Read Hot Ice Online

Authors: Madge Swindells

Hot Ice (10 page)

BOOK: Hot Ice
2.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

The weather has changed. The balmy late summer heatwave that has hung around for days has given way to a brisk north wind. Chris’ life, too, has been touched by cold reality. She feels disturbed and vaguely frightened, but of what? She pulls up the collar of her coat and snuggles into a corner of the taxi, gazing through the window at a moving scene that’s racing her into a hazardous future. She should go backwards…to the security of a safe job where there were no unknowns and danger had never been encountered. Suddenly London’s streets, once loved, seem shadowy and scary. Why would anyone want to kill Ben…or follow her? But there’s that damned white Ford Fiesta sneaking down the road behind them. Or is it? It could be any white car.

‘Pull yourself together or quit the job, Chris,’ she remonstrates. Perhaps she over-estimated her own courage when she took on the investigation.

The taxi pulls up outside the Goldsmith’s Hall in Foster Lane, and Chris hurries inside. Handing her coat to the attendant, she suffers a momentary qualm. She’s wearing a halter neck dress of pleated red muslin with frills from the bust to the hem which shimmer and shake with every movement. The dress has cost her a month’s salary and she had thought she looked good until she bumped into Mum on the way out.

Mum was explicit. ‘Where’s your castanets, Chris?’

‘You’re so funny, Mum.’ This is her standard answer. Don’t get offended. Turn the whole thing into a joke. Mum’s interest in fashion terminated in the Eighties. A little black dress reaching from her knees to her collar bone, with a pearl necklace and a scarf, is Mum’s perennial outfit for an evening out.

An attendant offers her a glass of champagne, but she chooses orange juice…she’s on duty, isn’t she…and steps softly forward. She hardly recognises the hall, it’s so full of glitter, with shimmering curtains and soft lights along the catwalk. The music is almost drowned by excited chatter. She’s rubbing shoulders with the celebrity classes: Chris recognises two pop stars, a film star, a model and a famous footballer’s wife. Discreetly dressed, middle-aged matrons wearing gorgeous diamond pendants, bracelets and earrings…one even sporting a tiara…sway through the crowd.
Moments later a heavy hand falls on her shoulder.

She flinches, then pulls herself together. Turning, she gazes into Husam’s expressive eyes. He’s pleased to see her, but furious because he’s pleased, and embarrassed because a remarkably beautiful girl is clinging to his arm. Trophy girlfriend, Chris decides, feeling thoroughly spiteful. Husam whispers to his companion. She gives Chris a haughty glance before disappearing into the crowd.

‘Come with me.’ He links his arm through hers and leads her through throngs of chattering socialites to a showcase of Arabian jewellery. Chris gapes and gasps and longs to own just one exquisite piece. Perhaps her longing shows, for two bear-like guards lounging behind the exhibit move closer to overwhelm her with their belligerence.

‘Most of this was designed for Middle-Eastern potentates from the sixteenth century onwards,’ Husam murmurs with satisfaction, pulling her closer to him. ‘Every piece is a work of art and priceless, but seldom seen. The entire collection was brought over solely for the exhibition. Those damned sultans keep it hidden in their vaults. All these works of art, designed to adorn lovely women such as yourself, lie hidden from view in palace cellars.’

So why is he complimenting me? Chris wonders with a touch of asperity. He should dislike me, but he behaves as if nothing has happened. It doesn’t make sense. What’s he after?

‘Listen,’ he whispers. ‘I can’t believe the terrible news. I’m so sorry about Ben. I always liked him. Don’t stay there…leave that place. Do you want your job back? This time it would have to be on the level.’

‘Dear Husam. I’m so sorry. I’d better go.’ She turns away, but his hand restrains her.

‘You’re so naive, Chris,’ he mutters, bending very close to her. ‘You’re thinking in clichés and that could prove dangerous.’

‘What do you mean?’ Husam turns away as his girlfriend approaches and locks her arm with his. Chris is left biting her lip as she tries to figure out his cryptic comment. Nothing makes sense.

 

It’s time for the model show. Chris is about to find a seat when she is almost knocked over by an idiot who appears to have drunk too much.

‘I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?’ He has a deep voice with an American accent.

