poor drug-addled waifs who lined the backstreets and would give it away for a song to anybody. Daria was sensible and careful. She maintained her self-respect, could afford to be reasonably picky about her clientele, and would do nothing she wasn’t comfortable with. She was also a devout Catholic who saw no particular conflict between her faith and her chosen profession.
The Englishman had first noticed her when she’d been among several other girls brought to the island by motor launch to visit a group of clients in what seemed like a kind of shared apartment attached to the secluded villa. She’d seen him watching from a window of the main house, and been able to tell right away that this somewhat older, somehow sad and lonely-looking man wasn’t like the hard, crude brutes for whom she and the other girls were intended. The way he was scrutinising her, seeming to single her out from the others, she could see he liked her. She’d overheard someone refer to him as ‘Mr Lucas’. He was clearly the owner of the villa and in charge of whatever kind of business went on there. Like the other girls, Daria had the good sense not to concern herself with such matters.
The little contingent had made the boat trip across to the villa several times since. They were well enough looked after, extremely well paid in crisp banknotes, of which there seemed to be no shortage, and there was always lots of wine and champagne. She was always with a different man. They seemed to come and go. Again, she never asked why.
The phone call yesterday had come as no real surprise. Mr Lucas wanted to see Daria, alone. A car had come to pick her up at her apartment and taken her to meet the boat. The December weather was mild enough to wear a dress that was light without being too revealing. Mr Lucas had come to greet her at the gate of the villa. He was wearing a monogrammed satin dressing gown which she told him looked very raffinato.
He appeared nervous at first, and Daria thought he seemed a little wired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly. A lot of her rich clients were highly stressed businessmen seeking a little relaxation. When she slipped her willowy arm through his and let herself be led into the cool white interior of the villa — plants and artwork and expensive antiques everywhere — he seemed to unwind. Meester Lucas — he loved the way his name tripped deliciously off her tongue. She giggled and apologised for her bad English. He smiled charmingly. ‘No, I adore the way you speak. And please call me Penrose.’
Deep inside the villa, he took her to a plushly furnished office complete with a broad desk and a giant leather recliner chair. Kinky, she’d thought at first, until he showed her through a door into the adjoining bedroom. Daria got the strange impression that Mr Lucas spent most of his time in these two rooms. Who were all those other men? What did they do for him? He was obviously terribly wealthy and important. The bedroom was very luxurious, with a king-size bed and marble floor, beautiful things all around.
Penrose sat on the bed and motioned at her dress. ‘Take it off,’ he said. She duly obliged. The silk pooled around her ankles and she stepped out of it in one of her many sets of lacy underwear. For this occasion she’d chosen red, to go with the red high heels.
Penrose felt his heart quicken as he ran his eyes up and down her appreciatively. What a body. He’d already decided that he wanted to cover her with money first, stacks and stacks of lovely cash from one of the stuffed holdalls that were currently hidden under the bed, then make her take off the rest of her clothes, very very slowly, and then-
The fantasy abruptly popped like a bubble. Penrose’s brow creased. He leaned forward on the bed, craning his neck to peer more closely at her. Was that…?
Yes, it was!
He pointed. ‘Take that off,’ he said more sternly. ‘Take it off immediately.’
Daria smiled, reached behind her and began undoing the clasp of her lacy bra.
‘No! Not that!’ he shouted. ‘That! That thing! ’ Suddenly all the charm and refinement were gone. His face was turning red and he was scowling at her. Daria was confused. What had she done wrong? He kept pointing at her. ‘Get that bloody thing out of my sight!’ Frowning, she realised that his accusing finger was aimed at the little gold cross that she wore on a chain around her neck. She’d had it for most of her life, and believed that it protected her from evil.
And maybe she needed protection today. Daria was beginning not to like the look of this Englishman at all.
‘Do you hear me, whore? You do what I tell you to do! Take it off!’
