Sleeping Cruelty (4 page)

Dear William,
I have no ambition left, just heartbreak and terrible longing.
I am sorry,
Andrew

William read and re-read it. It made little sense to him. What heartbreak, what longing had made Andrew take his own life? He felt numb and confused, as if he still could not believe what had happened. Eventually he called the police and sat waiting for their arrival, studying the note as it dried in his hands. Maynard’s death would create a media frenzy, and one part of his brain was already wondering who would be the best man to hire for damage control.

Five hours later William returned home. He had his own press office prepare a statement, but no matter what he said, Maynard’s death would cause one hell of a scandal. William poured himself a brandy, retired to his drawing room and started checking through the papers he had removed from Maynard’s study. He had made no mention of them to the police, but they had taken the suicide note. They had asked if it was Maynard’s handwriting, and William had nodded, but in reality it was so smudged it was hard to tell. The large bundle of personal letters he placed to one side as he flicked through the first leatherbound desk diary filled with appointments, then Maynard’s private diary.

He couldn’t believe he had been so blind, that he had failed to detect this other side of Maynard. It confused and angered him, yet he found the details of the man’s bizarre, hidden life strangely compelling: the neat, meticulous handwriting, the lists of names, lovers, descriptions of sexual practices and a detailed account of monies paid out for years on sexual gratification. One name, Justin Chalmers, featured more often than most. This man had accompanied Maynard on trips to Paris, Vienna, Jamaica and Morocco. Maynard’s bank statements recorded payments to Chalmers; large sums over several years. William wondered if he had been blackmailing Maynard. What else could account for the thousands of pounds Maynard had spent on him? What else could account for the lists of fictional companies, whose names he had used to redirect campaign funds to a bank account in France? The recipient was always J. Chalmers. Was Justin Chalmers the person Maynard ‘longed for’? Had Chalmers broken his heart?

It was lunchtime before William moved through to his office and checked the answerphone. There were twenty-four messages, but he felt disinclined to play them. It was imperative that he found Justin Chalmers. Of all the names in Maynard’s diary, this one had leaped out as the most dangerous. Slowly William punched in the number and waited. The phone rang three
times, then an answerphone clicked on and a soft, drawling voice announced, ‘Hi, I’m afraid I am unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and the time and date you called and . . .’ there was a pause, followed by a laugh ‘. . . if you’re lucky I’ll get back to you.’

At two fifteen, William let in his damage-control expert, Myers Summers. ‘Well, this is a fucking mess all round, isn’t it? You know the world and its mother are trying to contact you, old boy?’ Summers shrugged off his coat.

‘I guessed as much, but I’m not speaking to anyone until we’ve sorted something out. Come and have a drink.’

‘Not for me, thanks, if we’re to concentrate on making sure you escape the flak.’ Summers sat down. ‘Right, let’s have it from the top, shall we?’

It was just after midnight when Summers left, by which time William was flushed with brandy – not drunk, but he had consumed more than usual.

Summers’s parting shot was that it was imperative to get the boyfriend, or whoever he was, tucked away and out of public grasp no matter the cost. Especially as, according to the diary, he would have been the last person to have been seen with Maynard. He might even have had an argument with him that had resulted in Maynard slashing his wrists.

‘I suppose he did slash them himself?’ Summers asked, as if it was just an afterthought.

‘How the hell would I know?’ snapped William.

‘Well, let’s hope he did. It’s murky enough as it is. If murder was mentioned, it would really whip up a frenzy. Is this Justin fella around at all?’

William shrugged. He obviously had been, and with Maynard on the night he died. But where was he now?

As the police did not have access to Maynard’s private diaries, William was confident that he could deal with Justin Chalmers.
Money, he had learned over years of having it, always had the desired effect on a certain type of person. He had no doubt that Chalmers could be bribed. He was about to turn off the lights in his study when he checked the time. It was two thirty. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialled, leaning back against the desk, staring at his brown brogues. There was no immediate reply, and he was about to hang up when a sleepy voice answered, ‘Yes?’

‘I called and left a message earlier today,’ William said, then had to clear his throat as he was so nervous. ‘Is that Justin Chalmers?’

‘I believe so . . .’ came the reply, followed by a yawn.

‘I need to see you.’