‘Don’t worry. I have another foot,’ she says bitterly. She looks up from her sad examination of her soiled satin shoe into a face that is frighteningly familiar. She flinches and steps away. It’s him. The stalker!

‘At least let me help you to a seat,’ he says, taking her arm in an iron grip. She can cause a scene, or she can allow herself to be manoeuvred to a seat. Moments later she is pushed firmly into the second row and to her annoyance he sits next to her, blocking her exit.

Pretty neat exercise and pre-planned, she reckons. He can sit where he likes since the seats aren’t reserved. She wonders if she should move elsewhere, but the row is filling up fast and it would be difficult to push past everyone. Besides, she won’t learn much if she always runs away.

‘I’m James Stark, from Boston originally, but lately I move around Africa. Most people call me Jim. How do you do,’ he says, pushing his hand towards her.

She shudders and gives him a frigid nod, and then decides to touch his hand briefly.

‘And you are?’

‘You know very well who I am,’ she mutters sulkily.

‘What do you mean?’ His eyes are mocking her.

‘This is our second encounter in ten days.’

‘Fifth, honey. Maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are. How about the Antiques Fair…Tate Modern…first night at the Old Vic…it was a good production, or so I thought. Then there was the night you picked up the prince at the Cedar. Of course, I was wearing a fez, just to fit in, so I’ll excuse you for not recognising me.’

She laughs without meaning to.

‘Here, have this.’ He hands her a programme and glances at his watch. ‘They’re late.’

‘Why have you been following me?’

‘To be honest, you intrigue me. You don’t look the type to pick up rich Arabs. And then, of course,
it’s my job. I head up Prince Husam’s security team and train his bodyguards. It was no coincidence that I was at the Cedar on the fateful night you walked into my life. I keep an eye on the prince. By the way, I thought your efforts were clumsy and contrived. I guess you haven’t done that kind of thing often. New to the game, are you?’

‘Why should you care?’ Her mind is racing. It sounds good, but he’s lying. The night he followed her from the tube station in West Finchley was before she picked up Husam. Who is he really working for and what does he want? She decides to play along and find out.

‘I’m surprised you spotted me,’ he’s saying. ‘Most people don’t. I have the sort of face that people don’t notice.’

She isn’t going argue, or to tell him about his great eyes or his sex appeal. She gives him a quick scan. His eyes are green and very expressive…teasing eyes. His blue-black curly hair falls forward almost to his black brows, his face is heart shaped, his lips sensual. Altogether he is one of Mother Nature’s better efforts… Stop it Chris. He may turn you on, but he’s to be avoided at all costs.

She asks: ‘Just for the record, do you drive a white Ford Fiesta?’

‘No. Should I? Prince Husam was very taken by you and I can see why. Might still be, for all I know. So what went wrong?’

‘Nothing went wrong. And anyway, what business is it of yours?’

‘I like to keep up with the local ladies of the night. Makes my job a lot easier. So who’s your next target, Chris? I see you aim high.’

 

A fanfare of music brings the first model onto the catwalk. She could be Ethiopian with her jet-black skin, sculpted features and tall, meagre figure. Her dark complexion sets off the fabulous, modern designs of diamonds, set on platinum spikes, glowing like stars in the spotlights. She is sheathed in jewels and little else. Breathtakingly lovely though the model is, the jewellery outshines her. The audience gasps and claps.

Chris leans back and tries to fathom out her next move. This is like chess, she speculates. If Jim is what he claims to be, what should her reaction be? And who is she…solicitor or soliciting whore? Perhaps he is trying to provoke her into blurting out her motive for hitting on Husam? I’ll play along, she decides as she stands up.

‘Excuse me,’ she says, stepping past him. ‘If I were you I’d start looking for another job. Husam and I have an understanding.’ Jim is still laughing when she glances back over her shoulder.

At the bar she orders a coke and fumbles in her bag for her wallet. She pulls out her picture of the stalker and scribbles on the back of it.

This man has been stalking me. He’s here
tonight. When I confronted him, he claimed to be James Stark, your security chief. Is this true? And if so, why are you having me followed?

Calling a waiter she points out Husam to him and asks him to deliver the note.

