Hot Ice (14 page)

By nine p.m., Chris’s headache is affecting her thought processes. She should cancel dinner with David, but she knows that she won’t do that. Sometimes it’s hard to understand the need that drives her to
near-collapse
. Her failure to discover anything to date is an ongoing mental ache which is expressing itself in a variety of physical symptoms. Whatever had led her to believe that she could do this job? She can’t help remembering what Ben had said: ‘You need more than intellect and training, you need intuition.’

The taxi draws to a halt outside the restaurant and Chris climbs out, but before she can pay the driver, David grabs her elbow.

‘The taxi is taken care of. You’re late. I was beginning to think I’d been stood up…but you’re OK. That’s the main thing.’ Today, David’s shrewd, blue eyes are beaming with concern, but he looks harassed. Taut lines around his lips and bags under
his eyes show his tension. A speck of blood gleams on his cracked lips. He has lovely lips, she notices, full and sensual.

‘I’m sorry, David. So much work piled up while I was in the States. You know how it goes.’ Fumbling in her bag, she finds her lip balm and, opening it, she runs it around his lips.

‘Keep this. It’ll stop the splitting. I have plenty more. Do you have a cold?’

‘Sort of. Hey there…you sound a little croaky, too.’

He looks down at her outstretched hand as he takes the lip balm and slips it into his pocket. ‘Thanks!’ He’s smiling, but his expression changes as he swings her round to face him. ‘Jesus! What are you doing to yourself? Shadows like moats…your cheeks a delicate shade of apple green and you’ve lost weight. For God’s sake, Chris. This job is killing you. Get your priorities in order. Nothing’s worth ruining your health. It’s only money.’

She doesn’t answer.

Still clutching her arm, he guides her into the restaurant, which is bright, light and minimalist. The head waiter behaves as if they are visiting celebrities and recites a long list of the evening’s ‘specials’.

Chris only replies when he has left and they are alone. ‘You’re wrong, David. It’s not only money, it’s Ben’s murder and Sienna’s kidnapping. It’s
just that…well… I’m not getting anywhere.’

‘So you reckon there’s a connection between Ben’s death and Sienna’s kidnapping?’

She pulls herself up short. Blabbermouth! ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘No connection. Mohsen Sheik’s not talking to the police, or so I’ve heard, but you can bet he’s had a demand. Take my advice…forget that angle. Of course I’m concerned. Ben was my great buddy.’ David blinks hard. ‘But you’re also someone I care about and I don’t like to see you looking so exhausted. Give yourself a chance. What is it…a couple of weeks since you joined FI? Early days…plenty of time.’

Not for Sienna! This time Chris keeps her mouth shut. ‘You’re probably right.’

The waiter is back with glasses of sherry and an expectant expression. From his toadying Chris assumes that David is a good client. He leaves, but David seems unsure of how to begin. He fiddles with his glass.

‘If you have any suspicions or evidence of a connection between these crimes and your investigation, we should contact Scotland Yard. Do you?’

She shook her head.

‘Two heads are better than one…let’s have a think-tank. What do you think is going on?’

‘Believe me, David, I wish I knew, but to be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on,
so I can’t tell you anything. I thought I’d get the sack, but Rowan suggests I keep trying.’

‘Surely you have some clues or guesses. What about the fabled women’s intuition?’

‘I feel I’m playing blind-man’s bluff.’

He glances shrewdly at her. ‘Has Rowan told you who the client is?’

‘You mentioned something about being the
go-between
.’

‘Exactly. We’re liaising with the Republic of Congo, but that’s only because we are very big diamond exporters from that country.’

‘Are you? I didn’t know.’

‘Now you do. I wish you’d let me help you, Chris. Ben and I used to compare notes over a couple of drinks and we’d usually come up with the answers.’

As he talks, Chris is reminding herself that she has no right to confide. Not to anyone, not even David, who is becoming her friend.

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She searches for a hint of duplicity, but sincerity beams from his blue eyes. Despite her habitual distrust of men, Chris is beginning to warm to David. He’s sincere and straight, which is more than you could say for that fly-by-night Jim Stark.

She says: ‘You must know why Ben went to New York?’