‘Really? You want to come over now?’

‘No, in the morning, early. This is a most urgent matter, which concerns a mutual acquaintance. I cannot discuss it over the telephone.’

‘Mmm, well, come whenever you want, and . . .’ there was a pause, then what sounded like a giggle ‘. . . I can’t wait.’ The phone went dead. At no time had Chalmers even asked who was calling.

Exhausted, William went to bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He slept, untroubled by dreams, but his serenity was not to last long.

Chapter Three

I
t was six a.m. when William drove into the mews. As yet the news of Maynard’s death had not broken: it had not made the previous night’s programmes, but there was no doubt that it would be this morning’s main item. William arrived at Chalmers’s address in Kensington. Flower-tubs and urns decorated the doorsteps of the row of pretty two-storey mews cottages. If he lived in that sort of house, in this part of town, William thought, Chalmers must be pretty well off. But as he reached the end of the street, the houses began to look seedier, obviously leased. Number thirty-two had the obligatory doorstep tub, but the plants were dead and the front-door paint was peeling. The bell was out of order, so William knocked. He did not have to wait more than a few moments before the door opened. A tall, tanned young man beckoned him in. He was wearing a pristine white T-shirt with pale washed-out denim jeans. His bare feet were encased in velvet monogrammed slippers and he wore a heavy gold bracelet on his right wrist. The interior was dark, all the curtains still drawn, but the furniture was antique and the carpets, though threadbare, were good-quality Turkish. Velvet cushions were scattered over the floor, and there was a sofa with stuffing protruding from its arms. ‘Justin Chalmers? Sir William Benedict,’ William said, and thrust out his hand.

The young man glanced down at it and, without a word, went through a bead curtain into what William supposed was the kitchen, from where the smell of coffee emerged. William stood uneasily in the middle of the room.

Minutes later the young man reappeared with a tray and put it down on an Indian brass coffee-table. ‘Do sit down. I rarely entertain at this house, so excuse the mess. You obviously have something of . . .’ He swallowed the word ‘urgency’, then smiled, and gestured to the coffee pot. ‘Black or white?’

‘Black, please.’

William sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me.’

‘I’m intrigued by how you got hold of my number and address.’ Chalmers handed William a cup.

He was tall, at least six foot two, with a lean torso. He had exceptionally blond hair, not the same colour or texture as William’s but naturally thick and streaked by the sun, well cut and worn quite long, touching his shoulders. He had penetrating wide-set eyes of so vivid a blue that the whites seemed brilliant. The deep lines at the side of his eyes and mouth did not detract from his overall youthfulness, but he was, William guessed, in his early thirties.

As he passed a chipped porcelain cup and saucer, William noticed that his fingers were long, slender and as tanned as his chiselled face. His nails were clean and manicured and he had a large embossed gold ring on the little finger of his left hand.

‘You needed to see me urgently,’ he said, ‘so let’s not waste time. What’s the problem?’ He curled up on a cushion opposite William, and looked at him over the rim of his cup. He took a sip, then tossed his hair back from his face.

William watched him carefully as he began. ‘You know Andrew Maynard?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘He was found dead yesterday morning.’ Chalmers showed no flicker of emotion. ‘With his wrists slit in his bathtub.’

‘Really? Sorry, I forgot to ask, do you take sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’ William took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m aware that you had an ongoing relationship with him.’

‘So?’ Chalmers sank back into his cushion and blew on his coffee. ‘There are biscuits too, if you’d like one.’ William was alarmed by the young man’s response. This was not how it was meant to go. Chalmers pulled a face. ‘So you found him, did you? Must have been unpleasant. A lot of blood, I suppose? Cutting your wrists sends a massive spray.’

‘You saw him last Thursday. What time did you leave?’

There was a pause as Chalmers gazed intently at William. ‘You seem very well informed.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘I went round at about seven thirty in the evening. I was having dinner elsewhere, but Andrew wanted to see me, so I obliged. I left about an hour later. Around eight thirty, perhaps a quarter to nine.’

‘Did you have an argument?’

‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’

William placed his cup down and leaned forward. ‘You mind if I call you Justin?’

‘I don’t mind if you call me Jack the Ripper.’

