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They shook hands. The only way a contract can be closed in prison. A long buzzer sounded, and the prisoners began to drift out of the yard and make their way slowly back to their cells.
“And the young man?” said Faulkner before they went their separate ways. “Don’t forget we’ll need his services the night before.”
“Got the ideal person for the assignment. But that will cost you another grand.”
“I’ll need to make a phone call this evening,” Faulkner murmured as he passed the duty officer.
“No problem, Mr. Faulkner. I’ll come and get you around seven o’clock.”
23
Christina picked him up in Tramp, fed him, plied him with champagne, and then took him back to her flat in Eaton Square. She knew it ought to be the other way around, but she was no longer twenty-two or thirty-two, and it wouldn’t be long before she was forty-two. When she woke the following morning, she was surprised to find Justin was still there, looking just as appetizing as he had the night before. Bless him.
She slipped out from under the covers and made her way into the bathroom, where she tried to remove a few years with the help of a little makeup and a dab of perfume, before returning to bed to pretend she’d just woken. She began to stroke the inside of his leg, slowly arousing him, until he could no longer control himself. After they’d made love for the third time—or was it the fourth?—they enjoyed a long bath and an even longer breakfast, over which she discovered Justin didn’t have a job. But then why would one bother when you were that good looking?
Christina began to wonder if she could hold on to him until she moved to Florida. As he was leaving he asked if she could lend him a fiver for a taxi. She gave him ten, and they agreed to meet for dinner that night. She checked her watch, aware she’d have to get moving if she was going to make it to Limpton Hall by eleven, when she would be overseeing the loading of the paintings by Christie’s.
As she left the flat, the chauffeur saluted and opened the back door of the Bentley so she could get in. Eddie climbed behind the wheel and they set off for Hampshire.
Once the pictures had been collected by Christie’s, Christina intended to ask Partridge’s in Bond Street to value the furniture, as she had no intention of taking anything to Florida that would remind her of Miles. For a moment she almost felt sorry for him. But only for a moment. Ten years was more than she’d expected, but no more than she’d prayed for.
An hour later, as they were passing through the village of Limpton, her mind drifted back to Justin, and where she would take him to dinner, when a police car overtook them. Annabel’s was the obvious choice. Not much chance of him picking up another woman there. They would either be accounted for or out of his financial league. And then she realized he hadn’t given her his phone number, and she didn’t know his surname.
Eddie turned left off the main road and down a lane that led to only one house, Limpton Hall. That was when she first saw the smoke. There was no one on duty as they drove past the gatehouse. She’d sacked the guard, the butler, the cook, and the gardener some time ago, retaining only a housekeeper and the chauffeur to look after her on the few occasions she needed to visit her country home.
Long before they’d reached the end of the drive Christina began screaming hysterically. Deep orange flames were leaping into the air and spitting their way through thick black clouds of smoke. It was clear that the three fire engines in attendance were fighting a hopeless battle.
Four hours later, despite the firefighters’ gallant efforts, all that was left of Limpton Hall was a large pile of rubble and smoldering ash, while a vast black cloud obscured the morning sun. Christina hadn’t noticed that Eddie didn’t seem surprised.
* * *
“Are you growing a beard, Caveman?” asked Beth after supper that evening. She leaned across the kitchen table and stroked the stubble on his chin.
“Depends how long my present assignment lasts.”
“Not for too much longer, I hope,” she said, getting up to stack the dishwasher, while he cleared the table. “What have we got planned for this evening? Assuming you aren’t called out at a moment’s notice to save the world?”
“I was hoping a beautiful damsel would gently stroke my forehead while I watched Match of the Day.”
“Think again, Caveman. I’ve already chosen a film that I’m sure will suit your lowbrow tastes.”
“Lots of sexy women?”
“No, but the men are dishy,” she said, as she closed the dishwasher and began to lay the table for breakfast.
“Dare I ask?”
“The Guns of Navarone, starring David Niven and Gregory Peck,” said Beth, as they strolled through to the living room.
“I would have preferred Kerry Dixon scoring the winning goal against Arsenal.”
“Well then, you’re out of luck. But before David Niven strokes my forehead, there’s something a little more serious I have to discuss with you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“There’s a major appointment coming up at the Fitzmolean.”
“Will you be applying?”