‘Sure I do. He did a great job there. Jon was lucky to get reinstated. He’s as guilty as hell.’ David
frowns disapprovingly. ‘Bronstein’s not the only fool around. Several Liberian dealers have large clientele in New York. They travel there three or four times a year.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if the entire laundering scam is the work of thousands of freelance agents, each responsible for several thousand dollars worth of diamonds,’ Chris says guilelessly, to gauge David’s reaction.

‘Add a few noughts,’ David says. ‘Well, that’s my theory, too. So we’ll close your brief, shall we?’

He smiles teasingly and once again she can’t help admiring his charm, which has a lot to do with his lovely smile. As if sensing her thoughts, he reaches out and squeezes her hand.

‘Listen to this: I was in Monaco last week when a certain delegate from West Africa produced a parcel of excellent roughs. He said it was legit’. He claimed he was the Foreign Minister. Natty dresser. And he had two beautiful women in tow. Twins. Very dark and luscious. Spanish, they told me, identically dressed in ivory lace. He looked very pleased with himself escorting them to all the best places, but someone told me later they were the hotel’s resident whores. He offered me a bargain price for his diamonds, but naturally I couldn’t take the parcel.’

‘Yet you bought the
Golfer’s Dream
diamond, smuggled out of Namibia, which, strictly speaking, belongs to De Beers.’

For a second, David’s eyes are sharp with anger, but he quickly recovers and becomes his usual charming self. ‘You’re quick off the mark, Chris,’ he protests charmingly. ‘Nowadays it makes perfect economic sense to obey the rules. We need to keep conflict diamonds out of the United States. America is the world’s largest diamond market and if we can keep the illicit dealers out, we can hang on to the carefully created image of a diamond standing as a symbol of love and purity. Which reminds me…’

He turns and gazes challengingly at Chris. ‘You should be more careful about the company you keep. You’ve been seen around New York with that criminal, Jim Stark.’

‘Goodness. Are you spying on me, David?’ She is furious and she’s sure that it shows.

‘Not spying on
you
, but…well…the truth is, we keep an eye on Stark. Anyway, it’s just what I was told. Let’s face it, you weren’t exactly discreet.’

‘Why should I be?’ It’s part of my investigation, she almost adds, but then decides that she isn’t making excuses to David or anyone else.

‘I told you Stark was imprisoned in Equatorial Guinea. What I didn’t tell you is that he was rescued from prison by a gang of mercenaries. The worst! The guys who lop off limbs and lay waste to entire communities. They and he are in cohorts. We’re pretty sure they’re making a fortune buying and selling illicit roughs.’

Exactly my intuition, she thinks silently. She
smiles sweetly. ‘Now you’re talking, David. Tell me more.’

‘It’s only a matter of time before we get proof of this. He’s bad news, Chris. Dangerous. I wish you’d give up this investigation, or let me help you.’

‘But I am letting you help me. You’re helping me now, David.’

‘You play things very close to the cuff,’ he says stiffly.

‘Oh David!’ She reaches forward and takes his hand and tries out her most appealing smile. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I don’t have any leads. I don’t even understand how you mining managers actually know that diamonds are being laundered. Or just what the statistics are. Do you?’

He looks startled and then pleased. His left hand slides forward and comes to rest over hers. He really is rather pleasant company, Chris considers. She makes up her mind to charm him and get to know the real person behind the barriers he’s erected around himself.

David lets go of her hand and leans back as the waiter approaches. Suddenly Chris realises she’s hungry. She hasn’t eaten all day. She orders Prawn Avocado, followed by Lobster Thermidor. Why not! And then Zabaglione. David is rich and doubtless has a huge expense account.

They dine sumptuously and drink too much good wine, exchange backgrounds and joke about their
immediate rapport. David even suggests that he could fall in love, given a little encouragement. Diamonds are forgotten as the conversation ranges from subjects as diverse as the drought in Zambia to their shared enthusiasm for skiing.

It’s almost midnight when Chris says: ‘David, I must go. It’s been a lovely evening. Thank you so much.’

‘Why so early?’

‘I don’t want to miss the last tube.’

‘I’ll take you home,’ he says as he stands up.

‘No…’ She kisses his cheek. ‘I like walking and I want to catch the tube. I hope I’ll see you soon.’

‘Bet your life…’

He’s frowning as the waiter brings her coat. The frown intensifies as he walks her to the pavement. Ignoring his scowls, she refuses a taxi and his offer to walk with her to the tube station, and sets off at a brisk pace.

