Act of Exposure (15 page)

Paul Bennet
was almost laughing. 'Miss Corrigan, I should think it was
noticeable enough. Him lying there with an iron bar up his ass, and
two hundred and forty volts cooking his bowels to well done.
Wouldn't you?'

Abby
maintained her serious expression. 'Whoever killed him wanted
maximum media coverage. He or she also wanted him discovered within
a certain time period. Fire is lethal in these blocks of flats.
People take notice if they see smoke coming out from under a door.
Someone would notice. Someone would report it, and whoever killed
him wanted it reported within a certain timescale.'

Bennet's smile
disappeared as he got his notebook out from his pocket.

'So. What time
did you arrive here?'

'Ten-thirty.
As I said.'

Just as Bennet
started to look serious, a guy from pathology intervened.

'Been dead a
few hours, Paul. Last night sometime. I'll give you more details
after I've given him a good seeing to back at the lab.'

'I think he's
already had that!' Paul Bennet sneered as he put his notebook
away.

Abby held her
head high and folded her arms across her chest. She stared at Paul
Bennet as if daring him to say what he had to say, willing him to
ask her what her relationship was with Stephen - if she fucked him,
if she sucked him. That's what he'd really like to be asking.

Bennet
retreated, but the look was there, though the words were left
unsaid.

'So,' he said
flatly. 'What were you doing here exactly?'

Abigail looked
at him defiantly.

'I came to ask
him about his statement regarding the charge against my client.
Unfortunately, someone got here before me. Now I'll have to depend
on the statement he gave the police, and the statement of the
arresting officer. Won't I, Mr Bennet.'

She looked at
him accusingly. If he did notice it, he didn't comment.

'At your
convenience, Miss Corrigan. At your convenience.' He smirked again
as though he really had made an outstanding joke.

Jerk
, she thought, and told him she'd
call in at the police station. She left it at that.

Despite her cool exterior, she had a nauseous gripe in her
stomach.
Imagine
,
she thought,
just how the victim must have
suffered as the ribbons of electricity had fried his
insides
.

When she left,
she could feel Paul Bennet's eyes upon her back. She shuddered. In
the darkness of the Red Devil Club, many faces looked back at her.
Not all had got to know her as Carmel. Not all had been fucked by
her. Paul Bennet was one who had.

Lance Vector
was in two minds whether to follow her. But the police were here,
and having reported back to the office that Carl Candel was dead,
and then to the man in the penthouse suite, he had been told to
stay and find out what the police's conclusion was. He didn't want
to be too long about it if he wanted to surprise his mother with
the piece of salmon he'd purloined for her supper. He'd had no
qualms about taking it. After all, Carl Candel wouldn't be wanting
it, would he?

But it was
hard not to follow Abigail, especially after watching his latest
recording.

It had been a
blue sky day when he had followed them. The air had been crisp with
the first hint of winter, and crisp red and brown leaves were
clinging to twigs and rustling as the breeze shook the
branches.

These sounds
of nature hid the sound of following feet. In a woodland spot where
green moss clung to overhanging rocks, Stephen and Abigail had made
love.

With the
fierce intensity of like-minded souls, they had wrapped their arms
around each other, their kisses hot and unending. Almost, he had
thought, as though they'd been super-glued together.

Although the
air was crisp, they had taken off their clothes; at least,
eventually. At first, Sigmund had ordered Abigail to take hers off,
his voice suddenly firmer than it usually was. She complied
willingly, her breasts pimpling slightly in the coolness of the
wind. Lance wished it had been him who had ordered her to take off
her clothes, him who now ran his hands over her body.

Breathless
with anticipation, he had watched and although that same jealousy
towards Stephen Sigmund was still with him, he wanted him to take
her, to make her do anything he wished her to do. As the spectator,
the man who only watched but also felt what the lovers were doing,
whatever Stephen wanted would be what he wanted too.

Stephen had
told her to spread herself against the rocks. She had arched her
back as her flesh had met the cold wetness of the moss-covered
stone, had mewed that she didn't want to do it. But Stephen had
insisted.

The sight of
her naked and exposed against the khaki greenness, was in itself
enough to give Lance an enormous erection. The fact that Sigmund
was ordering her to do it made Lance even more eager to lose his
virginity inside her gleaming body.

With the
dexterity that only the most professional peeper could ever hope to
master, Lance balanced his video recorder at the same time as
patting his rising erection.

He would not,
he told himself angrily, he simply would not wank himself off
again. Before seeing Abigail Corrigan, he would have done so
without a second thought. Now, it would no longer suffice.

Laid out now
over a bed of autumn leaves, Abigail was mewing in sweet delight as
Stephen guided his penis into her.

Hidden behind
a rock, and lost in a forest of emotions, Lance bit his lip, aware
that he wanted Abigail badly, that he wanted to take Stephen's
place inside this intoxicating woman.

Again and
again he had pressed the replay button on his video recorder last
night. Again and again, on normal distance, and on close-up, he had
viewed the pink, moist lips of Abigail's sex, the hanging balls and
noticeable size of Stephen's penis. And again and again, he had
watched as Stephen took his penis from her at the most important
moment, and let a torrent of creamy whiteness splash uncontrolled
over her breasts and belly.

He sighed as
his recollection reached its conclusion and looked at the police
cars, the block of flats, and the jump-suited boys from
forensic.

It was only
after closing the car door that a certain realization came to Lance
Vector. His instruction had been to find out what the police's
conclusion was regarding this crime. At no point had they asked him
what the crime was. It was, he thought to himself, as if they might
already know.

The following
day, the occasion and circumstances of Carl Candel's death were
plastered in thick black headlines both in the tabloids and the
broadsheets; after all, even the chattering classes have a love of
the erotically macabre, though they'd never admit to it.

