As she waited, Sherborn appeared in the doorway.
'You off?'
She stared bleakly as she saw him looking curiously at the shopping bag.
'Taking all the secrets with you?'
'Yes.'
The lift doors swung open and she entered. As the doors closed, Sherborn smiled sneeringly at her.
Natalie took a taxi back to her two-room flat in Church Street, Kensington. She had slept very little the previous night, tossing and turning, trying to make up her mind whether to betray Shalik or not. Even now as she unlocked the front door and entered the small but pleasant living-room which she had furnished with care, she still hadn't made up her mind.
She put down the shopping bag, took off her head scarf and coat and then dropped into an armchair. She sat there for some minutes, knowing she would do it and loathing herself. She looked at her watch. The time was 11:10 hrs. There was always the chance that Burnett wouldn't be at the bank on this Saturday morning. If he wasn't, then it would be a sign for her not to do what she was planning to do. For a brief moment, she hesitated, then crossed to the telephone and dialled a number.
She sat on the arm of the chair as she listened to the ringing tone.
An impersonal voice said, 'This is the National Bank of Natal.'
'Could I speak to Mr. Charles Burnett, please?'
'Who is calling?'
'Miss Norman . . . Mr. Burnett knows me.'
'One moment.'
There was a brief delay, then a rich, fruity baritone voice came over the line.
'Miss Norman? Delighted . . . how are you?'
She shivered, hesitated, then forced herself to say, 'I would like to see you, Mr. Burnett . . . it's urgent.'
'Of course. If you could come at once . . . I am leaving in an hour for the country.'
'No!' Hysterical self-loathing now had her in its grip. 'In half an hour . . . here . . . at my flat! 35a Church Street, fourth floor. I said it was urgent!'
There was a pause, then the rich baritone voice, sounding slightly shocked, said, 'I'm afraid that is not convenient, Miss
Norman.'
'Here! In half an hour!' Natalie cried, her voice going shrill and she slammed down the receiver.
She slid down into the seat of the chair, resting her head against the cushion. Her body shuddered and jerked as she began to sob hysterically. For some minutes she allowed herself the luxury of crying. The hot tears finally ran no more. Trembling, she went into the bathroom and bathed her face, then spent some minutes repairing her make-up.
She returned to the sitting-room, opened a cupboard and took out the bottle of whisky she kept for Daz. She poured herself a stiff drink and swallowed it neat, shuddering.
She sat down to wait.
Thirty-five minutes later, the front door bell rang. At the sound of the bell, blood rushed into her face and then receded leaving her face chalk white. For a long moment, she sat motionless, then when the bell rang again, she forced herself to her feet and opened the door.
Charles Burnett, Chairman of the National Bank of Natal, swept into the room like a galleon in full sail. He was a large, heavily-built man with a purple red face, shrewd hard eyes and his bald head, fringed by glossy white hair, was glistening pink. Immaculately dressed in a Savile Row grey lounge suit with a blood red carnation in his button hole, he looked a movie version of what a rich, influential banker should be.
'My dear Miss Norman,' he said, 'what is all the urgency about?'
He regarded her, his mind registering distaste, but he was far too shrewd and experienced to show it. What a dreadful hag! he was thinking: nice figure, good legs, of course, but that pallid face, the plainness of it, those
