The Black Widow (5 page)

After a cursory glance at Poplar Trees, Jo had already decided that she needed to increase her fees to meet the overheads. Faye Meadows looked like a woman who could help with that problem. But, as always, Jo was being cautious. ‘What is it you want, Mrs Meadows?’ she asked calmly.

‘Faye,’ the woman corrected. She reached into the pocket of her coat and produced a small, brightly coloured brochure. She placed it on Sam’s desk, then reached back into her pocket and retrieved a small piece of cut plastic. It was the size and shape of a credit card.

Glancing at the brochure, Jo saw the words W
ELCOME TO
E
LYSIAN
F
IELDS
in ornate script across the top of the front cover. Silently, she turned her questioning gaze to the client.

‘I received this in my post yesterday morning,’ Faye explained, holding up the credit-card-shaped piece of plastic. ‘It’s an invitation to spend a fortnight here.’ With the tip of her elegantly manicured fingernail, she pointed at the brochure.

Jo reached for the booklet, intending to flick through it. Before she could catch hold, Sam had snatched it from the desk and was leafing idly through the pages. As though she was accepting a consolation prize, Jo picked up the invitation. It was a slim piece of bright-red plastic embossed with gold lettering. ‘Elysian Fields’ was printed on one side. On the other, Faye Meadows’ name was written, along with the offer of a fortnight’s stay at the premises. Jo glanced at the printed date and realised the break was scheduled to commence the following day.

‘Was there anything else sent with this?’ she asked.

Faye shook her head.

Jo shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a little intriguing,’ she started. ‘But I’m still unsure as to how we can help. If you’ve got a problem with junk mail then the post office is probably your best bet.’

Faye flexed a tight grin across her thin features, treating Jo to an expression of rueful disdain. ‘I don’t have a problem with junk mail,’ she explained patiently. ‘And if I were any other woman in the world, I would be delighted to receive a fortnight’s free treatment at Elysian Fields. The cost of such a stay is painfully substantial.’

‘Then what makes you so special?’ Jo asked.

Faye looked as though she was about to say something. Before she could speak, Sam had interrupted her.

‘Are you the same Mrs Meadows who owns Elysian Fields?’ she asked, glancing up from the brochure.

Silently, Faye nodded.

Jo glared down at Sam.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Sam said, ignoring Jo’s dour expression. ‘Why would someone send you an invitation to your own health farm?’

‘That’s what I’d like you to tell me,’ Faye said simply. ‘If it’s a managerial cock-up, then I want to know how it happened and who’s responsible. If it’s someone’s idea of a joke, then I want to find out who sent it, and why they think it’s funny.’

Jo frowned, uncomfortable with an idea that had just occurred to her. She was about to ask a question, wanting to know why the woman did not simply telephone the health farm and find out what was happening for herself. Before she could give voice to her query, Sam broke in.

‘This is a tariff of our fees,’ she said, passing an A5 sheet of paper across the desk. ‘Those prices don’t include expenses, all of which will be confirmed in your final account.’

Faye thanked her, placed her hands on the arms of the chair and looked set to leave the office.

‘Hold on a second,’ Jo said suddenly.’ ‘I’m not sure that we’ll be able to throw much more light on this case than Mrs Meadows could manage herself.’

‘I appreciate you doing this for me.’ Faye interrupted calmly. ‘I do have other businesses to attend to. I have two nightclubs in the town centre and a string of other interests. While the idea of a fortnight at Elysian Fields appeals to me, I can’t afford to take the time off from my other commitments. Besides, I’m not sure that the invitation would be honoured. I’ve never seen one like it before.

‘You own a health farm and a couple of nightclubs?’ Jo remarked, raising her eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that taking diversity to an extreme?’

‘I’m an entrepreneur, not a specialist,’ Faye replied, not meeting Jo’s gaze.

Jo studied her suspiciously, positive that she was being lied to, and wishing she knew why. Her gut feeling to turn this case down was overwhelming. There was something dangerous about the whole situation and she did not trust it at all. Instinctively, Jo realised it would be wisest to let Mrs Meadows take her business elsewhere.

‘We’ll give you our report in seven days’ time,’ Sam said, standing up and offering Faye Meadows her hand. ‘If we have any important progress prior to that, we’ll call you and let you know what’s happening.’

Jo stared at her partner, unable to believe she had just accepted the case without asking her advice. She struggled to find words that would take back what Sam had just said, but, as each moment passed, she realised the opportunity was getting further and further away. By the time she had thought of something appropriate to say, Faye Meadows had already left the office, leaving Sam and Jo alone.

