Sleeping Cruelty (3 page)

He was a little taken aback by William’s non-committal response. He was quite cool; it appeared that his mind was elsewhere. All he said was: ‘Good, but you realize it’ll have little to do with me personally? Apart from the money, it’ll all be down to you. I’ll see you at my lawyer’s tomorrow.’

Maynard’s cosmetic makeover took more time to finalize than the legal accountancy and drawing up of acceptable bank accounts. It was imperative that the monetary transactions could not possibly be construed as a bribe from William, especially considering the fuss that had been made over the recent Aitken case. As Maynard had insisted it was all above suspicion: no ulterior motive could be detected behind his benefactor’s generosity. The contract went back and forth and Maynard pored over it for
anything that might be misconstrued if it ever became public knowledge.

Six months after their breakfast at Claridge’s the change in Maynard’s appearance was beginning to pay off. The fact that the tailoring and the dental work had taken so long was a blessing, because no one was able to pinpoint any dramatic change in Maynard and therefore didn’t whisper about his growing show of confidence and polish, and William enjoyed watching his protégé emerge.

Neither did success come overnight – it took a great deal longer. Three years after that breakfast meeting, Maynard’s star at last rose. He took his seat in a by-election, and became the young hope of the Conservative Party. Aged thirty-eight he was now courted by the Party elders, who showed interest in grooming him for a big political future.

For William, it was not a question of basking in the young man’s glory, but of watching his protégé quietly from the sidelines with almost fatherly pride. Maynard became well known for his fearless stance, and was an almost constant media focus. Acting classes and elocution lessons improved his pose and diction, which meant that his television appearances gained him respect and attention. He ate up his fame with relish. Without doubt Andrew Maynard was earmarked to rise to the top.

Even though William had never hinted that he wished to be repaid for his generosity, it was at this time that he was knighted for his constant support to the Party. His charitable donations brought him to the attention of the peripheral socio-political scene and he was more socially active than ever before.

Sir William was inundated with invitations to fund-raising events and charitable functions. He couldn’t calculate on how many boards he now sat as an ‘honorary member’, and he enjoyed his new standing. He was a wealthy man but, until this stage in his life, had kept a low profile. It was not until Maynard had crossed his path that he had appreciated his fortune or used it for anything other than to expand his own companies. He
continued to work on pet projects but only when he felt so inclined.

William knew that his seemingly bottomless wallet was his biggest social asset but he nevertheless found most of the company he attracted delightful. A number of ladies used him as their escort, and he took on this role with enthusiasm. Not that he found any of them sexually attractive – far from it. It was being at the hub of the social world that he liked, and he took to collecting all the newspaper photographs and articles in which he featured. And all of the changes in his life had come about through Andrew Maynard, who now occupied the place of the family he had lost. He had little contact with his own children due to his ex-wife’s bitterness, and at times he looked on Maynard as a son. It was as if Maynard had opened a door inside William that allowed him, at this stage of his life, to enjoy living.

Even with all his millions, William had always felt second rate. His self-consciousness when moving in his ex-wives’ aristocratic circles made him uncomfortable and aware of his social short-comings. Now he blossomed, and for the first time discovered he was comfortable with himself. His background, which had been an embarrassment to his wives, was acceptable. As a self-made businessman he was applauded in the post-Thatcher line-up. And it was all due to Andrew.

Niggling doubts arose only on the odd occasion when he had dinner with Maynard. Sometimes William felt as if the young man only accepted his invitations out of politeness, but they were still pleasant evenings. The pair would discuss the present day’s news, Party developments and so forth, but nothing personal. In fact William could not recall ever having any conversation with Maynard that embraced his private life, apart from on one evening. Maynard told him of how he had lost both parents and then, shortly after his mother’s death, his elder sister had been killed in a car accident. William had commiserated, hoping for more details, but Maynard had been his usual reticent self: he said that his sister was much older and they had little knowledge of each other’s
lives – she worked abroad as a nanny and had never shown any interest in his political hopes. He invariably turned conversation back to William, fascinated by how he had accrued his wealth.

William had never known anyone to take such an interest in his career and enjoyed talking about his success. The first company he founded designed and developed computer chips, sold software programs, and designed and built computers. He had recently, partly out of boredom, begun manufacturing CD-ROMs, and had opened up a four-storey factory to develop computer games with experts brought in from Japan and the USA. He was selling on the Internet, and opening more factories to take over the European market. William had made his first million before he was twenty-eight.