Why does she always feel handcuffed by affection, she wonders. Worse than handcuffed, more like strait-jacketed. David is a great guy, but excessive affection makes her feel claustrophobic. She soon throws off her irritation and enjoys the misty night, the tingling cold on her cheeks as she takes deep gulps of cool, autumn air.

Chris is only a few hundred metres from the restaurant when she realises she’s being followed… again. Someone is stalking her, keeping pace with her steps, trying to disguise their tread. Her stomach clenches painfully, but then she pulls herself together. After all, this is a busy area and she has only to walk into an open shop. She turns first right through misty streets and repeats this manoeuvre until she returns to Piccadilly Circus, but the footsteps doggedly follow hers. Has her stalker been waiting all evening outside the restaurant?

On impulse she flags down a cab and asks the driver to take her to Green Park tube station. There are only a few people waiting on the platform, mainly youngsters engrossed in gloom. She finally feels she’s safe as she steps into the tube and the doors close behind her.

By the time she reaches Finchley West, Chris is
the only person left in the carriage. She hurries outside to find that the mist has thickened. Pausing in the doorway, she searches the pavements on either side of the road. The neon lights at the entrance glow with a purple haze against the grey landscape that’s bleak enough for a Dickens movie. Despite her determination not to succumb to foolish fears, she shudders. ‘It’s the cold,’ she murmurs.

Turning up the collar of her warm coat, she shrinks into it, pushing her hands into her pockets. A siren wails as a police car races along the road, disappearing into the gloom. There are no loiterers to be seen, so Chris sets off briskly for the
ten-minute
walk home.

Soon the motion sends her bag slipping off her shoulder. She pauses mid-step to catch hold of the strap, and precisely then she hears the scuffle of a footfall and the skid of a stone accidentally kicked. ‘Damn! How the hell…?’ But he knows where she lives and he has a car, doesn’t he…a white Ford Fiesta.

Chris slips off her shoes and bolts for home, but despite her speed, the stalker is catching up. Breathless and exhausted, she glances over her shoulder and sees that it’s not one, but two men who are running after her. With a jolt of panic she sees that she isn’t going to make it. She sprints forward, but suddenly stops as she hears a yell, a grunt and the sound of falling bodies. Two men are
rolling on the ground and even from this distance she can hear their panting breath and the dull smack of flesh on flesh. One of them yells: ‘For God’s sake…you’re breaking my arm!’ She creeps back and aims her torch at the heaving hump of men.

‘Get back…damn it…get back…’ Jim’s voice. He’s fighting mad and bent on killing an unknown, swarthy man with a beard. The stalker is pinned face down, his arm twisted in a half-Nelson. Jim drags him towards the lamppost and knocks his head hard against it. The stalker screams.

‘Don’t…don’t…just don’t,’ Chris yells, but Jim is slapping the man’s face from side to side, with amazing speed and force.

‘Stop! You’re killing him.’

‘Don’t interfere,’ he gasps. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he mutters, in the same terse tone. ‘Why are you following Miss Winters?’ He jerks the man to his feet.

Panting badly, the stalker tries to run for it, but yelps as his legs are kicked from under him. He falls heavily and sprawls beside her, where he lies, gasping for breath.

Chris bends over him and tries to pull him to his feet, but he clutches her collar and jerks her head towards his.

‘Your friend’s father…’ he gasps.

Jim grabs her and pulls her back.

‘Stop it. Just stop it,’ she shrieks. She makes an
effort to calm herself. ‘I have to listen to what he has to say.’

Chris pushes Jim away. ‘It seems that a friend sent him.’

Jim swears as she helps the man to a sitting position.

‘I was hired to protect Miss Winters,’ the stalker wheezes.

‘Who hired you?’ Jim asks.

Chris has already guessed who.

‘He’s lying.’ Jim is fumbling in the stalker’s inside pocket. He brings out his wallet and opens it.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for some sort of identification. A private dick, or so it says here. Of course, this doesn’t mean a thing.’

‘You can check in the morning.’ The stalker is recovering his breath. From the look in his eyes, it’s fury not fear that’s giving him strength. He stands shakily and scans her with hostile eyes. ‘You’ve been trying to see the father of an old friend.’ Adding quickly: ‘Don’t name him, please. I have to speak to you privately.’

For a moment Chris is too taken aback to speak. ‘But you’ve been stalking me for weeks,’ she manages to say at last.

