The Lucifer Network (32 page)

On the right-hand side of the lobby was a row of booths. He passed through the doors and picked up the house phone.

‘Could you give me Miss Jackman's room number, please?'

‘Three-two-eight. I connect you?'

‘No thanks. It's late. I'll call her tomorrow.'

‘From the lobby phone you dial one first, then the room number.'

‘Thanks.'

He stepped smartly back into the street, crossed over to the outer side of the Ring, then looked up at the hotel's third floor. Half a dozen rooms had lights on. A new one lit up, then went off, then lit up again.

He'd thought of another possible reason why she was here. Julie had visited Vienna a year ago when the red mercury deal was set up – Waddell had told him. She might have come back with a warning that enquiries were being made, perhaps for the man he'd just seen her with. He stopped himself. Guesses were pointless. He needed certainties.

He stood there trying to decide what to do. From his own personal point of view he had a score to settle, apart from the multitude of questions he wanted to ask.
A siren sounded somewhere to his left. He looked along the Ring and saw blue lights approaching. An ambulance screamed past; his eyes followed it automatically. When it disappeared he looked back at the hotel again.

There was movement at the glass doors. A man was emerging. He paused to light a cigarette. Sam moved a few feet along the pavement so he could see more clearly – there were parked cars in the way. The male stepped out uncertainly, like someone who hadn't expected to be on a pavement at this time of night. It was the same dark suit, the same straight back. Sam's pulse quickened, almost certain it was Julie's companion.

The man looked both ways, smoking nervously, searching for a taxi as he moved slowly along the kerb. On the other side of the road Sam kept level, then walked quickly to the next lights, crossed the Ring again and turned back towards the hotel. When the man glanced in his direction he stepped into a tram shelter so he could watch without being seen. It
was
Julie's companion, striding along with the bruised, semi-defiant stare of someone who'd just lost an argument. And it wasn't a cigarette he was smoking but a small cigar. He had a long, narrow nose almost sharp enough to cut paper and was dressed in the manicured style of a banker or politician. As Sam watched, a taxi pulled up for him.

When it had driven off, Sam re-emerged from the shelter and walked towards the hotel. His conviction that this was a journalist had lost its strength, and his theory of a link with Jackman's business dealings was on hold. All bets were off. As he neared the Marriott's glass doors there was only one thought on his mind.

Harry Jackman's daughter would now be alone in her room.

Julie sat at the beechwood dressing table in room 328, staring at her weary reflection in the mirror as she undid the clip holding back her hair. A large glass of brandy stood comfortingly in front of her, chosen because it was the strongest drink in the minibar. The evening had left her wrecked. She'd got through to Max in the end, but it had been an uphill struggle. He'd made light of her wish to end the affair, assuming she was after a bit of extra cosseting and would succumb in the end. Rather than risk a scene in the lobby, she'd let him come up to the room. Once inside, he'd turned the lights off in an infantile effort to get her in the mood, but when she'd told him no and he'd realised she meant it, his face had crumpled like a bag of crisps. Then he'd kissed her forehead once and once only, and let himself out. That had been it. She felt relieved it was over, but empty too. Yes, the affair had been unsatisfactory, but at least it had existed. What she'd replaced it with was an impossible dream.

As soon as Max had gone, she'd taken off the blue dress he'd given her in Paris the last time they'd been together. The frock had been a part of their relationship and she'd needed to feel free of it. She was considering leaving the thing behind when she returned to London, but wasn't sure she could, the garment being of a style and quality well beyond her normal budget. She'd slipped on the white towelling robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door, then found herself a drink.

She took a big mouthful of the brandy and let it burn its way down her throat, feeling its almost instant effect on her head. The mirror showed the tension round her eyes and mouth. She tried a smile. The lips moved as intended, but the eyes stayed sombre and sad.

There was a sharp tap at the door.

‘Oh God,' she gulped. Max had come back. She froze. No idea what to do.

