‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to moan.’
‘So, talk about it. I’m your wife; you can tell me!’
He stared at her, cupped her face in his own hands and kissed her forehead. ‘Over supper. You look so beautiful. Every day you look more beautiful.’
She shook her head, grinning. ‘Nah, just your eyesight – happens with age.’ Then she took a step back and pointed at herself. ‘Do you like these?’
‘What?’
‘These dungarees.’
Gloom momentarily enveloped him again. ‘Are they new?’
‘Yes – they came today.’
‘They don’t look new,’ he said.
‘They’re not supposed to! They’re Stella McCartney. Really cool, aren’t they?’
‘Paul’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought her stuff was expensive.’
‘It is usually – these were a bargain.’
‘Of course.’ He continued mixing her drink, not wanting an argument tonight.
‘I’ve been checking the Web for holiday bargains. I have the dates when Mum and Dad could take the kids – the first week in July. Would that work?’
Tom dug his Palm out of his pocket and checked the calendar. ‘We have an exhibition at Olympia the third week – but early July would be fine. But it’s going to have to be something really cheap. Maybe we should just go somewhere in England?’
‘The prices on the net are unbelievable!’ she said. ‘We could have a week in Spain cheaper than staying at home! Check out some of the sites – I’ve written them down. Take a look after supper. Holly, down the road, has a friend who got a week in St Lucia for two hundred and fifty pounds on the net. Wouldn’t the Caribbean be great?’
He put the Palm down, took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I thought I might give my computer a break tonight – and concentrate on you.’
She kissed him back. ‘I’d hate to think of the withdrawal symptoms you’d suffer.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘And there’s a Jamie Oliver programme I want to watch. You can’t stand him. You’d be much happier for half an hour on your little machine upstairs.’
Handing Kellie her drink, he said, ‘Where would you most like to go if we could afford it?’
‘Anywhere they don’t have screaming kids.’
‘You really don’t mind leaving them? Haven’t changed your mind?’ Are you certain?’ Kellie had never before wanted to be apart from their kids.
‘At this moment, I’d happily sell them,’ she said, and drained half her sea breeze in one gulp.
An hour later, shortly after nine o’clock, Tom went upstairs and into his small den, with its view out across the street. It was still full daylight; he loved the long summer evenings, and for a few more weeks they would continue getting longer. He could see a small blue triangle of distant English Channel, between two roofs of the flats above the shops opposite him. Above them a flock of starlings darted into view then was gone again. The smell of a neighbour’s barbecue wafted in through the window, tantalizing him even though he had just eaten.
Inside the gym he could see some poor sod doing bench presses, the trainer standing beside him. It reminded him that apart from taking Lady for short walks around the block, he’d done little exercise for months. Too many business lunches, too much booze and now some of his favourite clothes were getting too tight. Kellie was always telling him he was daft, living across the road from a gym and not using it. But it was yet another expense.
Maybe he’d just take Lady for a longer walk on these fine summer evenings. Perhaps get back into swimming. Golf once a week just wasn’t doing it for his waistline; he hated seeing all those men with flaccid beer bellies in the golf club locker room, and was uncomfortably aware he was close to developing one of his own. As if signalling to himself, he pummelled his stomach with his fists. Going to make you into a six-pack by the time we go on holiday!
He sipped his third large vodka, feeling mellow now, the cares of his day receded into a pleasant alcohol haze, and set the glass down beside him, glancing at the webcam on its stalk mount on his desk, through which he had the occasional communication with his brother in Australia, then tapped a command on his laptop and ran his eyes down his in-box. Almost immediately he came to a message from his old boss at the Motivation Business, Rob Kempson, with whom he had remained friendly.
Tom
Check out the gazonkas on this one!
Rob
Instead of clicking, Tom took the CD the dickhead had left on the train out of its case, and inserted it into his laptop. His virus protection software kicked in, but when the CD icon finally stabilized on his desktop there was still no clue to its identity. He double-clicked on it.
Moments later his entire desktop went blank. A small window appeared on the screen with the message:
Is this Mac address correct?
Click YES to continue. NO to exit.
Assuming it was a normal Windows-to-Apple Mac problem, Tom clicked YES.
Moments later another message appeared.
Welcome, subscriber. You are being connected now.
Then the words appeared:
A SCARAB PRODUCTION
Almost instantly, they faded. At the same time the screen steadily lightened into a grainy colour image of a bedroom, as if he was viewing it through a security camera.
It was a good-sized room, feminine-looking, with a small double bed covered with a duvet and scattered cushions, a plain dressing table, a long antique wooden mirror that might have come from a dressmaker’s shop, a wooden chest at the end of the bed, a couple of deep-pile rugs on the floor, and closed vertical blinds. Two bedside lamps lit the room, and there was another light source from a bathroom door, partially open. A couple of black and white Helmut Newton photographs of nudes hung on the walls. Opposite the bed were large mirrored cupboard doors, and reflected in them was a door leading, presumably, to a corridor.
A young, slender woman emerged from the bathroom, adjusting her clothes, glancing at her watch, looking a little nervous. Elegant and beautiful, with long fair hair and wearing a slinky black dress with a single strand of pearls around her neck, she was holding a clutch bag as if on her way to a party. She reminded Tom a little of Gwyneth Paltrow, and for one fleeting moment he wondered if it was her; then she turned her head and he could see it wasn’t, although she looked quite similar.
She sat, perched on the edge of the bed, and to Tom’s surprise kicked off her high-heeled shoes, seeming totally unaware of the camera. Then she stood up again and began unbuttoning her dress.
Moments later the bedroom door opened behind the woman, and a short, powerfully built man, a hooded balaclava over his face and dressed entirely in black, came in and closed the door behind him with a gloved hand. The woman either had not heard him or was ignoring him. As he walked slowly across the room towards her, she began unfastening her pearl necklace.
The man pulled something from inside his leather jacket which glinted in the light, and Tom craned forward in surprise when he saw what it was: a long stiletto blade.
In two quick strides the man reached her, jerked an arm around her neck, and plunged the stiletto between her shoulder blades. Frozen by the surreality, Tom watched the woman’s gasp of shock, unsure whether she was acting or this was for real. The man pulled the blade out, and it was covered in what appeared to be blood. He stabbed her again, then again, blood spraying from the wounds.
The woman fell to the floor. The man knelt, tore away her dress, then slit her bra strap with the blade, pulled the bra away, and brutally rolled her onto her back. Her eyes were rolling, her large breasts falling to one side. He slashed through the top of her black tights, then pulled them completely off, stared down at her naked, exquisite body for some moments, then plunged the knife into her belly just above her Brazilian-cut pubic hair.
Tom stared, sickened, about to exit the site, except curiosity kept him watching. Was she acting, was the knife