‘I can’t believe you just accepted that case,’ Jo said, shaking her hand incredulously.

‘I can’t believe we were so lucky as to get it,’ Sam countered. ‘It’s like a lottery win, or divine intervention or something. Here you are, in desperate need of a stay at a health farm, and what lands in your lap but an invitation to this place.’ She wafted the brochure in front of Jo’s nose, smiling giddily up at her.

Jo shook her head. ‘There is no way that I’m going to visit that place,’ she said, not disguising the note of disgust that crept into her voice. ‘I didn’t want to accept the case if we’re being totally honest. And I’ll be damned if I do a job that I didn’t want to take.’

Sam grinned and stroked Jo’s arm with intimate affection. ‘Come on, darling,’ she whispered. ‘You need the break and we both know it’ll do you some good.’

Jo shook her head. ‘There’s no way I’m going to that health farm, and nothing you can do or say will get me there.’

As soon as Sam kissed her, Jo could feel her resolve weakening.

Arthur knight stared out through the Venetian blinds, two fat fingers twisted between the slats at eye level, so he could view the car park discreetly. The shafts of sunlight that fell into his office were pale blue, and filled with the eddies of swirling smoke.

‘There must be a lot of money in private-investigation work,’ Arthur observed, squinting out into the morning light. ‘Have you seen the fiery red sports car that the Flowers woman is driving? They cost a chuffing fortune and she’s barely old enough to chuffing drive it.’ There was the distant lilt of a Yorkshire accent in his voice which always became more pronounced when he was excited or in a hurry to express himself. The accent had been thickening all morning as he watched the Poplar Trees’ newest tenants arriving.

In the silence that followed, Poppy knew better than to stay anything. With her long, mousy-brown hair, willowy figure and unspectacular choice of clothes, she seemed to blend into the smoky shadows of the dimly lit office. She stayed silent, wondering how Arthur Knight was going to respond to the request she had made.

She wished she had been able to make the request to his brother, Derek. Derek was just as brusque and intimidating, but Poppy had seen him smiling slyly at her from time to time. She suspected that Derek had a secret desire for her and she would have been happy to exploit that if it could have helped her. But Derek was not in the office this morning and she had been left with no option other than to ask Arthur.

‘That Valentine woman doesn’t seem to be doing as well as her boss,’ Arthur noted. He pushed his face against the blinds, trying to determine the make and model of the dirty, rust-eaten car Jo had been driving. ‘What is that? A Ford Shitheap or a Renault Crock?’

Poppy remained silent, studying her hands as they played nervously in her lap.

Arthur closed the Venetian blinds and turned to face her. ‘I can’t believe you’re asking me for time off.’ He dropped heavily into his seat at the head of the conference table. ‘More than anyone else, you should know how busy we are around here at the moment.’

Poppy shook her head, loathing her own servility but unable to think of any other way to act. ‘I suppose it is wrong of me to ask.’ She risked a nervous glance at him. ‘But I haven’t had any leave for the past two years, and yesterday morning –’

‘You haven’t had any leave since you worked so bloody ineptly on the Meadows case, have you?’ he broke in.

Poppy glared at the conference table, wishing he was not constantly reminding her of that one mistake. Admittedly it had been a large mistake, ruinous for their client, and potentially crippling for Knight & Knight solicitors. The threat of compensatory litigation had hung over the company like the sword of Damocles. There was still the danger of the ruined client making a successful compensation claim, but, as each day passed, the chances diminished.

‘It was just before I started working on the Meadows case when I took my last holiday,’ Poppy confirmed.

Arthur Knight sat back in his chair, shaking his head thoughtfully from side to side. He placed the tips of his sausage-like fingers together and began to gently squeeze them as he spoke. ‘Your cock-up on that case damned nearly ruined this company,’ he reminded her.

Poppy glared unhappily at the table, knowing that he was exaggerating but not daring to point that out. Her cock-up had been an embarrassment but it had not caused ruination. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘And I really am sorry,’ she added, for what felt like the millionth time.

‘The problem with a divorce case like that one is that we can get more money by stretching the proceedings outs.’

‘I know,’ Poppy said miserably. Over the past two years she did not think a week had gone by when she had not to endure this lecture. Every time she asked Arthur Knight for the smallest favour or service, he reminded her of the foolish mistake she had made on the Meadows case. If the idea of a fortnight’s break had not been so tempting she would not have set herself up for this purgatory again.

