. His pale blue eyes were as bright as they ever were – his mother always said they were his best feature. They had a permanently alert quality that could be unnerving, particularly when they darkened in anger. He glared at himself: he was beginning to feel as if someone else had sneaked into his body and blown it up. He drew his lips back to
inspect his teeth, which had come courtesy of one of the best dentists in Los Angeles. He had smoked cigars all his life but his second wife had been particular about teeth and had made sure that his never bore the tell-tale stains.

Clothes were a different matter: he dressed for comfort rather than style. He had always been told what was fashionable, and both his ex-wives had sent him to the tailor in an attempt to improve his sartorial sense. He had wardrobes full of tailored shirts, suits and handmade shoes – even his tracksuits were made by Armani. Everything looked fine on the hangers in the wardrobe, but once it was on William it gave the impression of sloppiness. The truth was, he had never really been interested in clothes. He felt he didn’t need to be. William was a man to be envied. Few could match his fortune. He had recently floated his computer company and made a five-hundred-million-pound profit, and he had numerous other interests in property and industry.

His new project was politics. He had never been a political animal, but had voted Labour throughout both his marriages simply because it infuriated his in-laws. Now he had switched his allegiance, more or less on a whim, to the Conservative Party due to Andrew Maynard. He had heard the tall, pallid Maynard speak at some tedious charity function and the hairs on the back of his neck had stood up. It was almost as if something about the man reminded William of himself – not physically, more because, to all intents and purposes, he was an outsider. He made a note to watch the young man’s progress. When he found himself in Brighton during the 1997 Tory Party conference and noticed that Maynard was to speak, he surprised himself by going to hear him.

As just another hopeful politician attempting to gain notice, Maynard might easily have been overlooked that week. But to everyone’s surprise, though not to William’s, he swept the entire conference hall to its feet for a standing ovation. The young man mesmerized his listeners.

The third time William saw Maynard was at a fund-raising dinner at the Grosvenor Hotel. Having decided to back the Conservative Party, William had made generous donations to Party funds, which had warranted an invitation. Once again the young man enthralled him, this time as a guest at the same table. Maynard, William noticed, drank little and hardly touched his food. It was not until coffee was served that William had the opportunity to talk to him. Maynard seemed shy, explaining that he held out little hope of gaining a seat at the election, but added that he fully intended to give the opposition a good run for its money.

Over the following weeks William continued, albeit half-heartedly, to monitor the young politician’s career as the pre-election fever grew. However, Maynard lost, by a narrow margin, as the Labour Party swept to victory. His loyal supporters commiserated with him at a breakfast they had organized. They didn’t stay long, and Maynard shook their hands as they departed, maintaining that he would fight on, and that next time he would win.

At the end only William remained with him in the restaurant. He lit a cigar, feeling depression hanging in the air. Maynard loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He picked up a lipstick-rimmed champagne glass and downed the remains. Until now they had hardly spoken more than a few words to each other, although Maynard had written William an appreciative letter thanking him for his financial backing.

Maynard turned to him now with a doleful expression. ‘It was close. I’m sorry . . . you’ve donated so much. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your support.’

‘Why don’t you let me take you home?’ William offered and ushered him to his car.

Maynard sat, head bowed, beside William in his Rolls Royce. They turned into Ladbroke Grove off Notting Hill Gate, and headed towards Maynard’s small terraced house.

William cleared his throat. ‘I donated to your campaign even though I didn’t think you were ready. You were always an
outside bet, but I don’t regret it or worry about losing my money. It may still bring opportunities, so let’s just put it down to experience.’

Maynard was clenching and unclenching his fists. He muttered that the new Prime Minister was young too, then turned to William. The weeks of day-and-night canvassing had taken their toll, and Maynard was thinner than ever. With his tie askew, and his unflattering black-rimmed spectacles he seemed like a fragile petulant boy. But when he spoke, his voice was cold with controlled anger. ‘I appreciate your generosity, but I am sad that my political aspirations are not the reason you have supported me. It makes me wonder what strings you might have tried to pull for your own gain if this rank outsider you bet on
had
won!’

The chauffeur stopped outside Maynard’s house, but before he could get out to open the door, it had been slammed shut.

Maynard opened his front door and just managed to close it behind him before the adrenaline that had been keeping him going for days evaporated. He leaned against the wall then slipped down it to the floor. He had not just failed to win his parliamentary seat but, without the continued donations from billionaire William Benedict, he had also lost future assurance of financial backing. With his rude remark, he knew he had made a foolish tactical error.

The following morning, Maynard’s cleaner arrived as he was leaving. By eight fifteen he was at Claridge’s – William’s regular haunt for breakfast meetings. This morning when Maynard joined him he had every newspaper piled on the table and some stacked by his chair.

‘I want to apologize for the way I spoke to you,’ Maynard said, and flushed as he sat down.

They discussed the news coverage. The rival Labour candidate had expressed concern at beating Maynard by such a narrow margin. ‘But he still won,’ Maynard said, buttering his toast.

‘Listen,’ said William, ‘I’m going to give you some advice. Take no favours, you’ll have no debts. Show respect. A friend is useful, an enemy takes up your time. With that in mind, I have forgotten what you said to me last night.’ Before Maynard could respond, he took out a pocket calculator, and a computer no larger than a wallet. Intent on the screen, he tapped away. Then he turned it to face Maynard. ‘Is that up to date?’

On the tiny screen were Maynard’s private bank statements, details of his mortgage, life assurance policies, the accounts for his office and staff during the campaign, lists of queries on personal expenses, claims, then details of tax and VAT payments, and sums owing to him.

