The Doll’s House (26 page)

‘You may please me,' he murmured. ‘Come here.'

Monika approached him. He moved quickly for a fat man. He came up to her and ran his hands down her back, squeezing her buttocks. She faked a gasp of pleasure.

‘You're beautiful.' She smelt his breath. It was sour. She smiled.

‘Denise told me what pleases you, Highness,' she whispered in her throaty voice. ‘That's why she sent me.'

She reached backwards with both hands. Her large breasts rose under the thin black silk. He stared at them. She unfastened the hook, and the dress fell away; she moved sensuously and it slid off her lower body. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and stood naked in front of him. For a few seconds there was no sound in the room, no movement.

Monika moved close to him; she wet her lips with her tongue, her eyes were gleaming behind heavy lids. She was trembling a little with excitement. The Prince was staring at her; one hand groped under his robe. Monika misunderstood the meaning of the gesture and she smiled. ‘I'll make you die with pleasure,' she whispered to him.

Suddenly his face contorted, he opened his mouth and shouted in Arabic. She saw snarling suspicion and fury wipe the desire off his face; the hand that had felt instinctively for the dagger he wore when he was dressed, swung out at her in a fist. She ducked the blow, and he lunged away from her towards the bed, reaching for the panic button that would bring his bodyguards bursting into the bedroom. As he did so he stepped on his robe and he stumbled. Monika flung herself at him. He wasn't expecting her to attack, he turned aggressively, his hand pressing down on the alarm. She heard it screaming in her ears, and her right arm came over the body, the hand rigid.

She struck him across the throat with all her weight behind the blow and smashed his windpipe like a rotten stick. He fell, gurgling blood and sputum. Monika heard the door burst open, a fierce shouting, and swung round. It was over in seconds; she saw the wild faces, the weapons raised as they ran towards her, and the first bullets slammed into her chest and abdomen like hammer blows, flinging her backwards on top of her victim. She felt no pain; she was dying as they dragged her off the Prince, and mercifully dead before they began to slash and stab at her body, screaming their grief for their dead master.

Daniel had parked the Mercedes in a space near the hotel entrance. He sat in the front keeping watch for Monika to come out. At twelve twenty-five he switched the engine on, ready to move forward and pick her up.

And then he heard the sirens. The wailing came from a distance, growing louder, more threatening as it came closer. Flashing blue lights winked in the darkness.

Daniel leapt out into the street. He hesitated for a moment, flattening himself against the garden railings, then as the first police car turned the corner he began to run.

Jan heard the sirens, saw the flash of blue light, knew that it had gone wrong. The hotel was suddenly illuminated, as the main switches were turned on.
Monika had been caught
. Abort the plan. The old formula shouted in his head.
Abort! Get out!
He acted as he had been trained to do in a crisis, when delay meant capture.

He wrenched the wheel and the car swung at right angles, its finely tuned engine responding instantly. He drove out of Lancaster Place before the first police car turned in. He didn't see Daniel running.
Abort and get back to base
. He didn't reason, he didn't think. He acted blindly to survive.

The Regent's Canal was deserted. Stevenson brought the car into the kerb by the water's edge. The Subaru cruised up and pulled in behind him. Bob was driving, Ron was in the back with his feet on the girl. She'd recovered consciousness and he kicked her when she tried to move. Ron liked women, but he wasn't chivalrous.

Stevenson got out. The lights were doused on both cars. He stood lighting a cigarette between cupped hands, on the look out for cars approaching or any sign of life. Nothing. Not a sound but the still lap and ripple of the black water a few feet below.

He moved up to Bob in the driver's seat and the window of the Subaru slid down. ‘All right,' Stevenson said under his breath, ‘let's get a move on.' He gestured to Ron in the back to put his stocking on and hide his face. Ron reached down and started pulling the girl off the floor. It was awkward because she was tied up tight as an oven-ready chicken – they never did things by halves – and she was heavy.

Bob was in the road with Stevenson lighting a cigarette, waiting for him to do the business. He had her propped on the seat; her eyes were wide with terror above the surgical tape plastered over her mouth.

Ron liked women; he took a quick look out of the window. The other two had their backs to him. He pulled the girl against him and shoved a hand up her skirt.