Dave is standing near the door, watching her. She wonders if he knows how scary he looks when he scowls. Carrying her glass, she hurries across the room to him.

‘Hi Dave. Why aren’t you watching the show? Have you been here long?’ She watches the scowl fade as his charm takes over.

‘I don’t much care for the company you keep.’ He beckons to a waiter without taking his eyes off her.

Chris is in no mood to be polite, but she manages a laugh, humouring him.

‘If you’ve appointed yourself my bodyguard, I must tell you, I don’t pay good wages.’

‘Don’t be fatuous. Jim Stark is a dangerous man and you should keep away from him. I’ve told you that before.’

‘He collided with me, said he was drunk, and showed me to a chair.’ Why was she making excuses, to him of all people?

‘To be honest, I’ve never seen him sober. The two of you seemed pretty engrossed. Just take care, that’s all…and don’t believe a word he says.’

‘He seems pleasant enough.’

‘He’s been bumming around Africa for years.
He’ll turn his hand to anything…deals in drugs, arms, diamonds…oil…anything to make a dishonest buck. It’s his sort that gives the diamond industry a bad name.’

How about a stint as a bodyguard, she wonders. Hardly the job for a drunk. Jim looks strong, tough and very dangerous. He’s kept himself fit by the look of things. He certainly isn’t drunk, although he’d pretended to be when he trod on her foot. Chris has a extraordinarily keen sense of smell and she could swear that he hasn’t touched a drink for the past eight hours.

‘How is it that you know Prince Husam?’ Dave asks.

‘He was a friend of Ben’s,’ she answers truthfully. ‘They were at university together.’

‘And Ben introduced you to him?’

‘Heavens, Dave. What is this? An inquisition?’

Dave gazes moodily at her. ‘You need looking after and I’ve voted myself the man to do the job. But then I arrive here to find you keeping company with the two most dangerous men in London.’

‘Dangerous? How could Prince Husam be dangerous? He’s some sort of a philanthropist.’

Dave shrugs. ‘If you say so. I can’t say more, other than to warn you.’

‘You can’t throw out accusations without backing them up with the facts.’

Dave looks around to make sure no one is listening. ‘Jim Stark has no scruples whatsoever.
He’s a thief and a liar…an ex-con who did time in the filthiest prison in Africa. God knows what he picked up there. Husam is an Islamic fundamentalist, providing money to every terrorist group in Africa. He’s believed to be connected to all the wrong people.’

Dave refuses to say more, so she gives up trying to prompt him and walks back to the catwalk to watch the show from a seat near the door. She sees Husam leaving, his beautiful model clinging to his arm.

Moments later the waiter approaches her. ‘Madam, Prince Husam asked me to give you this. She unfolds the paper napkin wrapped around the photograph of Jim. Husam’s reply is brief.

Ex-security chief as from tomorrow
, is scribbled across the picture.
PS. Not guilty. H
.

Just before the show ends, Chris sets off for a brisk walk to St Paul’s tube station. She has too much aggression to dispose of. The day’s baffling events keep repeating themselves like a kaleidoscope of happenings, but it is Husam’s cryptic criticism that disturbs her the most. ‘You’re thinking in clichés and that could prove dangerous,’ he’d told her. So what on earth did he mean by that?’

September mists transform the night, obscuring the harsh lines of the buildings and muffling the footsteps that are undoubtedly following her…again. And like the mist, she drifts haphazardly, jogging lightly. How lovely the night is, a scene by Turner in shades of grey with blurred street lights creating iridescent haloes. She needs to exorcise her fears. Abruptly her mood turns to fear as she hears footsteps gaining on her.

‘Miss Winters, wait a minute,’ calls a disembodied voice.

‘Keep away,’ she mutters under her breath. Jim carries yet another more personal danger zone.

‘Jesus! What a night for a marathon,’ she hears him grumbling hard behind her. ‘If you want to go somewhere real bad, why don’t I wave down a cab?’

‘Why don’t you go away?’ She turns and backs against the wall. ‘OK. What do you want?’

‘You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Winters. I merely wish to invite you for a drink. There’s this club…a friend lent me his membership card…perhaps you know of it.’ He shows her the card. ‘We need to talk. Want to give it a try? His eyes are firm and discerning. Not the eyes of a drop-out or a drunk. ‘In your line of work you might pick up all kinds of useful leads.’ He raises one eyebrow and watches her with a quizzical expression.