‘I pay my cleaner twenty quid a week,’ Maynard said. It was the one item not listed. But he was angry, confused and dismayed by all the information William had amassed. He continued to scroll through the personal details: his school, his scholarships, university degrees, even the odd payments for speeches he had written for various MPs. He had been so engrossed he had not really listened to what William had been saying. But now it dawned on him. Had he heard correctly? He was not withdrawing any further donations? ‘You will be in financial difficulties within months,’ William said. ‘You’ve taken out a second mortgage, you’ve no collateral left, and no fairy godmother in the wings to leave you a big inheritance. You need me, Andrew, more now than ever, and I’m offering you the deal of a lifetime. I’m going to back you to the hilt, all the way. Just you.’

William scraped back his chair and Maynard looked up. William needed a smoke, and it was not allowed in the dining room.

Maynard joined William in the foyer where he sat with his cigar. He was unsure what William had meant by ‘just you’. He felt as if he might be walking into a trap. What was the deal? What strings were attached?

William puffed until a halo of smoke formed round his head. He suggested that Maynard should go for a good long holiday
to recharge his batteries and think clearly about what he should do. William was certain that his election campaign had got him noticed; it would be up to him now to approach the Tory leader to discuss his future.

Maynard leaned forward. ‘Why are you doing this?’

William stubbed out his cigar, only partially smoked, in the big silver ashtray on a stand by his chair. ‘I have my reasons.’

‘I need to know, sir. Please, you’re offering me so much – why?’

William frowned. Then after a long pause he cocked his head to one side. ‘Okay. It was just before lunch, a few years back, at the Party conference. Margaret Thatcher was sitting next to me. I watched her watching you. I saw her backbone stiffen. She never took her eyes off you until the end of your speech. You impressed me, and I saw that you had impressed her. That’s it, really. Now, I have to go, old chap. You think about it. Call me tonight, or whenever.’ He grinned at the confused young man, stood up and walked into the foyer.

William had to go only five paces across the pavement to reach his car. The passenger door was already open, his chauffeur standing by. He touched his cap when he saw Maynard.

Maynard stood rooted to the pavement, his heart thudding. William was getting into the car. ‘Can I come with you? Could you drop me wherever you’re going? Please?’

William shrugged, a little irritated: he wanted to get on with the day, but Maynard was fast off the mark, leaped in beside him and slammed the door.

‘This is a Rolls Royce,’ remarked William as the car glided away. ‘The doors are perfectly balanced and hinged. They do not require a heavy-handed slam. You should learn that. One day, perhaps, you’ll have one of your own, if we play our cards right.’

Maynard swallowed. His throat was bone dry.

William continued, leaning back against the soft leather seat. ‘You need a makeover. It’s all about image – get a professional.
Lose those bloody glasses for a start. And you need a red hot PR person.’

Maynard felt as if he was hyperventilating. William leaned forward and opened a small compartment built into the back of the seat in front of him. Maynard saw that the compartment was stocked with all kinds of drinks, a cut-glass ice bucket, cigar boxes and cutters and cut-glass decanters with silver tops designed by Dunhill. William took out one of the decanters, poured a glass of water, and passed it to Maynard, who sipped it gratefully.

At last Maynard had pulled himself together. ‘I have never done anything illegal in my life,’ he said. ‘As a politician I have to be scrupulously honest – and everything you’re offering might be a potential trap – might ruin my career prospects. I’ll get there the hard way, if I have to, no matter how long it takes. I have no interest in personal wealth – or a “makeover”.’ He took a deep breath. ‘All those things are insignificant in comparison to the kind of changes I want to make to this country. Our current system is corrupt, we need to—’

‘Stop the car, please.’ William cut Maynard off before he could finish his sentence. He’d heard Maynard’s speeches repeatedly during the campaign, and applauded the radical ideas he had urged on his supporters. But now he was trying William’s patience. He leaned over and opened the young man’s door. ‘Get out, I’ve heard enough. Some people like to spend two million on a racehorse, but they never place a bet. It’s not the money they want, it’s not the winnings that excite them, it’s the enjoyment of watching the horse race, and the thrill of when –
if
– it wins. That’s all there is to it. That’s all you are to me. Now go home.’

‘Your
racehorse
? I jump when you say so?’

William shook his head in exasperation. All he wanted, he said, was to see Maynard win his seat in the next election and to be there to watch him do it. Then he took pity on him. ‘No strings, no traps.
I believe in you
, you dumb bastard!’

William held out his hand for Maynard to shake. ‘I mean it, I believe in you, son. You shine brightly, and you’re right to be cautious. This is a career you’ve wanted since you were a kid. Well, I’ll give it to you, with no ulterior motive. Now push off, I have work to do.’

Maynard walked away, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He must have looked such a wimp, but in fact he was highly ambitious and, at times, aggressive. Nevertheless, he would not allow himself to be treated like a commodity: he was not for sale. His career could not be compared with a racehorse. He had suffered too much already to get to where he was. Then he stopped and gave a humourless laugh. What career? In the cold light of morning, after all the hype, he knew he was still low on the political ladder. But maybe he had just stepped up a rung.

It took him three further days to contact William Benedict. His excuse for not calling earlier was that he had been busy with post-campaign work. In reality he had taken legal advice. He told William that he had decided to accept his offer and made it clear there must be no possibility of any backlash against him. Then he relaxed. He had a benefactor whom most ambitious men would give their right arm for.