A second tap, louder this time.

‘Who is it?'

‘A fax for you, madam.'

Relieved that the voice wasn't Max's, she stood up. The accent was vaguely European. She tried to connect it with the faces of the hall porters downstairs. A fax? Who from, for heaven's sake? No one knew she was here – apart from Max.

‘Could you slip it under the door?'

‘You must sign for it, please.'

Nervously she slipped the latch. To her horror the door kicked inwards with a force that knocked her backwards.

‘Simon!' she gasped, clutching her hands to her throat. He'd followed her from London bent on revenge.

Sam banged the door shut behind him, then swung her round, gripping her from behind with an arm across her neck and a hand clamped over her mouth.

‘Don't make a sound!'

He pushed her into the room, checking no one else was there. ‘You and me are going to have a little talk.'

His voice grated in her ear like a stonecrusher. Julie's brain turned to spaghetti. When he'd burst through the door there'd been murder in his eyes. She felt his fury radiating like fire. It had been insane to imagine he could ever forgive her for what she'd done. His wristwatch pressed on her windpipe and she was finding it hard to breathe.

Sam hustled her further into the room and tightened his grip. The feel of her soft, bathrobed body against his own was stimulating him in a way he didn't want. And her smell, a musky mix of perfume, alcohol and sweat, was shooting straight up to his brain.

‘Fucking bitch!' he fumed, angry at the effect she was
having on him. His mouth was inches from her neck. Her hair brushed softly against his face and the curve of her behind pressed against his groin. For a mad moment he thought of stripping the towelling off her and doing what he'd wanted to do ever since he first clapped eyes on her. Then she started choking and he came to his senses.

‘No dramatics,' he warned, removing his hand from her mouth and transferring his grip to her shoulders.

‘No dramatics,' she coughed.

‘We're going to talk.' He manoeuvred her into the chair by the dressing table. ‘Or rather
you
are.'

‘Yes.'

‘The truth.'

‘Anything you want.' She noticed for the first time that he'd shaved his beard off. And looked even better as a result. Her attraction to him was stronger than ever, despite the coldness in his eyes.

‘First question. What are you doing in Vienna?'

‘Look, I'm sorry about last Sunday,' she gabbled, desperate for him to understand she meant it. ‘I made a dreadful mistake. Please believe me that I'm very, very sorry.'

‘Answer my question. What are you doing in Vienna?'

‘I came to see someone,' she explained.

‘Who?'

‘His name's Max Schenk.'

‘When did you see him?'

‘This evening.'

‘What's your connection with him?'

‘There isn't one any more. He'd been a boyfriend . . . of sorts.'

‘The sugar-daddy sort by the look of him.'

His comment startled her. He must have been watching her for hours. Watching and waiting until Max left.

‘You could say that,' she admitted.

Sam turned away, noticing the room itself for the first time. Standard hotel layout. Chinese print on the wall behind the king-size bed. A dark cover on it that matched the curtains. A single armchair and a table scattered with tourist literature. Beside the bed was a drawer unit with a phone and an address book. He picked it up. Open at S for Schenk.

‘That's private,' Julie protested, then bit her tongue.

He ignored her, flicking through the pages. Women's names, mostly. UK phone numbers. He searched under K, but found nothing for Kovalenko. Max Schenk's was the only overseas number she had. Not even one for her father. Damn the woman. If she
was
involved in her old man's shenanigans, she was covering her tracks with skill. He closed the book and patted it against the palm of his left hand.

‘Okay. So why did you do it, Julie?'

‘You mean . . .?'

‘Why did you set me up?' His eyes roamed the room, still searching for something that didn't fit.

Julie sighed. She'd thought long and hard about how to explain. ‘This is going to sound pathetic.'

‘I'll be the judge of that.' He prowled over to the wardrobe. Inside was the blue dress he'd seen her in earlier, hanging next to a brown skirt and dark cotton trousers. A smell of cigar smoke left on her clothes by her companion's habit. It had been the same at the flat in Acton. Smart, black shoes sat on the floor beside a pair of trainers. Shelves empty. She'd left the rest of her clothes in her suitcase. ‘I'm listening.'