Just because she was a whore, didn’t mean she let herself be treated like a dog, and she’d damn well wear her cross if she wanted to. Daria had a pretty fiery temper of her own, and she was happy to give him a healthy dose of it. She let off a rapid and very loud burst of Italian, telling him to watch his fucking mouth and she wouldn’t take her little cross off for anyone. If he wanted to screw her, he’d screw her with it on or else go and screw someone else, all right?
Penrose couldn’t take his eyes off the cross twinkling against the honey skin of her throat. His face twisted. How dare this filthy Christian slut talk to him like this? A paroxysm of fury gripped him and he launched himself off the bed and straight at her, slapping her arms aside with one hand and making a grab for the necklace with the other. His fingers closed around the gold chain and he yanked hard, trying to rip it off her neck.
Daria let out a cry as the chain bit into the back of her neck. She instinctively jerked away from him, tearing the little chain out of his fingers before he could snap it. She hurled another stream of Neapolitan invective at him. ‘That’s it. I’m leaving this place right now. Who do you think you are, you piece of shit? Take me back to the boat!’
Penrose held his shaking hand up and stared at the blood running down his palm from where the chain had cut his fingers. The whore was screaming at him. She was crazy.
She was a bitch. A filthy, filthy, repulsive little-
Penrose’s eyes bulged. His jaws clamped tightly together so that the muscles bunched up in his cheeks. He thrust his bloody hand inside the folds of his dressing gown. It came out clutching his Coonan. 357. The pistol gleamed under the lights. He’d been playing with it earlier, lovingly cycling rounds through its action and replacing them in the magazine, then oiling and polishing the stainless steel with a silk handkerchief, thinking of the power that he had, how he could do anything he wanted and nobody could ever stop him.
Daria screamed when she saw the gun in his fist and the madness in his eyes as he pointed it at her. She tried to run for the door, but even as she turned to get away from him, the blast of the gunshot filled her world and the impact of the bullet hurled her brutally against the wall. She tumbled to the floor, her whole body quaking. She screamed again as she saw the dark blood welling fast out of the ragged hole in her side.
It wasn’t a very good shot, Penrose thought, but then it was the first time he’d ever fired the gun. Now he knew what it felt like, and he decided he very much enjoyed the kickback of the recoil against his hand and up his arm. He’d like to feel that again. He stepped up to the screaming woman, held the gun closer this time so that he couldn’t miss, and pulled the trigger. The gun flashed and boomed. The spray of blood hit him in the face.
The point-blank shot had blown Daria’s throat apart. Suddenly the screaming was a tortured gurgle. Her eyes rolled whitely in the mask of blood. Penrose fired a third shot and her head snapped back against the floor with a clean round hole between her eyes.
Getting more accurate already. It just takes practice, he thought.
A high-pitched tinnitus whine was singing in his ears from the gunshots and he could smell cordite in the air. He leaned over the body and gazed down in fascination at the way the third bullet had crumpled in her whole skull. Wow. Incredible. He smacked his lips and tasted the salty tang of Daria Pignatelli’s warm blood.
Now, who was going to clean up this mess? Not him, that was for sure.
Rex O’Neill had just been talking on the phone to Steve Cutter, who’d called from Jerusalem to say, predictably, that they couldn’t find any trace of Hope and Arundel. ‘Just come back,’ O’Neill had told him resignedly. What a stupid mess. He’d stopped even trying to calculate the astronomical daily wastage of Trimble Group funds.
As he was putting down the phone he could hear shouting coming from the direction of Penrose’s office. ‘What is it now?’ he muttered to himself in exasperation. Then came the sound of a woman screaming. O’Neill tensed, listening.
It was the unmistakable and very loud noise of a gunshot that brought him running in a panic. What the hell was happening? He was racing along the corridor towards Penrose’s office when the second shot went off, and tearing through the door moments after the third deafening explosion erupted from inside the adjoining bedroom.
