Goddess of Death (3 page)

Arnold avoided the trap. ‘Soon. But perhaps you could advise me which dates I should avoid. For departmental reasons.’

Karen was annoyed, but she controlled herself. ‘I suppose there’s no reason why Karl Spedding can’t step in to some of the committees I see arising … but there is one commitment I would have of you, over this next period.’ Her glance slipped away from the diary, and she held his gaze. ‘You’ll be well aware that in my job I have to undertake various social duties.’

Of the kind Arnold hated. He braced himself.

‘The chief executives in the authorities of the North of
England have all been invited to a function at Leverstone Hall. There’s a sort of three-line whip out on this one: it’s an important get-together for the region. You’ve heard of Stanislaus Kovlinski, I imagine?’

Arnold frowned, then nodded. ‘Oil magnate. Russian
extraction
but domiciled in England. Maintains extensive interests in former Russian territories. Has a very beautiful daughter, I understand, who is reputed to be a little … socially inclined.’

Karen gave him a frosty, but appreciative smile. ‘Arnold, you surprise me. I see you keep up to date with the gossip columns. But you’re right. Rumour has it that Miss Kovlinski has been known to kick up her heels somewhat, on the London circuit as well as up here in the North. However, that’s by the way. The point is, Stanislaus Kovlinski has been in discussion for some time with the British Government on an agreement concerning offshore oil rig development in this part of the world: he would be supplying expertise through his work force as well as considerable financial investment which would bring employment to various depressed areas in the North-east. It seems that the agreement is in its final stages. The contracts have been written, and the signing of first drafts by government representatives at ministerial level will be followed by a shindig at Leverstone, hosted by the oil magnate himself.’

‘I’d also read that Kovlinski is somewhat reclusive, as far as social events are concerned. Likes to maintain a fairly low personal profile.’

Karen shrugged. ‘There are some things even oil magnates can’t step aside from. Anyway, the fact is the regional chief
executives
– and that includes me, naturally – have been invited to meet the big man himself, in company of one of our local Members of Parliament. None other than Alan Stacey.’

Minister for Industry. Arnold grimaced. Eton, Cambridge, the Guards, well connected, background in marketing, handsome, single and a man whom Arnold instinctively distrusted, even
though they had never met. Perhaps because he was a politician. He sighed. ‘So how does this affect me?’

Karen smiled: it had the hint of a feline in it. ‘I naturally accepted the invitation and shall be going, but unlike the others, who are all male, I have no escort. They will be taking their wives who no doubt will be excitingly dressed up to the nines for this amazing opportunity to look over each other and indulge in back-biting flattery.’

‘Can’t you go alone?’

‘I could, but would not choose to do so.’ She smiled at him. ‘There would have been no difficulty finding someone of
appropriate
status earlier, and I actually had made arrangements to be escorted by the only single male CEO in the bunch. George Lawson.’

Arnold held back a smile. The man in question was an unthreatening choice, well into his sixties and nearing
retirement
. To be escorted by him would have allowed Karen to drift, flutter flirtatiously, work the room and raise the hackles of all the wives present.

In a silky tone, Karen added, ‘Unfortunately George Lawson has, I recently learn, succumbed to an operation for varicose veins.’

Arnold no longer felt like smiling; he groaned mentally. Suddenly he could see where this was leading. ‘Social occasions like that have always been a drag, as far as I—’

‘So in the circumstances I’m afraid I have to turn to you, at this late date,’ Karen interrupted, widening her smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Arnold, and apart from that it will give you an opportunity to relax in glittering company, get away from the boring rigours of your job for a weekend.’ She paused, and closed the desk diary softly. ‘I would be most grateful if you would accompany me, Arnold. And before you protest further, I think you should treat it as a matter of duty.’

She rose to her feet in a casual manner, the interview over.
‘After that you can go to Albi and keep your appointment with Miss … ah … Cacciatore, is it not?’

There was no good excuse for refusal Arnold could think of: Karen Stannard had always had the capacity to out-manoeuvre him.

A week later they drove to Leverstone Hall.