True enough, although not in the way he means. It was probably Jim who’d told the prince that Ben is missing. No one else knows, except Ben’s family. Jim and Husam, she muses. Unlikely partners in crime. Adrenaline is pumping into her veins as her body urges her to get as far away from Jim as she can, but if she quits now she’ll never learn anything.

The club is disappointing, not that it matters. They enter a wooden doorway framed with velvet curtains, and emerge in an unimposing dark hall with security cameras strategically poised above it. A machine to slot in members’ codes is all that greets them. Jim presses the numbers and a painted arrow leads them to sliding doors where black-clad bouncers lurk. A passage, lit with cheap neon lights, leads to a large, dismal hall, with a stage, a huge central dance floor and tables squashed around the periphery.

Jim chooses a table as far from the dancing as he
can get and calls the waiter. ‘I guess you’d like champagne. That’s what you girls usually drink, isn’t it.’

‘I’d like fresh orange juice and please cut the play-acting. You know who I am and who I work for. You’ve been following me for days. You know very well why I picked up Prince Husam. You told him where I was working and you showed him the security shots of me going through his files. You got me the sack.’

‘That’s my job, sweetie. Most of you girls have day and night jobs. It lets you buy the latest fashions. That’s a pretty costly outfit you’re wearing.’ He’s smiling, but it isn’t a pleasant smile. He’s trying to provoke her.

She bites back her retort. ‘I like it,’ she smiles sweetly.

‘So tell me about Husam,’ Jim says. ‘Is he good in bed?’

‘The best,’ she says stoutly, fighting an urge to throw her drink in his face.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

‘No. I don’t believe that he’s any more dangerous than a modern day Joan of Arc.’

‘It’s your privilege to believe whatever damned nonsense you wish.’ Jim’s dry response startles her.

‘I thought you two were in cohorts.’

‘I run his security, but I don’t have to trust the bastard.’

‘I must say a few things surprised me,’ she
begins, trying to lure Jim into responding in kind.

‘Such as…?’

‘Well, a hell of a lot of money goes through that place.’

‘And where does it land up?’

‘You don’t know?’ Chris asks sweetly.

‘As I said, I’m just running his security.’

‘Then it’s best that we don’t talk about it.’ She changes the subject. ‘The band’s quite good.’ She smiles in the face of his scowl, to show she’s inviolate to his moods, in fact, to him. He has hidden agendas, but so does she. Who is he really? The question intrigues her. With the beat of the music trembling in her limbs, she notices his athletic build. The way he looks hardened and tough at times. Then his mood changes and suddenly he’s laughing at himself, or at her. His hand is lying idle on the tablecloth – strong, tapered fingers. She longs to reach out and touch him.

‘Shall we dance?’ she asks.

‘Sorry, I don’t dance.’

But that’s what this place is for…a huge empty floor in the centre, a few tables gathered around the outside. It’s rather grim, not the kind of place you’d choose for a chat. Jim’s not someone who does anything without a reason. So why are we here? She’s about to find out, she feels sure.

‘My friend says there’s a good floor show here. Talk of the devil… Here he comes.’ Jim has enough talent to look surprised.

‘Hello there, Guy. This is a surprise. Where’s Melanie?’

Tall, blond and grey-eyed, Guy assumes an anonymous expression.

‘I was talking to friends when I saw you come in…thought I’d pop over.’ His terse remarks sound rehearsed. There is no warmth in Guy’s eyes as Jim stands up and they shake hands.

‘Meet Chris Winters. Chris, this is my friend, Guy Johnson.’ Guy stands around awkwardly, handling a slim briefcase as if it’s getting red hot.

At least Jim’s putting on a show of friendship, but from Guy’s attitude she can see that they’re more like office colleagues than friends. And Jim is Guy’s superior, she discerns. Guy is nervous, and when Jim claps his shoulder, the gesture is more of a warning than of friendship. Clowns, both of them.

‘So you work at the Provident Trust, Guy?’

He looks startled.

‘Of course he does,’ Jim says quickly before Guy can answer.