‘Holy shit!' He threw her back against the door so hard she slid half off the seat on to the floor.

Stevenson swung round snarling at him, ‘What the fuck are you doing?' Ron was out of the car.

‘That's no girl,' he said. ‘It's a fuckin' man in drag!'

Stevenson reached the rendevous at the junction of Bayswater Road and Notting Hill. They were on time. There was no sign of the Mercedes.

They'd left the other car by the Regent's Canal. Ron had relieved his feelings by punching the hapless transvestite unconscious before he shoved him on the floor in the back. The Arab was in the boot, too frightened to make any noise. They'd be found by the morning. Ron didn't explain that he'd broken the silence rule when he made his discovery. He'd given the queer such a bashing he probably wouldn't remember …

The time passed. After half an hour Stevenson shifted in his seat. ‘They shouldn't be this fucking late,' he muttered. He was uneasy. He chain smoked. ‘We'll give 'em another fifteen minutes,' he decided.

‘You think it's gone wrong, Sarge?' Ron asked. He was sucking his sore knuckles.

‘Looks like it,' Stevenson answered.

‘What do we do then?' Bob was watching the digital clock on the dashboard. Nearly an hour over time.

‘If the wogs have got 'er or the Israeli, they'll put the pressure on 'em— 'arry said to bail out if they didn't turn up.'

‘Shit,' Bob muttered. Stevenson made up his mind. They were his lads, and old habits re-asserted themselves.

‘I say we don't chance it,' he said. ‘We piss off and lie low for a bit. That fuckin' hotel could be running with coppers by the mornin'. OK with you?'

‘OK by us,' was the response. He switched on the engine, turned the car and headed back towards the Bermondsey area.

The steak was tough; Rosa gave up on it and ate the chips with her fingers. A couple eating at a table close by eyed her with disapproval. They had dainty manners and sipped their wine with their little fingers slightly crooked.

‘If you do go abroad,' Harry pushed his plate aside and reached out to take a chip off hers, ‘where do you think you'll go?'

‘Maybe Brussels,' Rosa answered. ‘Do you want my mushroom – I've had enough.' She speared it on her fork and fed it to him.

‘This is like that film,
Tom Jones
,' she said. ‘Did you ever see it?'

‘No. Why?'

‘They kept feeding each other titbits – it was the sexiest thing you've ever seen.'

‘Why Brussels?'

‘I'm due to go there as Second Secretary. But things can change very quickly now. Something else may be on offer by the time I get back to the office.'

‘I hope it's Brussels,' he said. ‘Then I can come over and be with you. I'm not letting you go, darling. I was serious about that.'

‘You'd leave the hotel?' She stared at him.

‘I don't see myself going on forever,' he admitted. He called the waiter. ‘Irish coffee for two please. Or do you want some of that summer pudding stuff I see over there?'

‘I don't think so,' Rosa shook her head. ‘Irish coffee will be fine. If you leave, what would you do? Go on to another hotel?'

He lit a cigarette and passed it to her, taking a fresh one for himself. ‘I've got a business scheme going,' he said and smiled at her. ‘Something on the side. It's making quite a bit of money. I might take early retirement for the second time.'

The coffee came and Rosa held the glass in both hands and didn't look at him. ‘What sort of business? Nobody's making money out of anything these days.' She could feel her heart jumping. Oh God, please God, don't let Parker be right. Don't let him be mixed up in something.

‘I invested in some land in East Germany. You can pick up land there for a few pounds an acre. I've already sold some for development. So I'm piling up the Deutschmarks. It was a good tip; they've stopped foreigners investing because they woke up to the money they were making, but I got in early. It's funny, I've never made a penny out of anything before. This could make me quite well off.'

‘That sounds very good.' She had heard of the scheme because James and some friends were moaning about being too late to get in on it. She remembered that clearly.

She looked into his eyes and smiled. ‘I've only got another five days,' she said. ‘It's happened so quickly – between us. I always thought I was so level-headed. I didn't rush into relationships or get involved without thinking it through.'

‘I never get into a relationship at all,' he said. ‘I had the odd affair in the last ten years, but my wife, Peggy, put me off screwing around. I didn't like the lying and the general tattiness. I'd fallen in love once, and I reckoned it wouldn't happen again.