T
YPICALLY
, K
AREN
HERSELF
drove.

She drove expertly. Arnold had no real objection to settling back in the seat of her Jaguar as she concentrated on the road: it meant he was able to enjoy the Northumberland scenery as they made their way north on the A1 before branching off into the hinterland, through sweeping hills and narrow lanes, past bursting gorse and heather, while above their heads the
occasional
drifting bird of prey swept on the wind, kestrels hovering with faintly fluttering wings, buzzards undertaking stately sweeps on the rising thermals. The afternoon sun was bright and warm and the air fresh and he was vaguely disappointed when the drive was finally over and they entered the stately driveway, guarded by tall electronically-operated gates and watchful, dark-suited men. The gravel rasped under the Jaguar wheels; thick rhododendron bushes clustered on the hilly slopes to their left and through the birch trees on their right Arnold caught glimpses of the blue, artificial lake that had been constructed by some early Victorian coal-owner who had sought to emulate some of his ducal neighbours and create for himself a spurious, faintly resented standing among the landed social gentry of the area.

Leverstone Hall itself proved to be, as Arnold had suspected, a monument to bad taste.

It had clearly begun as a late Tudor mansion but had been added to on several occasions, in different centuries. Mullioned
windows robbed from some more antique pile had been added to a Georgian frontage, which itself had subsequently been extended with Palladian columns, Victorian stone tracery, and at a later period doubtfully enhanced by sweeping stone staircases and formal gardens with the inevitable maze. When they drove up to the main entrance a burly, formally suited man directed them towards the side of the house, and informed them that their luggage would be brought in for them. When they stepped from the car, a young man of smooth Mediterranean appearance slipped behind the wheel and drove the Jaguar to the converted stable block at the back of the house. On the front steps a young woman, dark-haired, business-suited, sober-eyed, invited them to accompany her to the main entrance where they would be welcomed by another member of staff who would show them to their rooms.

Arnold noticed that a number of windows had already been thrown open on the upper floors and concluded that the other guests had already been arriving for some time. Maybe the accompanying wives had insisted on arriving early in order to deck themselves out appropriately.

The room allocated to him was just down the thickly carpeted corridor from Karen’s. The bedroom was large, beautifully
decorated
, and beside the king-sized bed was a replica French Renaissance chair and table on which had thoughtfully been provided some bedside reading. Arnold picked up the volumes and inspected them: a book of game birds, reprint of an
eighteenth
-century volume lavishly illustrated and bound, an equally handsome leather-bound copy of
Gil Blas
. Arnold shook his head and moved to inspect the bathroom. It was modern and expensively appointed. He took a shower, dressed, and then sat in the mullioned window seat for a while watching the sun glide behind the surrounding hills and observing the slow changing of the light, from gold, to purple. Inevitably, the phone rang. It would have to be Karen.

‘Are you ready, Arnold? We’re expected in the drawing-room for cocktails. I’ve been waiting for you to collect me. Do get yourself organized!’

Arnold called for her at her room. He escorted her downstairs, aware of heads turning as the men in the room below caught sight of Karen. The occasion turned out to be all that Arnold had expected, and dreaded. A magnificent oak-panelled room with early sculpted cornices and ceiling roses but peopled by a horde of individuals who were bent on inane conversation, banal discussions, drifting towards people who were Something in Northern social circles and wives who clung fiercely to their husbands whenever Karen made a casual appearance at their sides. Arnold managed to wedge himself with his drink in a fairly isolated corner of the room and watch Karen do her butterfly impression. She rarely stayed long in any one small group, but recognized other acquaintances and moved on, smiling, touching arms discreetly, flattering, but never losing her poise or confidence. Her dress was stunning: a low-cut,
pale-blue
sheath that showed off her magnificent gleaming shoulders and the slenderness of her upper arms. Arnold was amused to note how when she was talking to a man his eyes could not remain on hers but slipped towards the promise of her bosom.

