Angel of Death (28 page)

He shook his head. ‘Not yet, but I imagine they will, now they’ve got the body. That detective told me they had now found plenty of forensic evidence.’

She sighed. ‘Poor Terry. He must be desperate. And he loves his son, you know. Sean is the centre of his whole life. I feel so sorry for him.’

They arrived first thing in the morning before even Terry was up, let alone Sean. Tousled, flushed, in a gaudy Stuart tartan red dressing gown, under which he was wearing nothing, Terry stumbled downstairs to open the front door.

Neil Maddrell flashed his warrant card, walking past him as he did so. ‘Your son here?’

‘He’s still asleep. Hey, wait a minute, you can’t just barge into my house without permission!’

Neil was already in the hall. ‘Get him up, Mr Finnigan. We’re taking him to the station for questioning.’

‘You wait a minute. I’m getting my lawyer.’

‘Your son’s going to need him. Tell him to meet us at the station. Because I am taking Sean there, so please get him up, or would you rather we did it?’

Putting on a calm air, Terry argued. ‘Why all this urgency? You’ve already talked to him for hours and you know you can’t charge him. There’s no evidence against him except for what you were told by that neurotic bitch who worked for me.’ They must not know that he had been informed about the body brought up out of the sea. That would make them suspicious of him, of his contacts.

Life had become so complicated since Sean killed that girl. He often felt he was walking through a minefield, always watching where he put his feet, intensely afraid of an explosion that could blow his whole world to smithereens.

‘We’ve found the body, Mr Finnigan. We’ve identified it beyond a shadow of doubt, through DNA, dental records, medical records – and she was three months pregnant and the baby’s DNA will give us your son’s paternity, I’ve no doubt.’

Terry swallowed, realising for the first time that the unborn child had been his grandchild, his flesh and blood. That had been his dream for years, to have grandchildren, but this child, this first one, had died with its mother.

‘I’ll get him up,’ he hoarsely agreed.

When he looked down at his son he had a terrible impulse to punch him in the face hard. How could Sean sleep so soundly after what he had done?

Terry saw the ruins of his life around him and hated the boy for a second, but was it partly his own fault? A child was always the product of his upbringing.

When you were young you had no idea what effect your every casual, impulse-born action would have. He and Sandra had made Sean what he was; loving the child they had always indulged him, given him anything he asked for, made Sean feel he only had to put out his hand and he would get what he wanted. Taught him to feel no guilt for whatever he did. They had rarely smacked him, they hadn’t believed in it. If Sean was naughty they forgave him at once.

How could he be forgiven for killing the mother of his unborn child, and the child with her?

‘Wake up. Sean, wake up.’ He was afraid to lean over and shake him; afraid if he touched him at all he would end up battering the stupid boy senseless.

Sean blinked, lids fluttering, yawned, looked up.

‘The police are here. And they’re taking you away with them. Get up, wash, get dressed.’

‘Get my brief!’ Sean sat up, glaring, issuing his commands as if his father was a servant. ‘And do it now! I’m not talking to them without him, get it?’

Terry looked at him bleakly. ‘You stupid, arrogant little bastard!’ His love for his son was turning to something like hatred.

But he went down to his office and put through a call to his solicitor. There was nobody in the office yet. The secretary came in at nine, it was only eight thirty. He left a message on the answer phone, stressing the urgency.

Then he stood by his desk staring out at the garden, watching birds looping through the trees calling. It was a beautiful autumn morning; golden and glowing. He had always loved days like this, but his spirits were too low for him to enjoy it now. He felt despair clogging up his throat. You think you’ve built a wonderful future for yourself and your family, then one day it is all destroyed. All because a stupid, selfish boy couldn’t keep his trousers zipped and then couldn’t face up to the consequences of his own folly.

He had booked to fly to Greece this morning. Should he still go? Or should he stay here, in case Sean needed him?

