‘Jacqui, I told you not to do that.’
‘I know, but I… I couldn’t help it… I had to ring him, because of the baby.’
‘Baby?’
‘Yes, I’m pregnant again and…’
‘Does Steen know?’
‘Yes. We knew a month ago, and he said we’d keep this one and he wanted a child and…’ Again she was shaken by uncontrollable spasms.
‘Jacqui, listen. Calm down. Listen, it’ll be all right. Steen’s only acting this way because he’s frightened. There’s been a misunderstanding about those photographs.’ And Charles gave an edited version of his findings at Imago Studios.
By the end of his narrative she was calmer. ‘So that’s all. Marius thinks I’m involved with this Bill Sweet?’
‘That’s it. Jacqui, you might have known he’d keep the negatives.’
‘I never thought. I hope you tore him off a strip when-’
‘I didn’t see him. I saw his wife.’
‘What was she like?’
‘Oh.’ He shrugged non-committally. ‘Listen, Jacqui, it’ll be all right now. You can stay here. You’ll be quite safe. And go ahead as planned. I’ll somehow get to see Steen, deliver the photographs and explain the position. Then at least he’ll take the heat off you. And turn it on Sweet, where it belongs.’ He laughed. ‘I must say, Jacqui, I don’t care for your boy-friend’s methods.’
Jacqui laughed too, a weak giggle of relief. ‘Yes, he can be a bastard. You think it’ll be all right?’
‘Just as soon as I can get to see him. I mean, I don’t know about the emotional thing-that’s between the two of you-but I’m sure he’ll stop the rough stuff.’
There was a pause. Jacqui breathed deeply. ‘Oh, it really hurts. My throat, from all that crying.’
‘Yes, of course it does. You’re exhausted. Tell you what, I’ll get you pleasantly drunk, tuck you up in bed, you’ll sleep the sleep of the dead. And in the morning nothing’ll seem so bad.’
‘But my flat…’
‘I’ll help you tidy it up, when we’ve got this sorted out.
‘Oh, Charles, you are great. I don’t know what I’d do without you, honest.’
‘S’all right.’ He took her hand and gripped it, embarrassed, like a father with his grown-up daughter. Then suddenly, brisk. ‘Right, I’m hungry. Have you had anything to eat?’
‘No, I… I’ve felt sick. I-’
‘Haven’t got anything here, but-’
‘I couldn’t go out.’
‘Don’t you worry. It was for just such occasions that fish and chips were invented.’
‘Oh no. I’d be sick.’
‘Don’t you believe it. Nice bit of rock salmon, bag of chips, lots of vinegar, you’ll feel on top of the world.’
‘Ugh.’
It’s strange how fish and chip newspapers, out of date and greasy, are always much more interesting than current ones. It’s like other people’s papers in crowded tubes. You can’t wait to buy a copy and read some intriguing article you glimpse over a strap-hanging shoulder. It’s always disappointing.
In the fish and chip shop Charles noticed that his order was wrapped in a copy of the Sun. On the front page was the tantalizing headline, ‘Virginity Auction-see page 11’. The fascination of page 11 grew as he walked home. Who was auctioning whose virginity to whom? And where?
This thought preoccupied him as he entered his room. Jacqui was lying on the bed, fast asleep. Curled up in a ball on the candlewick, she looked about three years old.
He made no attempt to wake her. In her state sleep was more important than food. The Virginity Auction-he settled down in front of the fire to find out all about it. He slipped a hot crumbling piece of fish into his mouth, placed the warm bag of chips on his knees and turned to page 11.
Bugger. He’d only got pages 1 to 8, and the corresponding ones at the back. He’d never know where virginities were knocked down, or how one bidded. A pleasant thought of nubile young girls being displayed at Sotheby’s crossed his mind.
There wasn’t much else in the paper. It was the last Wednesday’s-all bloody petrol crisis. The titty girl on page 3’s midriff was stained and transparent with grease from the fish and chips. It looked rather obscene, particularly as the word ‘Come’ showed through backwards from the other side of the page.
Charles turned over and stopped dead. There was a photograph on the page that was ominously familiar. He had last seen it on a dresser, surrounded by brass souvenirs.
Fiercely calm, he read the accompanying article.
M4 MURDER VICTIM IDENTIFIED
The man whose body was found early on Monday morning by the M4 exit road at Theale, Berks, has been identified as 44-year-old William Sweet, a photographer from Paddington, London. Sweet was found shot through the head at the roadside beside his grey Ford Escort, which appeared to have run out of petrol.
Interviewed at his Paddington studios, Sweet’s wife, Audrey, could suggest no motive for the killing. Police believe Sweet may have been the victim of a gangland revenge killing, and that he may have been mistaken for someone else.
Charles put down the fish and chips and poured a large Scotch. He could feel his thoughts beginning to stampede and furiously tried to hold them in check.
Certain points were clear. He ordered them with grim concentration. Marius Steen must have killed Sweet: Sweet had put the pressure on about the photographs, Steen had fixed to meet him and shot him. Charles grabbed an old AA book that was lying around. Yes, the Theale turn-off was the one you’d take going to Streatley. Sweet was shot Sunday night or Monday morning. Marius Steen was in London certainly on the Saturday night, because he was at the Sex of One
… party. And in Streatley during the week. He was therefore likely to have been driving through Theale late on Sunday. As Harry Chiltern had said, there was always a gun in the glove compartment. A glance at the map made Charles pretty sure that that gun was now in the Thames.
Other facts followed too. Mrs Sweet was holding out on the police. It was nonsense for her to say no one had a motive for murdering her husband. As Charles had discovered, she knew about the Sally Nash party photographs. All she had to do was to tell the police about her husband’s blackmailing activities and very soon the finger would point at Steen. For reasons of her own, she wasn’t doing that. Probably just didn’t want to lose a profitable business.
But the most chilling deduction from the fact of Bill Sweet’s murder was the immediate danger to Jacqui. If he’d shoot one person who challenged him, Marius Steen would do the same to anyone else he thought represented the same threat. He’d tried to frighten Jacqui off with the telephone messages and vicious note, but if she persisted
… Charles shivered as he thought what might have happened if Jacqui had been in the flat when her ‘visitors’ called that morning. He looked over to the child-like form on his bed and felt a protective instinct so strong he almost wept.
Confrontation with Marius Steen couldn’t wait. Charles must get down to Streatley straight away. If the man was down there… Better ring the Bayswater house to check. But he hadn’t got the number. It seemed a pity to wake Jacqui. He opened her handbag, but the address book revealed nothing.
No help for it. ‘Jacqui.’ He shook her gently. She started like a frightened cat, and looked up at him wide- eyed. ‘Sorry. Listen, I’ve been thinking. I want to get this sorted out, like as soon as possible. There’s no point in your being in this state of terror. I am going to try and see Steen tonight. Get it over with.’
‘But if he’s in Streatley-’
‘That’s all right. I don’t mind.’ He tried to sound casual, as if the new urgency was only a whim. ‘My daughter lives down that way. I wanted to go and visit her anyway.’
‘I didn’t know you’d got a daughter.’
‘Oh yes.’