He was forced to offer some conversation from time to time with people he neither knew nor desired to cultivate, but was soon relieved to be given up for lost by anyone with a penchant for social climbing and he managed to remain, disregarded in his corner, for much of the duration of the cocktail party. He caught glimpses of the Minister of Industry from time to time: Alan Stacey was in his element, fortyish, tall, broad-shouldered,
handsome
, assured, graceful in his movement, accommodating in his welcome. It was inevitable, of course, that he would be surrounded by a shifting population of political hangers-on and celebrity wannabes, with a
coterie
of civil servants from his department carefully bringing in appropriate individuals who
had expressed a desire to be introduced. Arnold stayed well in the background. But after a while he noted that in the shifting satellite around Stacey one person seemed to be almost
permanently
at the politician’s side. She was about twenty-four, Arnold guessed: black-haired and dark-eyed, her lips challengingly red, her
décolletage
almost daring, her laughing confidence high among the slavish group attracted perhaps as much by her as by the politician. He wondered who she might be.

As for their host, Arnold caught a brief glimpse of the man he took to be Stanislaus Kovlinski. He was well into his sixties, tall, keen-eyed, slimly built and slightly stooped, with an air that could be described only as predatory. His cheeks were hollow; his grey hair was slicked back from his high forehead and his eyes were protected by heavy brows. He prowled the fringes of the groups on soft feet. He clearly had no desire to hold court in the manner in which Alan Stacey MP comported himself. He drifted almost surreptitiously at the fringes of the crowded room. His conversation was briefly completed with any one person. At one point, shortly before dinner was announced, his sharp glance caught Arnold’s and for a moment it seemed he was going to come forward to speak, but after a momentary hesitation he turned away and shortly afterwards disappeared. Arnold was relieved.

He had no idea what he would find to say to a Russian oil magnate.

At dinner Arnold was seated next to Karen but she occupied herself with the guest on her left, a whipcord-featured minor politician with a braying Whitehall laugh. Arnold thought he might have seen him on television sometime. The black-haired girl Arnold had noticed earlier was seated next to Alan Stacey; the centrally seated presence of the host confirmed to Arnold that the prowling, somehow disconnected man at the cocktail party was indeed Stanislaus Kovlinski. His behaviour at the dinner table matched his performance before dinner: he was
watchful, sparing with his conversation, and, Arnold guessed, was somewhat irritated about something. From the way he
occasionally
glanced at the black-haired woman seated beside Stacey, Arnold finally concluded she must be Kovlinski’s notorious daughter.

The dinner itself was, naturally, sumptuous. Equally inevitably, the after-dinner speeches were unctuous, boring and scattered with laboured jokes that were funny only to their reciters. Alan Stacey gave the main speech of the evening:
confident
, spoken without notes, making eye contact with all in turn in his immediate vicinity, dwelling on Karen herself only twice, albeit with a glint of appreciation. He spoke, naturally enough, of the benefits the oil exploration deals would bring to the North-east and he congratulated his staff and those of the Kovlinski entourage on their perspicacity and hard work. He pledged government support to the venture, and emphasized his own personal support for the scheme, subtly suggesting that he had been the prime mover behind the whole operation. The black-haired young woman at his side gazed up at him with something approaching adoration. But if Arnold had expected Stanislaus Kovlinski to speak, as host, he was surprised to find that it didn’t happen. A senior civil servant rose to thank the host, but there was no verbal response from the oil magnate. There was a slight scowl on the man’s face, a hint of displeasure in the curve of his mouth.

After dinner, drinks were served in the library and the whole weary business of socializing started over once again. The evening was warm; the room crowded and, as alcohol and the resultant bonhomie increased, so did the temperature. The tall French windows at the end of the library were thrown open to permit the passage of cooler air, but Arnold seemed to be alone in seeking its refreshment. With a half-full brandy glass in his hand he sidled along the wall towards the windows, making the occasional small talk to anyone who stood briefly in his way, but
careful not to get trapped, and when he finally reached the windows he took the opportunity to step outside. He found himself on a broad flagged terrace that ran the length of the house.