Beneath the
thick, bold type, was the name of the freelancer who had got hold
of the story first and had touted it to every editor in town. That
name was Lance Vector.

The lawyers
acting for Medina Frassard stated their intention of taking the
matter regarding Valeria's alleged slur to court. It was not
unexpected. Abby phoned Val and told her about it.

'Cow! What
now?'

'Await the
court date - unless you've got any intention of settling out of
court or changing your mind about the CRE.'

'Screw
her!'

Abby raised
her eyebrows. She was long past the state where she winced at Val's
flow of expletives. Like the uniform, the strength and the
single-mindedness, the swearing was all part of Val's make-up, or
perhaps her defence.

'Okay. Then
into battle we go. I'll let you know when I get a date for the
hearing.'

'Thanks, Abby.
You're a real pal. Anytime I can do anything for you...'

'...I'll ask.
Never fear.'

Val sounded as
if she'd have liked to continue talking, but Abby's thoughts had
already moved on. She would be defending Val soon enough, and
although Val might end up paying damages, she would still have her
career and her status. Stephen's case was more involved and a lot
more than money was at stake. Today she was meeting someone who
might be able to throw some light on his particular case.

Douglas
Dermott-Embledon was pleased to receive Abigail's call, and even
more pleased to meet her for lunch. She wanted to ask him why he
had given Carl Candel Stephen's private telephone number.

The restaurant
was French, its decor a creamy adaptation of Napoleonic decay. It
was a place she had been to before where she could take clients and
know nothing told in confidence could be overheard.

In the past,
she had entered the place full of confidence, assured that no
matter the crime of which her client was accused, the fact that she
appeared in calm control would put them at their ease. Today,
things were different. Someone she cared for was accused and in
danger of being destroyed. Now it was her who was ill at ease.

Get a grip
, she thought to
herself.
You can't fall apart this soon in
the case. Too much depends on it
. She
assumed a bright smile for the man opposite her.

'I've seen you
perform,' Douglas said.

In more ways
than one, Abigail thought to herself, and smiled secretively. Her
brain was alert. Her tongue wet and ready to lick this witness into
shape.

'Your defence
strategy was something to behold in the Theobald case,' Douglas
went on. 'I am told that your summing up was sure-footed.
Impeccable.'

Theobald was a
man charged with having had an incestuous relationship with his
daughter. The prosecution had omitted to mention that he had not
known that she was his daughter at the time of the incident. His
wife had gone off with another man and taken the baby girl with her
many years before and he had lost contact. The child had grown up
to look like her mother when she was younger; blonde, leggy and
blue-eyed, the looks he still preferred. It was a case she had
won.

Abby took the
hand that was offered her, noted the silky smoothness of his
refined fingers, the polished perfection of his nails. 'My fame
goes before me. I thank you kindly for your comments, sir.'

He seemed to
appreciate her calling him sir. Despite his hair being silver, the
eyes of Douglas Dermott-Embledon were sharply grey, their shade
reflected by the subtle sheen of his tie. When young, thought Abby,
he must have been irresistible and in no need of adornment. Now,
older, his clothes were impeccable, his hair not too long, but
flirting gently with the edge of his collar. She did not need to
ask what his body was like beneath the silk shirt and well-cut
suit. She knew that already, knew that from the night he'd taken
her down onto the ship. Those cool eyes had watched as she brought
her breasts out over the top of her dress, bent over, then cried
out as her nipples brushed the cool glass of the chart table. He
had moaned as she hoisted her dress up over her behind, her black
suspenders tight and slightly restrictive against her creamy
flesh.

But that was
Carmel who had done that, a woman with red lips, black hair and
black eyes.

This was a
different woman, a woman he knew as Abigail Corrigan, QC, and he
was showing her due respect.

Although he
already knew why she was there, she explained she was acting for
Stephen Sigmund regarding the charge of intent to commit an
indecent act in a public place. He nodded amiably and seemed not to
be biased either way with regard to Stephen's guilt.

An understanding man
, she thought. A
man of similar tastes, similar fascinations. Despite his status in
the public eye, Douglas, like Stephen, still yearned for female
flesh and unhindered sex. No matter that the public itself and the
journalists who pandered to it were outright hypocrites with their
own skeletons in their beds as well as in their cupboards. Public
figures were expected to be on the other side of perfection.
Latter-day saints who needed to be made of stone and have no
sexuality, no passions, no fantasies. Could it be that those once
worshipped were then scorned because they mirrored the public's own
image?

Douglas smiled
at her. The same even smile had been on his face since the time he
had taken her hand. 'So you want to ask me questions, my dear. You
are at liberty to do so - after we have eaten.'

She ordered a
light salad. He ordered the same for himself, though without butter
for his bread, and without flesh from fowl or beast. He also
ordered a light rosé, chilled to just the right temperature.

'I prefer
claret with dinner,' he said in a matter-of-fact voice, 'but I tend
towards something light for luncheon.' Her reaction was suitably
polite, suitably spoken. 'Heavy lunch equals heavy afternoon, and
one's pile of work becomes a mountain. I heartily agree with your
choice.'

'Please. Call me Douglas.' He clasped his hands in front of
his face and beamed. Behind his respect for her, she caught a look
of lust that surged for a moment, but was quickly brought under
control.
A Cheshire Cat
, she thought to herself.
A cat who
likes to be preened
.

When lunch had
been eaten and the wine drunk, she asked him about the rent boy and
the telephone call.

His fixed
smile lessened. 'I don't remember giving Stephen's number to that
boy. I told Stephen that. If I did and I gave him his number, then
I sincerely apologize. But somehow, I cannot believe that, old as I
am, I have forgotten that someone asked me for a private telephone
number of a man I respect.'