Maynard, however, even in the relaxed atmosphere, would never talk about his own life and William did not like to press him. In some ways, though, their relationship was moving closer, albeit at a mutual-admiration level. It was, however, a deeper friendship than he had ever shared with another man. Yet after five years, all William knew about Maynard was what every newspaper reporter knew: his age, where he was brought up, and that he had been to grammar school outside Leatherhead before winning a scholarship to Cambridge.

At one dinner party hosted by a famous novelist and paid for by a glossy magazine, William defended Maynard when a gossip columnist, Meryl Delaware, spoke in a derogatory fashion about his lack of private life and his colourless background. ‘My dears, that young man is like one of those awful Russian dolls. You keep on opening it up and out pops another and another, and they are all as
boring
as each other!’

At this point William leaned across the table and asked if perhaps she was confusing Maynard with herself: she appeared to have more in common with a rotund Russian doll than the intelligent young politician.

She sat back and glared hard at him, her mascara-caked eyelashes like tiny spikes. He should perhaps have taken this as a
warning: the tentacles of Meryl Delaware’s journalism crawled a considerable distance, and what might not do for her society magazine would perhaps find a place in a number of down-market newspapers. Now Meryl Delaware leaned closer to William. ‘Sweetie, you should be careful. Your protégé is
very
cagey about himself. Perhaps one of his layers will be peeled off to reveal a deep and nasty secret . . .’ William laughed dismissively, but later that evening Meryl Delaware sidled up to him: ‘I meant no offence, dahling. Perhaps the reason he’s so hush-hush about his private life is because he’s as flawed a human being as the rest of us.’

William gave a stiff smile. ‘Speak for yourself, Miss Delaware.’

‘Oh, sweetie, don’t tell me you won’t admit to having flaws?’

William shook his head. ‘I doubt my faults would be of any interest to anyone, especially your readers.’

‘You’d be surprised, Sir William . . .’ And with that she swanned off into a small throng of people.

On his way out, William overheard someone say, ‘God help this country if people like that vulgar fool and his protégé can buy their way into the cabinet!’

With clenched fists he walked out of Claridge’s into Brook Street and signalled for his chauffeur.

Chapter Two

W
illiam was always up and dressed by six, his chauffeur standing by to take him to his first appointment of the morning. Recently he had been planning a takeover of a German electronics company. It was part of a large corporation owned by Baron von Garten, whose steel empire had been in his family for generations. However, it had been hinted that they were selling off their smaller electronics bases. Three previous meetings had been cancelled so William had sent his private plane and an invitation to breakfast at the Connaught. He was determined to get his hands on the prime site, sniffing out, with his fine business acumen, that von Garten was in financial difficulties. He knew that once he had his foot in the door he could make further inroads into the von Garten companies.

Sir William arrived at exactly nine for his breakfast meeting. He had been so busy making calls he had not noticed that one shoelace was undone and in danger of tripping him up as he marched through the Connaught Hotel reception into the dining room. William sat down at a table with a pristine pink cloth and a single rose in a tubular silver vase. He tossed aside the menu and ordered grapefruit, coffee, wholemeal toast and kippers. He always had the kippers at the Connaught: they were perfect, not too smoked, and grilled with just a dab of butter.
Just thinking about his breakfast, his mouth watered and he’d eaten two rounds of toast before his guest sauntered into the dining room.

Baron von Garten was accompanied by a shrewish little man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a soft leather briefcase. William waited, tetchily drumming his fingers on the table, but the Baron made no apology either for being half an hour late or for the previous cancelled meetings. His companion introduced himself as Herr Eric Kramer, the Baron’s lawyer.

The elegant Baron said only a few words and left his lawyer to do most of the talking. Kramer explained that the Baron’s family had to be a hundred per cent certain that, if they did agree to the sale, their name would not be connected to any of the factory’s future products. He gave a blow-by-blow account of the Baron’s ancestral history, emphasized how well connected the family still was, and declared that a transaction would be withdrawn at any whisper of scandal. He wanted a confidentiality agreement signed to ensure that any dealings would never be made public.

William was pretty sure that the Baron’s Board of Directors had not been asked to approve the deal, so that when the business was sold to William it would be too late for anyone to do anything about it. He guessed that the Baron, for all his family connections, was hurting for cash.

‘How much?’ he asked softly, and both men leaned forward as if afraid to be overheard.

William shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, that is a preposterous asking price,’ he said, and withdrew from his own briefcase a detailed document about the property: its location, its present dilapidated condition. It emphasized that William was buying the shell of the old factory to tear down and rebuild; his major interest in the purchase was its location. He wished to turn it into a computer works, offering four hundred jobs, and bringing a team of experts to train the employees to his standards. He showed them a brochure about a similar factory up and running in Paris. As they glanced over it he signalled for the bill.