‘I gained the strong impression that you two work together.’

In the strained silence that follows, Guy seems to have turned to stone. He’s hovering beside the chair Jim is offering.

‘Sit down, Guy.’ It’s an order. ‘What’ll you have?’ he asks, signalling to the waiter.

Some sort of a warning is passing between them.
Intuitively she senses that the meeting is contrived and too hastily rehearsed, leaving Guy unsure of his script. She’s being set up, but she can’t think how, or why.

‘Nothing for me right now. It’s a good band,’ Guy says, relaxing slightly. ‘Would you care to dance, Chris?’

She shakes her head.

‘Don’t be shy. Come on Chris. You were longing to dance. Lets me off the hook. Thanks, Guy.’

Yes, but with you, not Guy. Jim is irresistibly sexy, but it seems that he’s not available. Chris frowns, thrusts out her hand and allows herself to be led to the dance floor. Guy is a good dancer and he knows how to tango, which is a welcome change. For a few minutes she lets herself flow with the music, but then she wonders why she is being manoeuvred through the dancers to the other side of the dance floor, away from Jim. Abruptly the song ends, the singer takes a bow and Chris mutters her thanks and moves away.

Guy comes to life with a snap, as if someone has pressed his button.

‘Say, Chris. Wow! That was great. No, you can’t go yet. I won’t let you. You’re a marvellous dancer. Do you like Arabic dancing? They play a lot of it here.’

Chris glances around for the absent Melanie, but all the chairs she can see are full, so where has Guy been sitting? Strange, she muses. The band comes to life with a series of wailing minor chords and
Chris writhes her way backwards towards Jim, partly so he will see what a truly sexy dancer she is, but also to see what he’s doing. Twisting round, she sees Guy’s briefcase lying open on his chair, while her bag is on the table. How can that be? She left it on her chair.

Guy spins her back and pulls her close, his hand and body acting like a strait-jacket as his breath fans her ear.

‘Where’s Melanie sitting?’ she says pointedly.

‘Over there.’ He gestures behind him.

Still clutching her in a tight embrace, Guy mutters in her ear: ‘Don’t get mad because Jim won’t dance. His left knee and ankle are held together with pins. It hurts like hell if he tries. He was beaten up in an African jail some years back…had to spend six months in hospital afterwards. Let’s face it, he hates clubbing…a real man’s man.’

‘What was he doing in Africa at the time?’

Guy shrugs. He seems to think he’s said too much and from then on ‘maybe’ answers all her questions. The music stops, Guy glances surreptitiously towards Jim. Relief shows in his eyes as he hurries her back to their table. Chris notices that her bag is back on the chair and his briefcase is back on the floor.

‘It was a pleasure to watch you.’ Jim says appreciatively, looking smug.

Guy says goodnight, takes his briefcase and
leaves, but he’s too tall to pass unnoticed and she sees his blond hair gleaming in the neon lights as he hurries through the sliding doors…alone.

‘He’s not very convincing. Is he new?’ Chris asks.

Jim scans her haughtily, one eyebrow raised. ‘Do you always talk in riddles, Chris?’

‘He’s part of your outfit, isn’t he? Of course, he left without Melanie.’

‘Very discerning of you, but she went home while you two were dancing.’

Chris takes her bag and goes to the cloakroom, where she tips it upside down on the counter and goes through the clutter she’s managed to squeeze into it. Her credit cards are all present and correct, but perhaps Jim has taken down the numbers. Her cash is still there, her keys are untouched, but are they? There’s a strange smell of methylated spirits all about. She fingers the keys. They’re slightly damp and the smell is unmistakable. How strange. So that’s what this evening was all about – copying her keys and the kit was in the briefcase. But why should they bother? It’s easy enough to break into FI’s offices, although first they’d have to get past security on the ground floor. Maybe they’d already tried and come up against her office safe. Damn! They’ve duplicated the key of her safe. But all it contains are her reports and transcripts from Ben’s calls. Maybe Husam wants to know what Ben knew about Moses Freeman. Is there anything to worry about?

‘They’ll find out that I have Moses Freeman’s addresses. Damn! Husam will let him know and he’ll move on and I’ll never find him.’

She’s spoken aloud. A woman emerging from the lavatory gives her a strange look. Chris dials security at FI’s offices.