‘I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to know that I was following you. I was hired to protect you, because of what you did. There’s three of us. We work in shifts.’

‘Bullshit!’ Jim interrupts him. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘I know who hired him, Jim.’

‘So what exactly did you do to deserve such costly gratitude?’

‘I can’t divulge…’ She shrugs.

Jim is furious. ‘Get lost,’ he tells the man angrily.

‘I’m sorry if I alarmed you,’ the stranger says, making an obvious effort to regain his dignity. ‘Here’s my card. If you need me, please call.’ He scribbles on the back of it and pushes it into her hand.

‘Let me see.’ Jim reaches for the card.

She pushes it into her pocket. ‘No, Jim. It’s confidential and it’s for me.’

The stalker is limping badly as he hurries to the corner and moves out of sight.

‘What a monster you are. You really hurt him.’

‘I would have got the truth out of him if you hadn’t interfered.’

She frowns at him. Jim is a trained fighter, that much is clear. The stalker, or detective, or whoever he is, never stood a chance.

‘Listen to me, Chris. This isn’t a game. Maybe he’s one of the men who killed Ben, maybe he isn’t, but I don’t trust the bastard, or anyone else…and neither should you.’ He breaks off, frowning as he catches sight of her expression.

‘For God’s sake…you can trust me…what’s got into you?’

‘Can I?’ If only she could, but she still has the picture of Jim taken outside Timmins Jeweller’s in the High Street. Jim was following her
before
she picked up Prince Husam. Why is he always around? His claim that he was checking on her for the prince simply doesn’t make sense and she doesn’t believe that he finds her irresistible either.

He swears and then tries to control his anger. ‘Not very skilled at this game, are you, Chris. The first rule is: don’t fall for your suspects. You’d better take me off the list.’

‘I wouldn’t be such a fool.’

He pushes her into a shop doorway and glances furtively over his shoulder along the street. Then they are clutching, fighting, mouth on mouth, her legs around his thighs. Oh God. This can’t be happening. Lust is swamping her reason. She pushes him away. ‘Not like this. No, never.

‘Don’t follow me again,’ she says, pushing her coat and skirt down. ‘I can look after myself.’ Cheeks burning and wet with frustrated tears, she hurries towards home. She hears muttered curses and Jim’s voice floating through the mist. ‘Stop fighting this. Dinner tomorrow.’ A command or a request? Soon there’s nothing but the sound of her footsteps and a dog barking far away.

Chris wakes from her sensual dream and ponders. Jim is the enemy and she’s a fool, yet she never felt such longing. One touch of his hand and her body thrills with a pleasure she’s never before experienced. But something is terribly wrong. Jim knows too much and he’s keeping an eye on her for reasons of his own, using sex as his excuse.

After a while she remembers the stalker, so she gets out of bed and finds his card in her pocket. It reads simply:
Hamid Khan, Private Investigator
, plus an address in the city and a mobile phone number.
We must talk…outside…white Fiesta
… is scribbled on the back in pencil.

She glances at her watch. It is three a.m. Will he still be waiting?

He’s there. She had half-hoped that he wouldn’t be. Lit by the overhanging street lamp, the car seems to beam a warning through the mist: ‘Go back. This is how Ben was trapped.’ Chris has trouble putting one foot in front of the other. Hamid Khan gets out and hurries around to open a door. Should she run for it?

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I didn’t read your note at first.’

‘Get in,’ he says impatiently. After a slight hesitation she stoops and sits. The door slams on her.

‘You look frightened. Please don’t be,’ he says, fastening his seat belt. ‘I am also a trusted friend of
Mohsen Sheik.’ Khan leans forward to turn the key, the engine purrs and the next moment they are gliding south through the thickening mist.

‘Well, you know who I am…by now you probably know me better than anyone…what time I get up…where I go… Being a detective is the ultimate in voyeurism, I suppose.’ Even she can hear that her voice is pitched too high. She can’t stop gabbling as she becomes increasingly aware of her helplessness. ‘Where exactly are we going?’

‘Nowhere. I thought that if we kept moving there would be less chance of being seen.’

‘Why should anyone bother?’

‘Wouldn’t you think that the criminals who kidnapped Sienna and killed Ben Searle are extremely interested in who you see and where you go? You’ve shown yourself to be resourceful, brave and clever. You hoodwinked Moses Freeman. What next? they might be wondering.’