The deal was concluded quickly. William would arrange a banker’s draft to pay a percentage of the fourteen million dollars he had agreed – exactly half the amount they had asked for. They would receive this as soon as all the documents were signed and the surveyors had completed their inspections.

Throughout the entire transaction the Baron had remained aloof, treating William with contempt. It was as if this business deal was beneath him. Perhaps it was no wonder that – if the rumours were well founded – he had got himself into dire financial difficulty.

William had to wait only a moment outside for his Rolls – Arthur was heading towards him immediately. The Baron walked out of the hotel accompanied by a rather well-preserved blonde woman. He introduced his wife frostily, and the Baroness smiled vacantly in William’s direction as the doorman hailed a passing taxi. The taxi drew up at the same time as William’s gleaming car, but he was already speaking into his mobile so they had no further interaction. Not that William desired any: his mind was already on his next appointment with his bankers.

After lunch Andrew Maynard joined him for coffee. He seemed relaxed and confident, his face slightly flushed, although this was noticeable only to William, who knew him well enough to realize that Maynard was drinking more than usual. But the warning bells still did not ring and William was merely pleased to see his protégé looking almost handsome: he’d been away in France and the suntan suited him, and he had started taking more interest in his clothes. Maynard was wearing a slim gold watch and the lining of his expensive new suit was of a dark emerald green satin.

The conversation turned to the predilection of the British press for public hounding, and to the most powerful man in British journalism, the newspaper magnate Humphrey Matlock. Matlock’s powerful control of virtually every newspaper in the UK made him a formidable opponent. Although William didn’t know him, he admired Matlock’s tenacious strength of mind. Maynard, however, believed that no single individual should be
allowed such control of the national media. William pointed out that as long as Matlock was on their side they had no reason to try to stop him.

‘We’ll never know exactly which side he’s on. And now that everyone is afraid to get on the wrong side of him, whichever party they belong to, he’s unstoppable,’ Maynard insisted.

‘I don’t understand why you suddenly feel the need to attack him. As I recall, he’s never done anything but enhance your image,’ William replied, then stood up to leave – he had a three-thirty appointment.

The next morning at five fifty-five William had had his morning shower and was throwing on his clothes. He caught sight of the documents he’d been reading in bed the night before, and his heart leaped with pleasure. He owned numerous sumptuous homes around the world, all run by a permanent staff and ready for occupancy at any time of the year. But his latest purchase was the jewel in his crown. He was looking forward to showing it off to Maynard. He wouldn’t approve, of course: he maintained that one home was enough for anyone. William had bought a small island in the British Virgin Islands. In the sixties it had enjoyed brief fame as a jet-set getaway, and appeared in all the top magazines as one of the most exclusive playgrounds in the world. But in the intervening years the owner had grown infirm and his money had gone on health care rather than upkeep. Now the island was in a state of total disrepair.

William had spectacular plans to make his paradise rise from the ashes like a phoenix. He had bought it at a good price because the refurbishment costs would be astronomical. He invited a select group of designers to tender for the renovations, and took great delight in poring over their Toytown models. It was a huge job and, judging from the way the companies fell over themselves to produce their designs, a desirable one. Maynard would be appalled at the fact that no expense would be spared to make William’s dream come true.

It was six thirty and William went downstairs for breakfast. As he sat at the table and shook open that day’s
Times
, he smiled to himself. He was where he had always dreamed he would be, right at the top of the world, and he had, as he constantly reminded himself, got there solely by his own hard work. He read the social column: ‘Not So Idle Rich’ was the headline. William Benedict already had a knighthood they said, how long would it be, at this rate, before he moved into the Upper House? William raised an eyebrow. He’d like that. He’d like to sit in the House of Lords, perhaps become one of the government’s advisers . . . and maybe, with the help and guidance of Andrew Maynard, it was within his grasp.

Andrew Maynard’s cleaner, Mrs Skipper, always arrived promptly at six a.m. She would tidy the house, prepare breakfast and cook an evening meal he could heat when he wanted it. Andrew Maynard was meticulous about his domestic routines. He did not like her to be there all day, or to stay overnight. He hated to work in his study with the sound of vacuuming, or the smell of cooking lingering in the air. By nine he had jogged, showered and breakfasted and had given Mrs Skipper a list of shopping, laundry or dry-cleaning collections. By ten his secretary was installed, the coffee percolating and the newspapers neatly laid out, and Maynard was ready for work, as immaculate and fresh as his small terraced house. Maynard had chosen the house because of its location and politically correct lack of ostentation. William had offered to buy him a larger property, but he had refused point-blank.