William talked across Chalmers’s laughter. ‘You see, Justin, the press will hound you if they discover what was going on between you and Andrew Maynard. I am aware that he paid you large sums of money.’

Chalmers stared. William was unnerved by his assurance and turned away. He chose his words carefully. ‘It would be preferable, Justin, if your relationship was not made public.’

‘I have no desire to discuss my relationship with Andrew. We were good friends and I was very fond of him, although not as exclusively as he wanted.’

‘Did he kill himself because of you?’ William blurted out.

Chalmers shrugged. ‘I have no idea. He seemed quite together when I saw him but, then, one can never tell another person’s real feelings, especially when that person is a politician.’
He laughed, softly, leaned back and stretched like a cat, his sexuality and sensuality filling the room.

William felt distinctly uneasy in his presence. Suddenly doubts started to filter through his mind.
Could
it have been murder?

As if reading William’s mind, the other man leaned forward. ‘I didn’t kill him. I can tell you’re thinking it’s a possibility, but I didn’t. He was too useful and, as you so rightly pointed out, I received a considerable amount of money from him and hoped to continue doing so.’

William stayed another fifteen minutes, in which time he agreed that a sum of money would be paid into Chalmers’s bank account on the condition that he left London immediately and did not speak to the press or anyone else about his relationship with Andrew Maynard. The young man did not quibble over the amount, but accepted a hundred thousand pounds immediately and said he would be on the next flight. William was relieved that the negotiations had gone so smoothly, but as he shook Chalmers’s hand, he felt the man’s fingers grip his own.

‘You have his diaries?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do the police know you removed property from the scene?’

‘No. They will be destroyed. No one will know of their contents.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Chalmers sighed and smiled simultaneously. ‘But
I
know . . . and I also know I could make a lot more than a paltry hundred grand in one exclusive to any number of tabloids.’ He let the veiled threat hang in the air briefly then continued, ‘Because I
did
care for poor old Andrew, I’ll accept your offer – but I’d appreciate it if you remember you’re getting off very lightly.’

‘I have nothing to worry about,’ William said, removing his hand from Chalmers’s grasp.

‘Really? Then I’ve misjudged you, Sir William.’ He crossed his arms and propped himself against the door-frame. ‘Look at the facts. You have come here personally and you have taken
possession of his diaries. It can only mean one thing: you are worried that Andrew Maynard’s private life might contaminate your own.’ Chalmers chuckled to himself. ‘After all, you did finance his career and, knowing the gutter press, they will dig deeply into your . . .’ he snorted before continuing, making speech marks in the air ‘. . . “predilections”. Perhaps they will assume that you too are a “friend of Dorothy” as they say. They may force you to come out.’

He smiled at William’s discomfort, but his eyes showed no signs of amusement. William grasped the subtext and reluctantly upped the kiss-off price to a quarter of a million. It was accepted.

William drove back to The Boltons in a fury. He didn’t mind spending the money – that had not irked him – it was the arrogance of the man, the confidence with which he had played his hand so perfectly. Justin Chalmers had class and William knew it. No matter how rich he was, he would never be able to match that sort of man’s aristocratic air, and he felt sure that that had not been the last time he would see him.

The crisp morning made William feel a bit better. The traffic in Park Lane was still moving freely, enabling the gleaming Rolls to move swiftly down and round Hyde Park Corner. On occasions, William enjoyed driving himself instead of being chauffeured and already he felt more confident, as if the power he was wielding over the car was somehow mirroring the control he had taken over his life. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds was chicken feed to a man as wealthy as William, and he had been prepared to pay a lot more. He would clear up this unfortunate Maynard business quickly, and that would be that. A minor setback. He slotted a CD into the stereo and drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel as Beethoven exploded from the speakers.

As he drove towards The Boltons, his mood lifted even higher. He had a full day ahead: a luncheon with Lady Thorn to discuss a charity benefit, then back-to-back business meetings
for the rest of the afternoon before dinner with a senior member of the Royal Family to discuss sponsorship for the Royal Horse Show. As he mulled over the day ahead he succeeded in putting Maynard’s suicide to the back of his mind.