‘Aren’t you coming with me?’ Sean demanded behind him and he slowly turned, looked at his son as if from a far, far distance.

‘You’re a big boy, I’m sure you don’t need me there.’

‘Well, if you don’t want to come . . . well, don’t!’ Sean’s lower lip stuck out petulantly. ‘Did you ring the brief?’

‘Yes, he’ll come along when he can.’

‘That’s not good enough! Ring him again, tell him he either shows up at once or we’ll get someone else.’

The police loomed up. ‘Time to go.’

They seized Sean by the arm, one on each side.

‘You hear me, Dad?’ Sean resisted them, glaring at his father.

‘I hear you,’ Terry wearily said.

He had just remembered that Bernie’s son was coming today to look over his books, check out the firm’s situation and prospects. The day that had started so badly was probably going to get worse.

He would have to ring up and postpone his flight to Greece after all. There was no way he was going away with those bastards coming. He had to be there to protect his interests.

Miranda had dinner with Alex that evening, in the hotel restaurant. While they were eating a dessert of figs and crème caramel which was both very rich and very subtle, Milo brought him a folded slip of paper.

‘This just arrived from the office in Piraeus. They faxed it to us at once.’

‘Thanks, Milo.’

When Milo had gone Alex looked at the printed words, his black brows rising. He glanced across the table at Miranda.

‘Finnigan isn’t coming after all. He says an urgent matter has arisen. He’ll make a new appointment when he’s free.’

She breathed a long sigh of relief. ‘Thank heavens for that! I wonder why he changed his mind?’

‘No doubt the police have charged his son and Finnigan has to stay there to deal with the fall-out. Perhaps he and his lawyers are trying to get bail for the boy.’

‘Do you think they’ll succeed?’

‘I can’t see the police agreeing. This is a murder charge. They won’t want a killer roaming the streets. Not now they’ve got the evidence they needed to charge him.’

She sipped her white Greek wine, staring at the candles on the table. Their flames flickered and dipped as someone walked past, pausing beside them.

‘Hello, Alex,’ slurred a sexy, sensuous voice and Miranda looked up to see Elena in a sensational white crepe dress which clung to every slender inch of her body.

‘Elena,’ he said, rising. ‘You look like a Greek goddess. Still enjoying your holiday?’

She leaned towards him, her red mouth brushing his lingeringly. ‘Mmm . . . yes.’ Her dark eyes shot to Miranda’s face. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, have we?’

They had, of course, and she was sure Elena remembered.

‘Miranda is the hotel translator,’ Alex said.

‘Oh, just one of the staff,’ Elena dismissed.

Miranda flushed under the icy sting of her scorn. But it was true, wasn’t it? She was just one of the hotel staff, whereas Elena was an old family friend who had once been engaged to Alex. She had hurt him badly once – was he still in love with her?

‘We must have dinner, Alex, talk about old times,’ Elena said.

‘Yes, we must do that,’ he agreed, standing. ‘Miranda, I’ll walk you back to your bungalow.’

They were silent as they walked through the gardens. What was he thinking about? she wondered, glancing sideways at his hard, tanned profile. Elena?

He insisted on going into the bungalow first, to make sure nobody had got inside, went into every room to check the place was empty. Miranda waited at the door. The emergency was over, Terry wasn’t coming, she was safe for the moment, perhaps for ever.

Poor Terry. She couldn’t help being sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault his son was rotten. Some people might blame the parents, people often did blame parents for what their children did, but Sean’s weakness and viciousness was in his face, must have been visible all his life. His genes were to blame, not his upbringing. Heredity had determined how he would react that day. Who knew from which set of genes his weakness came – from his mother’s family, or his father’s?

Terry was a worker, tough, determined, with guts and character. She couldn’t believe his family had provided Sean’s genes.