Mrs Skipper had been working for Maynard for the past five years. She knew as little about his private life now as she had when she started, and what she did know she had gleaned from the newspapers: when he took her on, she had signed a confidentiality agreement. He had explained that in his profession it was imperative he could trust those closest to him. As far as she knew, Maynard was a man of unimpeachable character, a young man on the threshold of a glittering political career, which even she could see was about to soar.

That morning Mrs Skipper picked up the single bottle of skimmed milk left by the milkman and, frowning, noticed that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. She let herself into number twelve. Mr Maynard was always up by this time so that she could make his bed and collect the dirty laundry. She went into the kitchen, which was as she had left it the evening before. This, too, was unusual: he always put his dirty supper dishes into the sink ready for her to rinse and load into the dishwasher. As she put the milk into the fridge, she noticed that the evening meal she had prepared yesterday was still in its tin-foil-covered dish. Mrs Skipper began to unbutton her coat, looking around for the note that was left each day on the kitchen table.

There was no note. She hung up her coat and fetched her apron, then walked back down the narrow hallway towards the stairs. She looked up, listening, wondering if her employer was upstairs in the bathroom – perhaps something had made him late for his morning jog and he was still out. Maybe he was ill. ‘Mr Maynard?’ she called tentatively.

The house was eerily silent – she was used to hearing the radio or television news when she came in. She began to mount the stairs, pausing midway to call his name again, but there was no reply.

His bedroom was dark and the bed had not been slept in. The bathroom door was closed, and a suit, shirt and underwear were laid neatly across the bed. She went back out into the hall and tapped on his study door. It swung open, revealing the tidy desk, a stack of memos and mail lined up by the bank of telephones. She pulled the cord to open the curtains and, in the light, looked at the desk for some kind of sign. A yellow Post-it had been stuck to his blotter with a phone number. His address book was open and another sticker on the open page bore the same number and, underlined, an odd message: ‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom.’

More worried by the minute, Mrs Skipper returned to the kitchen. Now she noticed that the back door was ajar. She
opened it wide and looked out into the garden, which was empty. Mrs Skipper closed the door and locked it. It was then that she felt the drip of water from the ceiling above. She looked up and listened. Maynard’s bathroom was directly above the kitchen.

Mrs Skipper went upstairs again and listened at the closed bathroom door. Now she could hear water running softly and, looking down saw the creeping stain growing darker as it seeped into the carpet and edged into the bedroom. She turned the bathroom door handle. It was not locked, and she pushed it open and froze in shock at the sight of Maynard’s body, partly submerged, and his hands, floating, with deep gashes at the wrists from which blood still trailed.

‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom,’ the yellow note had said, each word heavily underlined. Mrs Skipper moved back into the office, reached for the phone and dialled.

The telephone’s shrill ring woke William from his reverie. He waited a beat, hoping his housekeeper would pick it up, but eventually got up and answered it himself. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

It was an hysterical woman, babbling incomprehensibly.

‘Who is this?’ he said coldly. It was William’s personal phone. Only a handful of people had the number; this woman must have misdialled. Then William heard Maynard’s name. He tried to slow the woman down. ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying,’ he said, and told her to take a deep breath.

‘He’s dead, sir. Please come.’

‘Has there been an accident?’ William asked. The phone felt clammy in his hand. When he realized what she was telling him, his heart lurched. ‘Listen to me! Do nothing until I get there, do you understand? Wait until I see you. Do not call anyone until I get there.’

His heart was still thudding as he drove from his four-storey house in The Boltons towards Ladbroke Grove.

When he saw Maynard, he became icy calm. Mrs Skipper
was sitting at the kitchen table below. He could hear her sobbing. She had refused to accompany him up the stairs, so William was forced to confront the grotesque sight of Andrew Maynard’s body alone. His first reaction was of stunned horror, as if the scene before him was some sick theatrical set-up. Nothing he knew about Maynard had prepared him for this. He didn’t touch the body, but looked down into the open eyes, the dark hair floating around the head, and reached forward to turn off the taps. Maynard’s blood had stained the water a soft shell pink. The cuts in his wrists were deep and blood had sprayed down the bathroom tiles. Beside the bath was an empty gin bottle, and an overturned crystal glass with a slice of lemon still resting at the bottom.

William went to Maynard’s study, pocketed the note with his phone number on it, and looked around for Maynard’s diary, address book and any personal papers. He placed them in his own briefcase, and searched for a suicide note before returning to the bedroom. He found it partly hidden beneath the bathtub. It was sodden from the overflowing water and the ink was blurred, which made the few hastily scribbled lines hard to decipher, but William could see it was addressed to him.