Thinking back to her mistake, Poppy supposed it was the sort of error that had been bound to happen sooner or later. Knight & Knight solicitors had been dealing with the affairs of Malcolm and Sky Meadows from the day that they announced their engagement. They had continued to work with the couple throughout their marriage and, when the pair decided to divorce, it was inevitable that one of them would want to use Knight & Knight.

Perhaps, Poppy thought, things would have been different if Sky Meadows had used a different solicitor. Malcolm Meadows was always in the office, attending to other matters of business that did not concern his divorce. In those circumstances, she supposed that a mistake was inevitable.

She had been a lot younger back then and eager to please all the clients who were submitted to her portfolio. When Malcolm Meadows had asked her to organise a substantial withdrawal from his bank, Poppy’s automatic reaction had been to say yes.

She had not given a thought to the divorce case she was handling for his wife.

Her attention was focused on customer satisfaction for Mr Meadows. On his instruction, she had withdrawn five million pounds from the Meadows’ joint account. If Poppy had done this with the permission of Mrs Meadows, she knew the pointing finger of blame would not have been so relentless. Instead, she had used her initiative and followed Malcolm’s instructions to the letter.

She was still paying for that crime.

After leaving the office, Malcolm Meadows had driven to the coast. No one knew if he was trying to meet his lover and met with misfortune instead, or if he was simply depressed by the acrimonious divorce and had decided to end it all. Whatever the reason, his fate was well documented.

The mangled wreckage of his car was retrieved from the sea bed beneath the shadow of the cliffs. There was no trace of his body or the briefcase with its five million pounds. The notorious currents in that stretch of water were blamed for Malcolm’s missing body and, after a rudimentary search, the local authorities quickly stopped looking.

No trace of him, or his money, had been seen since.

‘Sky Meadows could have taken us for ten million or more,’ Arthur said, closing his eyes and pushing himself back into his chair. ‘She still could. Did I ever tell you that?’

Every week, whether I wanted to hear it or not, Poppy thought miserably, as she answered, ‘No, Mr Knight, I don’t think you did tell me.’

Arthur grunted dourly. ‘It also thwarted our chances of making a lot of money out of that divorce. We could have still been working our way through the paperwork, and taking a tidy profit from the account at that.’

Poppy closed her eyes and chewed on her lower lip. Two years of listening to this, and mumbling apologies in response, had left her inured to the words. She could sense that Arthur Knight was building up to something, and wondered if he was going to turn down her request for a holiday. It would not be the first time and she was already prepared for the disappointment of his refusal.

‘Does this mean I can’t have the fortnight off?’ Poppy asked boldly. She dared to meet his gaze when she asked the question, then looked away quickly when she saw he was watching her.

‘Poppy, Poppy, Poppy,’ Arthur said, shaking his head sadly. He slapped the seat next to his, and waited until she had settled herself there before continuing. ‘I’d love to let you have a fortnight off;’ he began seriously. ‘No one deserves a fortnight off more than you – I mean that in all sincerity – but you’re a victim of your own success.’

Poppy felt like a victim, but not of her own success. ‘How do you mean?’ she asked, not sure she wanted to hear.

Arthur laughed and clapped a friendly hand on her leg as he spoke. Poppy knew there was no intimation in the touch. Not only was Arthur Knight an ugly, balding, fat bastard, he was also married to Mrs Knight and, therefore, Poppy knew he would have no interest in her. Also, she had seen her own reflection when she dressed that morning. The whey-faced, shapeless thing that had stared back was so dull and uninteresting it was incapable of inspiring sexual feelings in anyone.

Despite all these assurances she was making to herself, she noticed that his hand remained where it was, against the coarse fabric of her long, all-concealing skirt. He rubbed a fat thumb against the top of her thigh as he spoke. His fingers occasionally squeezed her leg for punctuation. ‘You really do deserve a break. And I really want you to have one, too. No one deserves time off more than you do.’

Poppy could sense the word ‘but’ was about to raise its ugly head. She braced herself for its impact, as though it would hurt like a slap.

Still stroking her thigh, Arthur Knight went on. ‘But you do too much around here. Far too much. And the thought of having to cope without you for a fortnight is quite frightening.’ He shivered theatrically, as if to show her just how terrifying the ordeal would be.

Poppy lowered her head and sighed heavily. She could tell a refusal when she heard one and would rather he had simply said no, rather than trying to dress it up as though it was a compliment. She considered pushing his fat, sweaty hand off her leg and telling him to stick his job where he shoved his Anusol, knowing she would not dare to do either.