The night was bright. There was little light pollution in spite of the shaded lamps glittering in the gardens; the stars were high, a half-moon throwing a pale light onto the terrace. Glass in hand, Arnold sauntered along the terrace, away from the lights and the chattering noise, inane conversation and tinkling glass until he was some thirty feet away from the windows. He stood with one hand on the balustrade, gazing out over the darkened gardens to the thick mass of trees that bordered the property and the silvered hills beyond.

He let his thoughts drift: the invitation from Carmela Cacciatore, the prospect of a few days in the South of France, an escape from the drudgery of his office. Then, after a little while he became aware of the smell of a cigar. He turned his head and noticed the glow of its tip.

Arnold moved forward slightly and from the corner of his eye eventually made out the dark figure of a man standing against the wall of the house, but he did not turn his head and made no attempt to acknowledge the man’s existence. It seemed they were both there to escape, and he had no desire to disturb the individual’s chosen solitude.

Several minutes passed before the man behind him stirred, and moved away from the wall. The voice was deep, heavily accented, the tone guttural. ‘I think you are Mr Landon.’

Arnold turned, surprised. As the man with the cigar came forward, slightly hunched, the light from the window
illuminated
his features. It was his host, Stanislaus Kovlinski. The cigar end glowed briefly as Kovlinski drew upon it; in the glow Arnold could make out the flinty glint of Kovlinski’s eyes, the pock-marked left cheek, and the thin, determined line of his lips. The oil magnate stood a little aside from Arnold and looked out
over his possessions. ‘It seems you enjoy occasions such as these as little as I do.’

Arnold smiled. He recalled how Kovlinski had managed to extricate himself from the room during the cocktail party. Clearly he believed in doing his duty but little more than was necessary. Arnold shrugged. ‘I’m not cut out to be a social animal.’

‘So it seems.’ Kovlinski waved his cigar in a negligent gesture. He nodded to the crowded, noisy room. ‘You came with that beautiful woman … Karen Stannard. Is she your woman, as well as your boss?’

Arnold laughed outright. ‘No, hardly that. She lacked an escort for this reception: I was dragooned into coming.’

There was a brief silence, then Kovlinski asked abruptly, ‘Do you have children?’

‘None that I’m aware of. And I’ve never married.’

Kovlinski made a snorting, contemptuous sound. ‘Children can cause difficulties. They are a distraction.’ He seemed on the point of adding something but remained silent.

Arnold felt the silence weighing heavily on them. ‘How did you know my name?’

Kovlinski glanced at him, then waved his empty hand in a somewhat deprecating manner. ‘The guest of honour, Minister Alan Stacey, he would know your name if you stepped close to him. Don’t you know that about politicians? They have aides whose job it is to obtain information on all individuals their master is likely to meet. That way, when you approach them, the aide whispers to the master, who acknowledges you by name, and can then leave you with the impression that he knows you personally.’ He humphed quietly. ‘A quiet deception. It’s the same with oil magnates. I asked one of my aides to find out about you.’

‘Why would you do that?’ Arnold queried, slightly amused.

Kovlinski stretched his back, raising his head, jutting out his
narrow chin as he seemed to ease muscular tensions in his back. ‘I make it my business to watch people, sum them up. You were the only one I detected in the reception who seemed less than eager to be there. Others were doing what they had come to do: make useful acquaintances, seek out contacts that might assist them in whatever role they have in life, generally grovel in the house of a man who has more money than they do.’ He glanced sideways at Arnold. ‘You seemed to wish you were elsewhere. I wondered, where would that be?’

Arnold made no reply. He didn’t know how to respond, without offending his host.

‘So I asked one of my aides to find out who you are.’ Abruptly, Kovlinski changed the subject. ‘Have you had previous dealings with this Alan Stacey?’

Arnold shook his head. ‘I don’t move in his social or political circles.’

‘His background is impeccable, I understand. Eton, Cambridge, a brief spell commissioned in the Guards, then aide to some important politician or other before he stood as an MP in his own right.’ Kovlinski had hitherto betrayed nothing but amused contempt for his guests but now his tone became more clipped. A hint of bitterness crept into his voice. ‘You English seem to be susceptible to that kind of social background among your rulers.’