The Abigail Affair
The Abigail Affair
by
Timothy Frost
This book is a work of fiction.
All characters, locations, situations and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real places or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Timothy Frost 2010. This Amazon Kindle edition published November 2011.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, or otherwise) except as permitted by Amazon without the prior written permission of the author.
By the same author and also available for Kindle:
The Shoot
Final Passage
Author’s website:
This is the British English edition. If you would prefer the American English edition, please email the author for a free copy.
Prologue
Her name was Nicola. It was her debut at London Fashion Week. She had just finished her show, and she was still buzzing from the experience. And if he gave her another of those glasses of Moët, she wouldn’t come down to earth at all, but what did that matter? This was the greatest night of her life, and the best party she had been to during the whole week.
Nicola had to shout to tell him all this, such was the noise of the party, which was in a cavernous wine bar on the Embankment formed out of several railway arches.
“Tell me your name again—I didn’t catch it,” Nicola shouted.
“Dah-veed,” said the smooth, tall foreigner. At least, that was how it sounded to her.
“Is that Italian?”
“No, Russian.” He spelled it for her.
“Oh, David! Why didn’t you say so?” Half of her felt like she was still on the catwalk.
We looked good, and we knew it
, she thought. For this party, she’d been able to borrow her favourite outfit from the collection. That wasn’t really allowed, but Marcel had waved his hand to say “OK,” and she had skipped backstage to change into the black silk-crêpe wrap dress cut high on the neck with the single button on one hip.
A burly man elbowed his way through the throng towards them. He was definitely a Brit, and not a fashionista, either. He wore his suit as if it was a uniform, with big, nerdy, dark glasses, and he had no drink.
David glanced up at the newcomer, nodded once, and carried on. “So, is your work at London Fashion Week done, Nicola? Can you relax and enjoy life now? If you have a day off, I could get you into the B-Rude show tomorrow. As my guest.”
He reached into his jacket and produced two long, glittery tickets with curly edges, each with a golden star stuck on one side. “Front row. And the party after.”
Nicola felt her eyes widen in surprise. She had only just met this guy, and already he had invited her out! And to the B-Rude premiere, of all things—the highlight of the week, which all the girls were talking about!
The big guy was still standing around. Was he a friend of David’s? Nicola wished he would bug off.
As if sensing her thoughts, David said, “How rude of me. This is my driver, George. He’ll take us home when we’re ready. That’s if you’d like to see my place, of course.”
This was all happening too fast. Nicola suddenly felt tipsy. “I don’t know ... Mum is waiting for me,” she said. “In Hendon.”
“In Hendon. North London. Why, my place is on the way! Gorgeous Nicola, give Mum a call, say you are going for a post-party drink with a friend. My housekeeper will run us up a burger, or a pizza, or some blinis or anything. You can have a swim, watch a movie. No pressure. No—how do you say it—‘fancy stuff?’ Then George will drive you home to Mum in Hendon. With your ticket to B-Rude clutched in your very elegant fist.”
Have a swim? What sort of place did this man have? It was all very tempting. Nicola had suddenly had enough of the party. She didn’t want another drink—at least, not here. The noise was deafening and getting worse by the minute. And on top of the shouted conversations that bounced off the brick cellar walls, a DJ had started up in the next room. You couldn’t talk. And it would certainly be nice to get to know David a little better, somewhere quiet. Presumably the driver guy would be around. And David seemed a real gentleman. Not like the English boys.
She glanced at her watch. She could easily be home by midnight, which her mum still insisted on, what with her being still a teenager and rather new to the world of glamour. She would need to find the ladies’ room and tape herself up a bit more. With no bra, she was relying on sticky tape, the model’s secret weapon, but it did tend to let her down, so to speak, in hot places.
“OK! David, give me your address please, so I can tell Mum.”
David leaned forward and spoke in her ear. He gave an address in Hamilton Terrace, St John’s Wood. Nicola knew that was a posh part of town. She hurried to the Ladies.’ She actually had to push her way in, like getting on to a rush-hour Tube, there were so many girls inside.
It was even louder inside the cloakroom than in the main party rooms. She saw her friend Rachel applying some fresh lipstick, and told her where she was going. Rachel told her to be careful. Nicola said she would. Then she checked her own makeup, and that she wasn’t going to come out of her dress. Then she phoned her mother, gave her David’s address, and said she would be home by midnight.
It was quite chilly outside, but that was a relief after the heat and noise of the party. Over his arm, David carried a charcoal cashmere overcoat with fur detail on the collar. He placed this gently around Nicola’s shoulders. It was like the Oscars. She almost swooned with the glamour of it all, and looked around to see if anyone she knew was noticing.
Then a big black Mercedes appeared, with beefy George at the wheel.
It was suddenly and almost totally quiet inside the luxury car. Nicola’s ears rang slightly from the party. They cruised smoothly over Vauxhall Bridge to Victoria and then up Park Lane. Nicola settled back on the squishy leather seat and closed her eyes for a moment in bliss.
David made no attempt to touch her up. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased about that or not. She had loved the brush of his lips on her ear.
What she did know for certain was that she was enjoying the ride so much, she was almost sorry when the car slowed.
They drew up outside a large, white-painted mansion block. A black iron gate slid aside, and they turned into the driveway and went down into an underground parking area.
“Nice,” said Nicola. “Which floor are you on?”