‘Then I met you. Just for the record, Rosa, your career wouldn't be a problem to me. I wouldn't want to cramp your style; it's what makes you special. Just bear that in mind. Now, shall we go upstairs, my darling? I want you very much.'

‘Shush,' Rosa whispered. ‘They've been listening to every word …'

They got up and as they passed the couple at the next table, Harry paused. The man looked uncomfortable and his wife was flushed. Harry smiled down at them. ‘I do hope you've enjoyed our evening. Good night.'

Rosa was laughing as they climbed the stairs. ‘Harry, you're impossible – how could you say that?'

‘I meant it,' he protested. ‘They looked as if they needed cheering up – not like us,' he unlocked the bedroom door and drew her inside. ‘I don't need anything but you.'

‘Where is he?' Hermann Rilke shouted. ‘This blows up in our faces and he disappears!' He was pacing up and down, watched by Vassily Zarubin. The early TV news carried the murder of the Arab Prince as its lead item. He'd put through a call to Oakham and received no answer. When reception opened, he was told the same as Jan the night before.

Zarubin hadn't bothered to turn on the TV when he woke. Rilke's call brought him leaping out of bed and within minutes he was on his way to Croft Lodge. He thought the German looked ghastly, his face the colour of dirty sand, pulling at his lip and stamping up and down in agitation.

‘It was scheduled for tonight,' he kept repeating. ‘They went early – why? Why weren't we told? That creature was killed that's one good thing! If they'd caught her alive and had time to question her—'

Zarubin said coldly, ‘Why don't you sit down? There's nothing we can do till Oakham gets back.'

Rilke stopped in mid step. ‘You think he knew, he went up to London last night and never told us?'

‘No,' the Russian shook his head, ‘I don't. He doesn't work like that.'

Rilke sat down and switched on the TV to catch the nine o'clock headlines. There was no further news, just the bare details rehashed from the earlier bulletin.

The Russian got up. He stretched. He was looking out of the window. ‘His car's just turned in by the back entrance,' he said. ‘And there is a woman with him. Leave this to me.'

‘No,' Rilke said furiously. ‘Why should I sit here not knowing what's happened – a woman!' He swore in German, blasting Oakham with obscenities. ‘He's wallowing with some filthy woman at a time like this!' Zarubin was at the door. ‘He put that damned Israeli in charge,' he raved on. ‘He's ruined everything!'

The Russian paused for a moment. ‘We don't know that,' he remarked.

‘Then why aren't the others back here?' Rilke swung on him.

‘That's what I'm going to find out,' Zarubin said and closed the door.

They drove up to the back entrance. Harry leaned over and kissed her on the lips. ‘Thank you, my darling,' he said gently. ‘It was the happiest night I can remember.'

‘In spite of the lumps in the mattress?' she asked softly.

‘Because of them. Because everything was perfect between us. We'll go in through the service door and you can use the back stairs. I can't have your reputation tarnished.' It was such an old-fashioned phrase, it made her smile. Like calling champagne ‘bubbly'.

‘When will I see you?' she asked him.

‘Lunch? In my house? I want to spend every minute with you.'

Make the most of today, he told himself. Enjoy this extraordinary thing that's happened to you, Oakham. Before tomorrow … ‘I'll meet you in the garden; we'll have a drink outside and then I'll show you where I live. Twelve o'clock?'

Rosa nodded, touched his face for a moment, and then slipped through the service door into the back passageway and kitchen quarters of the hotel.

Once inside her room she stripped off her crumpled clothes and ran a hot bath. She filled it with Floris bath oil and lay, soaking, breathing in the rich scent rising on the steam, thinking of him and the night they'd spent.

She felt so different that she examined herself in the mirror when she stood naked from the bath. No change was visible. But she was changed. She would never be the same again.

‘I've never even been in love,' she said aloud. ‘Marriage to James was nothing, Dick Lucas, the others – they were all nothing … I don't give a damn what Parker says … I'm going to call him up and tell him he's wrong. Harry's straight; if he wasn't, I'd
know
. I'll call tomorrow morning.'