‘I was in a state, that's all I can say. Confused to bits. My father had just been murdered.'

‘Not by me.'

‘No . . . No, I accept that now.'

Surprised by her easy capitulation, he turned round.
This was what he'd needed to hear, but it washed over him because there was no way of knowing whether she meant it. He pushed open the bathroom door and shot a quick look inside. Towel on the floor from the shower she'd had before going out. Empty Badedas bottle lying in the tub.

‘What are you looking for?' she asked as he reemerged.

He didn't know. Something to say that she hadn't come to Vienna simply to see a lover. Her suitcase sat on a folding stand with its lid open. He fiddled through the contents. Clothes, women's things. A paperback with an airport receipt sticking out of it –
Men
are
from
Mars,
Women
are
from
Venus.
And a leather box with the necklace he'd seen earlier – they certainly
looked
like diamonds.

‘You say it's over with this Max Schenk bloke. Who ditched whom?'

‘I was the one who ended it.'

It fitted with what he'd seen. He ran his fingers inside the pocket in the lid of the suitcase and pulled out an air ticket. Her return flight was on Friday. He checked the picture in her passport. Prettier in the flesh. Much prettier. Which had been the whole damned trouble. His anger flared again and he turned on her, pressing his face to within a few inches of hers.

‘Have you any idea what you've done to my life?' he snarled.

She looked down at her hands, biting her lip. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘
Sorry
. . .' He leaned forward and flicked her chin up with his finger. ‘Because of you, someone tried to kill me last night.'

Julie blinked, trying to grasp the enormity of what he was saying. ‘I don't understand.'

‘They found out where I lived by watching the TV news.'

‘Who did?'

Sam pulled back, shaking his head. He'd said too much. ‘And don't you dare pass that little tit-bit on to your media friends.'

‘They're not my friends,' she demurred. ‘There was just the reporter from the
Chronicle
that I talked to and I had no idea it would lead to all this.'

‘
No
idea
. . .' Sam mouthed. ‘Pay well, do they, the
Chronicle
?'

Julie closed her eyes, realising the impossibility of redeeming herself with him. ‘It wasn't for money.'

‘What, then?'

She took in a deep breath and let it out again. ‘I did it for my father. Because it was his last wish. I felt . . . I felt a duty to him.' She arched her eyebrows in exasperation at herself. ‘God knows why. He never felt one to me.'

Sam stood with his back to the curtained windows, arms tightly folded. Julie shot him a quick glance then stared at the floor, bunching together the lapels of the dressing gown.

‘I wish there was
something
I could do to make it up to you,' she whispered meekly.

Sam looked at her sitting there. She was infuriatingly attractive and convincingly contrite. He suspected that if he told her to take her clothes off she would comply. But it was something even more potent than sex that he wanted from her. Somewhere in that cotton wool mind of hers was, he suspected, a piece of information that could peel open her father's secrets. He kept remembering Jackman's dying words.
Julie
knows.
And something about the certainty with which the old rogue had said it made him feel it wasn't just because of the letter that he knew would be sent after his death. There'd been some
other reason. Something to do with Julie being here in Vienna a year ago when the deal with Kovalenko was struck.

‘How long have you known Max?' he asked, fumbling for a bigger picture.

‘We met last year. Here in Vienna. I came over for a conference.'

Everything
seemed to have happened a year ago. Too many simultaneous events to be coincidental.

‘And to see your father,' he reminded her.

‘That was incidental.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes,' she hissed. ‘As I've said a million times, I have never had anything to do with his business activities.'

‘How did you meet Max?'

‘He's a doctor. Has his own clinic. The hotel I was staying in was full of medical people. For the conference.'

‘So you met by chance. Locked eyes with him at a seminar and that was it?'