‘Chris Winters speaking. Listen. Someone has just copied my office keys. Yes, that’s right. I’m on the sixth floor. Please don’t let them get into my office safe. It’s the fourth on the right down the passage. If you remember you came there to… Yes. Thanks. Any time from now on, I would say. I’ll be right over.’

Jim stands as she reaches the table. ‘Thanks Jim. I enjoyed this evening.’

We didn’t have much time to talk,’ he points out.

‘I didn’t think you were in the mood for talking.’

He grins and holds her shoulders, moving forward to embrace her.

Unable to resist, she closes her eyes as she feels his breath on her cheeks and turns her head. His lips are full and mobile and for a few seconds nothing else exists. Then he steps back abruptly.

‘You’re wasting your time. I’m not rich,’ he mutters. ‘Let’s get you a cab.’

‘Where to?’ he asks, as a taxi moves towards them.

‘I think you know my home address as well as I do, Jim,’ she says sweetly.

 

Her cab sets off along St James’s Street, but she redirects the driver into Piccadilly and down Duke Street to their new and imposing office block overlooking St James’s Square. By the time she arrives, it’s all over. The intruder has been scared off, but he got away.

On the drive home, Chris tries to sort out her muddled impressions and suspicions. Jim has tried to sell blood diamonds to Trans-Africa, or so David told her. He has a criminal background and bad reputation. Suddenly he has a job as a top security officer in the head office of a major bank. Then there’s Guy, who clearly works with Jim, or for Jim. How did Jim get this job, she wonders. He’s certainly not the drunk Dave takes him for. He’s fit and smart. Perhaps that’s his cover, but for what? How did he know that Ben was missing? It all points to some sort of a liaison between Husam, Jim and Moses Freeman. And Freeman was undoubtedly involved with blood diamonds and Ben’s death.

It’s two a.m. by the time she gets home. She’s leaving for New York in the morning, but she can sleep on the plane. She packs and sets the alarm, but sleep evades her once again.

Images appear as if on an IMAX movie screen and she’s propelled headlong towards them. Ben being strung up. Sienna screaming in the van. Jim’s eyes glowing with ironic amusement in the darkened nightclub. She can’t see the pattern, but
there must be one. She can’t give up now, there’s too much at stake.

She sleeps fitfully and wakes to pain and to moonlight flickering on her face. She turns away, but her room seems so light. Pain pounds through her temples. Damn! All she needs is a headache when she has to have her wits about her. She sits up and winces as the pressure intensifies, her neck has stiffened and she is feeling nauseous. She must go down to the kitchen where Mum, who is prone to headaches, keeps aspirins in a drawer. Taking her torch, she pushes her feet into her slippers and creeps downstairs, trying to avoid the creaky places, but she stumbles once or twice because she’s so dizzy.

Reaching the kitchen, she is about to reach for the light switch when she sees a movement beyond the window. She switches off the torch and peers through the glass. The moon is full, the night sky clear, and patches of white light contrast with inky black shadows. But surely someone is there. Right there outside the window, almost close enough to touch. A tall, thin figure seems to be standing in the shadow under the Laurel tree, not two metres away, and he seems to be staring straight at her. Surely that’s not possible. It must be a trick of the light.

She shrinks back against the dresser, seeing nothing she can hide behind. A split second later, she freezes as a dark shape moves out of the shadow, creeping across the garden path towards
her. Fumbling behind her for the drawer, she grasps the carving knife.

Dressed in black jeans and a polo neck shirt, the intruder looks sinister and larger than life as he steps into the moonlight. Dazed by pain, and lack of sleep, she stands helplessly watching him placing his feet down cautiously, step by silent step, as he keeps on coming. His shadow falls across the kitchen floor. Chris claps her hand over her mouth. Who is he? And why is he here?

BOOK: Hot Ice
2.75Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Not Quite Married by Lorhainne Eckhart
Alien-Under-Cover by Maree Dry
Deep Surrendering: Episode Four by Chelsea M. Cameron
Hold On to Me by Victoria Purman
Warrior of Scorpio by Alan Burt Akers
Broken Vessels by Andre Dubus
Merlin's Booke by Jane Yolen