the nipple. It was hard and thick between his teeth, and he held her breast in both his hands, feeling in his fingers the soft size of it, the weight of it in his palms.
But she would not stay still. Instead she was pushing the dress down over her hips as she straddled him in the chair. Reaching out he cupped his hands under her strong buttocks so that he could guide himself deep into her.
Later they made love in Greta’s unmade bed, ignoring the chaos of the ransacked room around them. He moved slowly inside her with his eyes wide open so that he could experience every facet of her nakedness; the pink aureoles, the cleavage between her high breasts, the rich, thick blackness of her pubic hair.
“I love you, Greta,” he whispered and she smiled.
“He loves me, he loves me not,” she said as she rocked backward and forward above him, but he knew that his time for choice, if there had ever been a time, was now over.
Six hours earlier he had watched his wife being lowered into the wet ground, and now here he was having sex with his assistant for the second time. He was disgusted with himself; he smelled the whisky on his breath and the sweat on his body, but at the same time he rejoiced. Greta was more beautiful than he could ever have imagined.
At half past one the telephone rang. Just once, but it was enough to wake Peter up. He had been sleeping badly for the last week anyway. The whisky gave him insomnia, and any disturbance shattered his uneasy dreams.
He lay on his side facing the window and listened to Greta’s whispered conversation.
“Do you know what time it is?” she said angrily, and then after a moment she added: “Wait, I’m going to go in the other room. I’ll call you back.”
He felt her get out of bed and put on a robe. She went out into the hall and put the light on and then came back to stand on his side of the bed looking down at him for a moment. He kept his eyes closed and breathed evenly. He didn’t know why. It was almost as if he felt it was the polite thing to do, to pretend to be asleep.
She pulled the door to behind her without closing it fully, and he sat up in the darkness wondering who it could possibly be, who would call Greta like this in the middle of the night. He thought of the blackmailer Greta had told him about on the night of the murder. Had he come back? Perhaps he wanted more money. That’s what usually happened. It wasn’t just Greta’s problem now, Peter realized. It was his too. Peter needed to tell Greta that she could count on him. He groped around on the floor for his clothes and pulled on his shirt and trousers. Then he walked purposefully down the hallway to the door at the far end and paused with the handle in his hand. Greta’s voice was audible on the other side of the door and Peter suddenly felt that he would be intruding to walk in on her. He knew he ought to go back to bed, but her words kept him rooted to the spot.
“Look, you’ve got to leave me alone.” Greta sounded angry like she had been in the bedroom.
A pause, then her voice came again, louder this time: “Don’t call me that. I’m not your Greta Rose. Not anymore.”
Another pause and then: “You’ve had what we agreed. You got it all. Now leave me alone.”
Peter felt like a spy. He had to go forward or back, and he went forward. He needed to know what it all meant.
As he opened the door, he was just in time to hear her last words before she put down the phone.
“I’ve got just as much on you now as you’ve got on me. Remember that.”
Greta looked shocked to see Peter standing in the doorway.
“I thought you were asleep,” she stammered.
“I was. I heard you get up. Who was that calling you? Was it that man?”
“Yes, yes it was. He won’t call again.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got something of his. I made him give it to me when he had the money. You heard what I said.”
“What have you got?”
“I don’t want to tell you, Peter. You don’t need to know. Isn’t it enough that I tell you he’s going to stop?”
Greta held her arms out toward Peter and her robe fell open, exposing her body. But he remained by the door. His forehead was creased with anxiety.
“‘I’m not your Greta Rose.’ What does that mean, Greta? I need to know what it means.”
“You were listening outside the door, Peter. You were spying on me.”
Peter ignored the accusation. He needed an answer.
“Tell me what it means, Greta.”
“It means nothing. Greta Rose is my name; that’s all. Everyone used to call me that up in Manchester. Rose was my grandmother. I don’t know where they got the Greta from. Unless it was Greta Garbo, but she was a bit before my mother’s time, I think.”
Greta smiled but Peter was still not satisfied.
“I’ve never heard you called Greta Rose.”
“That’s because I dropped the Rose when I left Manchester. I wanted to make a clean break with all that life, start afresh. I told you that before.”
“Why did you say you weren’t his Greta Rose?”
“Because I’m not. You know what I told you. He likes me. He tried it on that last time he was here, but I didn’t let him.”
Peter’s head swam. The thought of this stranger’s hands on Greta had the same confusing effect on him that it had had when she had told him about the blackmailer a week before. Except that now the sight of Greta’s naked body and his experience of it only hours earlier redoubled his anger and lust.
Greta could see the effect of her words and pressed home her advantage.
“Perhaps I should have let him. It would have been easier.”
“No.” Peter almost shouted the word as he crossed over to Greta and took hold of her hands in a fierce grip.
“I didn’t because of you,” she said softly as he pushed the robe back from off her shoulders and laid her down on the floor.
This time he came almost immediately and lay exhausted with his head upon her breast. She had pulled a cushion under her head and lay naked on the carpet, making no effort to cover herself. She stared dreamily up at the ceiling with a faraway look in her green eyes. A smile played across her red lips as she stroked the thick black hair of her lover.
Chapter 18
“The next witness, my Lord, is Matthew Barne.”
“Barne or Barnes?”
“Barne, my Lord,” said John Sparling. “Without the s.”
It was Monday morning and the courtroom was once again full. The benches reserved for the press were packed, and there was a sense of expectancy in the air. All the jurors were alert, and Greta noticed that the Margaret Thatcher look-alike had moved into the seat nearest the judge, where the foreperson of the jury goes when it’s time to deliver the verdict. It looked as if it would be a forewoman this time.
Matthew Barne came in accompanied by his mother, who took a seat close to the witness box while her son took the oath.
He had red hair and freckles and pale blue eyes, which fluttered from person to person as he stumbled over the words on the oath card that Miss Hooks held up in front of him.
He was dressed in a double-breasted suit, which looked as if it had been bought for the occasion, and his school tie was tied in a big knot over a shirt collar that seemed to be a size too small for his bulging neck. He had a gift-wrapped appearance, and his discomfort showed in the way that he answered questions. He spoke in stops and starts, sometimes saying too little and sometimes too much so that his audience felt as if they were only catching