‘How do you know all this?’

He shrugs. ‘I was told. We have a New York office.’

By now she has gone beyond fear to a curious state of lethargy. He is driving slowly which is comforting. After he turns the corner, he slows and begins to talk and as he does some of her tension lessens.

‘You have been trying to see my client, but regrettably this is not possible. It could endanger his daughter’s life.’

‘That’s understandable. I’d feel the same way.’ She clears her throat and makes an effort to get her voice back to a reasonable pitch.

‘My client feels anxious for you, too. He feels that you should drop this investigation. You are involved with dangerous criminals who have too much to lose to allow you to penetrate their defences.’ His voice, deep and expressionless, tells Chris nothing.

‘But it’s not about diamonds anymore. It’s about murder and kidnapping. It’s poor Sienna imprisoned somewhere against her will…’ She breaks off. ‘You might be one of them. How do I know who really sent you? Anyone can get cards printed.’

‘I was told that if you ask I should remind you of the time my client came to the school unexpectedly and found you two girls were wearing each other’s dresses.’

Chris remembers that day so well. As the school concert loomed she and Sienna arranged to meet two school prefects at a bar in town and go dancing later. Neither of their parents were expected, because they hadn’t been told about the concert. Sienna borrowed a revealing, backless, halter-neck red silk dress from Chris. With make-up, earrings and her hair piled on her head, she looked at least eighteen. Chris borrowed Sienna’s embroidered evening jacket. School macs hid their dresses, but their plans were ruined by the sight of Sienna’s
father’s grey Daimler sweeping past the bus stop. He braked and ordered them into the car. Once inside the school they were obliged to take off their macs. Mohsen had only accepted the silly excuse that Sienna was rehearsing for her role as Blanche in the coming school play,
A Streetcar Named Desire
, when she recited part of it. Their dates wouldn’t speak to them for weeks.

Chris swallows hard and pushes the memory away.

‘Has your client had any proof that Sienna is still alive?’

‘Yes. They send regular proof. I pray that we soon find Sienna and deal with these evil criminals.’

The way he spoke made Chris glance sharply at him. He was trying to disguise his anger, but it showed in his taut lips, the gleam in his eyes and his trembling hands. He wasn’t a private detective. Perhaps he worked for Mohsen Sheik. The cards were a fake she felt sure. She would check later.

‘How much do you know about the kidnappers?’

‘Only that they are not Moslems.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Any number of small details. Our criminals don’t use a rope, they prefer a knife or a gun. Besides, they appear to have no market or marketing agents in the Middle East. They steer clear of that area. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

Chris shivers again.

‘Does Mohsen Sheik know who they are?’

‘No, but he feels sure that Moses Freeman does and that Freeman is afraid of them. It’s well known that while he was in prison in Swakopmund in the Seventies, serving a sentence for terrorism, Freeman recruited fellow convicts into his scheme to steal and sell diamonds in order to earn funds for his liberation movement. By the time Namibia gained its freedom, the group had become an extremely profitable concern. That was when Freeman opted out…or was pushed out. Since then he’s had every opportunity to become a big name in illicit diamond dealing, but he is content with a modest living. In our opinion, Freeman values his life more than money.’

‘With good reason, it seems.’

‘Yes. Freeman was arrested in New York just after you left, but his alibi was foolproof, so he was deported to Liberia. We tried to locate him there, but he fled the country. We don’t know where he is. He can lead us to these criminals, although he’s not associated with them. Do you have any questions?’

‘None that you could answer, it seems.’

‘I’m sorry. My client would prefer you to ask me for any details you need to know about his company and keep your Bombay office off his back. You can use me as your go-between. You have my mobile number. Call day or night.’

Sudden anger surges. ‘You’ve been frightening me. Are you connected with a certain bearded Pashto translator, who followed me in New York?’

‘As I said, we work in shifts,’ he says briefly.

‘All I want is to be left alone to do my job. Stop following me. You’re no fighter, so your protection doesn’t add up to a damn thing. If you find out anything relevant…like what the hell’s going on, please feel free to contact me.’

Kahn looks her over with his expressionless velvet eyes and forces his lips into a humourless smile. ‘You’re right, Miss Winters. I’m sorry I bothered you. Here you are…home. Go well.’