Sandra was silly, self-indulgent, pretty worthless. She pursued her own pleasure whatever it cost others; her son included. She had left him behind and gone off because she wanted the life Jack offered her. Sean even looked like his mother; fair, with a smooth, epicene softness to his face, and the same greedy eyes and mouth.

Poor Terry.

Alex came back. ‘Everything’s OK.’ He walked over to her, gazing down into her face. ‘You look tired, poor girl. Better get to bed at once. You’ve had a busy day.’

She leaned her cheek on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart underneath her. ‘How long are you staying? Now that Terry isn’t coming do you have to go back at once?’

He put his face down against her hair. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

She nodded, too shy to say it aloud, to beg, as she wanted to. Please stay, please don’t go away again, I need you here, I feel safer with you around.

Alex slid his index finger under her chin, lifted her face so that he could look into her eyes. Her lids flickered up and down, she was afraid to meet his stare.

‘Miranda,’ he whispered huskily, then his mouth was on hers, heat between them, a fire that consumed her entire body, made her shake and shocked all the air out of her lungs.

Her arms went round his neck, she clung to him, kissing him hungrily, wanting him in a way that was totally new to her, totally unexpected. If she hadn’t been so inhibited she would have told him, cried out her desire, babbling like an idiot, I want you, I want you.

She didn’t need to say it, he gave a groan, said, ‘Oh, God, Miranda . . .’ then picked her up and carried her to the bed.

He undressed her, hurriedly, roughly, while she trembled and burned, waiting for him, staring up at his white face, barely able to breathe.

Their bodies merged with a shock like the collision of trains running out of control, unable to stop. She cried out in pleasure and need, twining with him, arms and legs around him, their mouths hotly devouring each other.

It was too intense, too agonising; tears ran down her face, the piercing desire almost broke her body in two as she rode under him, with him deep inside her, driving her up the bed. She had never been so aware of being animal. Her mind wasn’t operating. Only her body worked, reacting to his, more and more wildly, until the clamour and tension broke and she let out a high shriek of exquisite, unbearable pleasure.

She had known, the minute she first saw him, on that ship, that this was how it would be if they ever made love. The gentle affection between her and Tom had been a million miles away from this fierce mating. That was why she had rejected Alex, denied her true feelings, hidden them deep inside herself. She could not admit to them because they betrayed her love for Tom. Her guilt had made it impossible for her to face up to what she wanted. Now she had. The sharp, tortured desire emerged from where she had hidden it all these years, she moaned it out into the night air, sobbed and wept with it.

Afterwards they lay still together, their breathing slowing, the heat in them dying down, the room no longer spinning round for them.

Had she told him she loved him? She had no idea, could not remember anything she had said, or if she had spoken at all. All she knew was that she had never realised pleasure could be so painful, or pain so pleasurable.

She felt she had died in this bed, with him; died and gone to heaven.

But life was never that easy or simple.

‘I’d love to stay all night,’ he huskily murmured. ‘But I have too much to do. I’ll have to go.’

He unwound himself and got up, naked and golden in the glow of the bedside lamp. Why was he leaving her? she thought, anguished. To find Elena?

Pain pierced her breast. She had lost all control, had eagerly offered herself, lost to everything but her need for him. He had taken what she gave, but did he feel anything more than desire for her? Was it still Elena he loved?

Bernie’s son and another man arrived promptly at ten o’clock. Terry greeted them himself in reception, forced a smile and made polite remarks as he escorted them up to his office. ‘How’s your father? I hope he’s well? And your mother? We go back a long way, you know. You won’t remember me but I remember you as a little kid.’ He laughed. ‘You’ve grown a lot since then, of course.’

Andy Sutcliffe resembled his father as Terry remembered him years ago; wiry and potentially powerful, with rough brown hair and the same quick, easy, cheerful smile. He gave the impression of being laid-back, easy-going, but then so had Bernie. The charm was deceptive, hid a ruthless focus on getting his own way. Power, that was what Bernie had always wanted, and had got, by one means or another.