Arthur Knight was still talking. ‘I suppose you think I’m being foolish, saying that I’m frightened by the prospect of a fortnight without you. But I guess that’s part of the problem.’ He smiled easily.

Poppy frowned, uncomfortable with the cool appraisal of his stare.

‘The idea of having to manage without you makes me so upset that I get very, very tense,’ Arthur told her. His fingers squeezed her leg as though he had just made a point.

Poppy wished she understood what he was talking about. He was not making sense. His sweaty hand was making her leg uncomfortable, and the anticipatory air in the conference room was so thick and unsettling that she felt quite ill.

Arthur smiled at her. ‘Now, if only I could find some way of releasing all that tension, then perhaps I could let you have your two weeks off.’

An unsettling thought occurred to Poppy and she glanced into his face. He was grinning broadly and dared to wink at her when she looked at him. The hand on her leg squeezed hard again and Poppy could feel her fears being confirmed. She swallowed thickly and tried to take a deep breath. Staring hard at the conference table, she said quietly, ‘I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean.’

In all honesty, she felt certain that she had guessed exactly what he meant, but the idea was so unexpected, and at the same time so repulsive, she dared not contemplate it until Arthur knight had said the words aloud.

‘Tension has different ways of affecting people.’ Arthur’s fingers inched ever so slightly further up her leg. Poppy could feel the flesh of her thigh was warm and wet where his hand had been. She did not feel particularly excited by his touch but she had to admit it was not an unpleasant sensation.

‘Some people need massages.’ Arthur was struggling to affect a casual tone. ‘Others need to smoke. But with me –’ He paused and studied her face for a second. ‘Can I be honest with you?’

‘Of course,’ Poppy told him. The words came from her mouth like a sigh. She could tell where this was leading and the muscles in her stomach were knotting frantically.

‘Of course,’ he repeated, laughing. He squeezed harder on her leg for a brief moment before pushing his fingers a little higher. ‘Well, to be totally honest with you, tension gives me an unbearable stiffness.’ His voice had fallen to a conspiratorial whisper that made Poppy feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘The thought of being without you for a fortnight makes that stiffness even worse. But if I could find a way of relieving it, then I’d be happy to let you have the time off.’

‘You want me to relieve your stiffness?’ Poppy asked dully. She felt certain she was misinterpreting his meaning but she could not quite contemplate how.

He was grinning lasciviously. ‘Relieve my stiffness and you can have your fortnight’s leave,’ he said. His bottom lip protruded heavily and his eyelids had lowered into a sleepy leer.

Poppy glanced at his face and could not recall seeing anything less sexually exciting in her entire life. His hand was still inching its way up her thigh, while the other was buried deep in his pocket. Even though she was trying not to notice, she could see the large swell of his arousal distorting the front of his pants. The slow rhythmic action of his hand, shuffling up and down over the erection, left Poppy in no doubt as to what he was doing. With a rising wave of revulsion, she realised that, as he spoke to her, Arthur Knight was intimately caressing himself.

He was still considering her with his repellent, roguish gaze and Poppy saw that something was expected of her. ‘Do you need a massage or something?’ she asked, wishing she did not sound so childishly naive.

He growled soft laughter. ‘You could start by massaging it,’ he told her. The hand inside his trousers began to work up and down faster and his salacious grin widened.

With her heart pounding nervously, Poppy stood up and brushed his hand away. She could feel her breath coming in bursts and it was an effort to speak to him in a coherent, sensible voice. ‘Could you please stop speaking in riddles and rhymes? I don’t know what you want from me but if you’d -’

‘I want you to suck my dick,’ Arthur Knight said sharply.

His words struck Poppy like an open palm against her face. She dared to meet his gaze, then wished she hadn’t. The sincerity she saw in his dark-blue eyes was chilling.

‘I want you to get down on your knees, beside this table, then suck on my dick,’ Arthur told her. His gaze never left her face as he spoke. His hand was moving up and down even faster than before and she wondered if she was enduring some bizarre work-related dream. The thought seemed unlikely and she crushed it before its hopes could hurt her.

‘Come on,’ Arthur said encouragingly. ‘Kneel down, do as I’ve asked, and you can have your fortnight’s holiday.’ As she watched, he moved his hands from his pocket and stroked himself through the silver-grey fabric of his trousers. His fingers reached the top of his zipper and she watched him tug it slowly down. The length of eager flesh he had been holding inside strained against the opening slit. Poppy could see a glimpse of pink skin struggling to escape through the fly. He reached a pair of fat fingers between the zippered teeth and eased his length out.