However, as he turned into The Boltons, it all came flooding back. The roadway outside his house was swarming with reporters and photographers, and a TV news team was setting up its cameras. William was forced to slow to a crawling pace as the hordes converged on his car. The flash of cameras made his eyes water, and there was a sudden burst of voices as they recognized him and attempted to stop the car to interview him there and then. ‘Sir William, SIR WILLIAM . . .
Daily Mail
. . .
Daily Telegraph
. . . the
Sun
.’ They surrounded the car, shoving microphones towards him, and he almost ran over a few as he attempted to get into his driveway. The electronic gates half opened, but the journalists took that as an invitation to move further on to his property.

He lowered the window, and barked, ‘You are trespassing. Please move out of the way of the car.
Move away from the car
. No comment.
No comment
. Get out of my way, please.’

Not until the gardener, the valet and Michael, his secretary, came out did William try to step out of the car. As the gates closed behind him, he saw his employees trying to remove two men who were attempting to squeeze past them.

Michael opened the driver’s door and gestured for him to hurry inside. ‘We’ve been inundated, sir. The phones are ringing, the fax machines haven’t stopped, and there are people trying to get over the back wall.’

Inside the elegant hallway, William headed straight for his study. ‘Call the bloody police, Michael. They’re trespassing, for God’s sake. Legally they can’t put a foot in the driveway.’

‘I know, sir, but they’ve been out there since you left this morning. We have contacted the police and they—’

‘Call the Chief Superintendent. No, get me Commander Jameson. I’ll talk to him.’ Michael bustled around the study,
stacking documents on the desk. Every single phone was ringing. ‘Turn the bloody phones off! This is ridiculous. Get Mrs Fuller to bring me some coffee and—’ William snatched at one of the telephones and barked into the receiver. ‘Yes?’

It was an irate Myers Summers. ‘Where, in Christ’s name, have you been? I’ve been calling since seven o’clock. Have you seen the papers?’

‘Not yet. I’ve been trying to get rid of the press. They’re like hornets outside.’

‘Well, read them and call me straight back.’

William took half an hour to get through every newspaper. By the time he had finished, Myers Summers was sitting in his study.

‘You’re telling me you went to see this Chalmers in the flesh?’

‘Yes.’

Summers rested his head in his hands. ‘Did anyone see you?’

‘No. Why are you getting into such a state?’

Summers took a deep breath. ‘This is serious, William. You walk off with diaries and documents. You spend – how long at Maynard’s place before you call the police? You then pay some fucking fruit half a million—’

‘Quarter of a million.’

‘Why? What the fuck for? I mean, who is he?’

‘The last person to see Maynard, that’s who. And he’s a screamer so I got rid of him.’

‘Do you think he killed Maynard?’

‘No, Maynard cut his own wrists, Myers, with—’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, with an open cut-throat razor, silver and bone handle, inscription from you! Now, it seems to be a bone of contention that the cuts were deep, and to both wrists. Apparently that’s odd. If you slash one open it’s pretty tough to slash the other. So we won’t be certain it was suicide until after the post-mortem. He could have a six-inch blade shoved up his arse for all you know, and this poofter might have done it! And
you go round personally and pay him off!’ He sighed and flopped back in his chair. ‘Why?’

‘To minimize the risk of scandal I bought his silence.’

‘Are you
joking
?’ Summers sat forward again. ‘Don’t you
see
the implications of that?’

‘Quite frankly, no, I do not. Right now the “poofter”, as you call him, is probably on his way to Paris. Gone. Finished with.’

Myers Summers closed his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll have to find out more about him. You’re sure no one else saw you visit him?’

‘Certain. I told you, it was six o’clock in the morning, there wasn’t a soul around. Just milkmen, newspaper boys . . .’

‘All right. Now, yesterday, did Maynard’s cleaner see you remove anything?’

‘No, she wasn’t in the room.’

‘Well, that’s something. And she called you as soon as she discovered the body?’

‘Yes, there was a memo stuck on his desk telling her to call my number.’

‘What? He left a memo? With some kind of instruction?’

Suddenly William found himself blushing: it hadn’t occurred to him how strange it was that Maynard should leave a sticker on his desk for his housekeeper to find, with William’s private number and instructions not to enter the bathroom. Of course it was suicide. Maynard must have known exactly what he was doing.

‘Come on, man, was there anything else this woman might have seen you remove?’