David turned his head. He had a kind, pale face, and it was smiling with amusement. “Not an apartment. This is our home.”
“What, the whole thing?” Nicola felt her mouth drop open. “All this is yours?”
“It’s the family’s London base. You’ll like it.”
“Bloody hell.” Nicola couldn’t help it. This was a seriously rich man she had snagged. Could she handle it?
David laughed, and now he did briefly touch her cheek once more. Then he leaned forward and said softly to the driver, “Why were the security lights out on the gates and entrance?”
George killed the engine, turned, and replied, “I don’t know, sir. I’ll go and check the breakers now and get Raoul in immediately if there’s any fault.”
David grunted. He got out without waiting for George to open the door, and then he helped Nicola out. He scooped up the hem of the coat so it didn’t touch the ground.
From the garage, there was a lift! And not like you normally got in an underground car park. This one had a little corner table in it, for heaven’s sake, with a crystal bowl of early spring flowers. And the back wall was all mirror. Nicola quickly checked herself out.
The driver did not come up with them. He went off some other way, presumably to fix the lights. Nicola clutched her bag with both hands. David smiled reassuringly.
The lift doors hissed open and they stepped straight into a huge living room. The lights were on. There were lots of flowers everywhere in vases and bowls. It was more like a hotel than a home. Everything was white leather or antique. Nicola counted four huge sofas, and there was a big picture window with no curtains across it. She stepped over and took in the panorama of London by night.
“Pretty, no?” David said. “Now, what would you like to eat and drink?”
Nicola wanted a burger, but she said, “A bagel or a blini would be great. And another glass of champagne would be nice.”
There was a bar just like in a hotel, with a high counter and stools. David went to a glass-fronted cooler and took out a bottle of expensive-looking bubbly. He popped the cork and poured for both of them.
“
Budem zdorovy—
let’s
stay healthy,” he said, and raised his glass.
“Cheers,” she said.
He picked up a telephone from the bar and pressed a button. A light winked on the receiver, and Nicola heard the warble of the ring tone.
No one answered, however. A look of obvious annoyance crossed David’s face. He said, “Excuse me. I will go find Ursula, my housekeeper. I’ll be back in a small minute. Turn on the TV if you like, and let’s watch the coverage of Fashion Week on FTV. It’s in the cinema room over there.” He marched off, pulled open a big door padded with quilted red leather, and was gone.
Nicola slithered off her bar stool. She crossed to the glass coffee table that formed the centrepiece for one of the sofa arrangements. There were magazines: an American Vogue, and a Time, and one with an oil tanker on the cover. She sat on the edge of a sofa and sipped her champagne.
Minutes went by. Perhaps David was making the snacks himself. She got up, went across to the TV room, opened the padded door, and went in.
It was indeed a cinema, with the most enormous leather chairs with footrests, like you got in Business Class on the plane. She found a remote on a little antique side table. It was a chunky thing in polished steel with an LCD screen and a little knurled wheel. She pressed the ON button. “Function?” asked the screen. She selected TV. She jumped as the sound came on, together with a picture from an unseen projector. The image filled the wall. It must have been fifteen feet across. She found FTV and yes, there was coverage of Fashion Week. Nicola slid into one of the big chairs.
The ads came on, and then they were back with the coverage and the presenter announced – her show! And immediately, there it was, with the Arctic Monkeys belting out
I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor
.
She reached in her bag for her phone and thumbed a text to her mum. “FTV NOW CHANNEL 261 WATCH ME.”
But it was only going to be a clip. Keep going! Don’t stop! There was Rachel. Nicola was next! She held her breath.
Don’t cut away, show me
, she whispered to herself.
Pretty please.
Rachel did her twirls on screen. And there was Nicola!
Where was David? He was missing her big moment! She gawped at her image on the huge screen. The camera was supposed to add five pounds, but it was OK—she didn’t look fat. But her boobs seemed a bit OTT, especially from the side. Were they really that big?
The door behind her opened. She hadn’t heard anything, but she could tell because a little light spilled into the room. She half-twisted in her seat, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the images of herself on the screen. “It’s me!” she squealed with excitement. “Look! In this actual dress!”
The next thing she knew, a gentle hand was on her hair.
But something was wrong.
Nicola had no time to register what happened next. An arm slid around her neck and then she felt a sudden sharp pain as if a bee had stung her. No—worse than that. Then for some reason there was a red mist squirting into the projector beam like a freaky perfume spray. A crimson haze partially obscured her image on the giant screen. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She tried to breathe in, but tasted blood. Her neck felt wet and warm. She dropped her champagne and the glass exploded on the floor. A wave of excruciating pain arrived.
Must breathe.
Nicola’s vision blurred. In the few seconds of life that remained to her, before she fell forward into the gap between her chair and the one in front of her, she didn’t even realise that her throat had been cut.
Chapter 1
“Goodbye, sir,” said the sole flight attendant on the little island hopper aircraft.
Toby Robinson flashed his trademark smile and said, “Thank you—I enjoyed the ride!”
The flight attendant tilted her head and looked down her long eyelashes. “You have a nice day now.”
Toby clattered down the steps. The Caribbean sun reflected heat off the concrete. He had fallen in love with the stewardess during the very short hop from Antilla. She had café-au-lait skin and a sassy attitude. His flirting had got him precisely nothing except three extra packets of pretzels, but it had helped make the flight enjoyable.
