RODERICK MANN

THE ACCOUNT

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1994

Copyright © Roderick Mann 1994

Roderick Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006478850

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008235420

Version: 2016-11-21

Dedication

For Anastasia

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Postscript

About the Author

About the Publisher

From the Daily Mail
SOCIETY WOMAN MURDERED

The body of Jane Summerwood, 27, of Connaught Square, London, was discovered by an early morning jogger yesterday in a clump of bushes in Hyde Park.

Police described the condition of the body as appalling. ‘She had been brutally beaten,’ a spokesman said. ‘It was the work of a maniac.’

Miss Summerwood, daughter of Colonel James Summerwood of East Grinstead, was well known in London social circles and was an accomplished horsewoman. She is known to have been in the company of American billionaire Robert Brand, and was a frequent guest on his yacht in Monte Carlo. Mr Brand, now in America, could not be reached for comment yesterday but his secretary described him as ‘devastated’. Police inquiries continue.

Chapter 1

It was raining hard. Driving along the Quai du Mont-Blanc in his black Renault, Paul Eberhardt glanced idly towards Lake Geneva, sheathed now in a fine mist that rendered the mountains beyond barely visible.

The man sometimes called the most astute banker in Europe was deeply depressed. Usually on Thursdays his spirits rose. This was the evening he set aside his worries and drove along the lakeside to spend an hour at the house of Madame Valdoni.

Relaxing. Taking his pleasure. Watching the film that now lay on the seat beside him.

But events that afternoon had dampened his enthusiasm for the evening to come. First there was the memo from his partner, Georges di Marco, demanding a meeting. Eberhardt knew what di Marco wanted to talk about; what he had been threatening for weeks now. It could no longer be postponed. Then, to make matters worse, Robert Brand had arrived unexpectedly at the bank. Eberhardt’s relationship with the American billionaire had always been polite. They were, after all, locked in a tight financial embrace that could not easily be broken. But the meeting that afternoon had been unpleasant. Brand, in a bad mood, had queried everything and had barely been civil. Eberhardt, who had always prided himself that he could handle the American, was now not so sure.

He swore and braked hard as a woman, her view hidden by an umbrella, stepped out suddenly to cross the street. He must pay attention. This was just the sort of day when accidents occurred.

Leaving the city he adjusted the speed of the windscreen wipers and switched on the heater to demist the glass. There were few other vehicles about. That suited him fine. The drive along the Lausanne road normally took him forty-five minutes. Today it would be quicker.

An impatient horn behind him interrupted his thoughts. Pulling over he saw he was near the lakeside hotel where he occasionally dined. He drove into the car park and switched off the engine. A drink, he decided, would make him feel better; would calm his nerves. Otherwise the seductive ministrations of Madame Valdoni’s girl would be wasted.

The bar of the hotel was quiet. Relieved, he perched himself on a stool and ordered a double Scotch. The warmth of the drink in his throat made him feel better. Glancing around he caught an unwelcome glimpse of himself in a wall mirror. How pale he looked; how old. Yet he was still an aristocratic-looking man, tall and distinguished in a formal way. Anyone seeing him sitting there nursing his drink would have found it hard to guess his profession. A diplomat perhaps. Or a doctor. He was not an easy man to place on looks alone.

Finishing his drink he paid his bill and left. Outside, he stood for a moment protected by an awning, breathing in the chill late afternoon air. The smell of the lake was quite strong; tangy and pervasive. As he hurried to his car he stepped in a pool of rainwater, soaking one of his highly polished shoes. Damn! Could nothing go right this day? He held the shoe out of the car window, upside down, shaking it.

Just past the town of Nyon, Eberhardt turned up a private road that wound its way through several acres of woodland and pasture. Faded signs warning against trespassing stood alongside the road. Eberhardt knew the road well. It was the landscape of his other self, not the severe banking mandarin of Geneva but the private pleasure-seeking sensualist. At the end of the road was a large, wrought-iron gate. And, beyond, a half-moon shaped driveway fronting a two-storey mansion. The house, which had once belonged to a wealthy Swiss industrialist, had been bought by Italian-born Madame Valdoni twenty years earlier and turned into a maison de plaisir catering to an exclusive clientele of men from Geneva and Lausanne who were prepared to pay 500 Swiss francs for the services of any one of half a dozen spectacular-looking girls.

Eberhardt’s friend, the lawyer Maître Claude Bertrand, the only man in whom he ever confided, had often suggested that the banker take a permanent mistress. But the sense of illicit, furtive adventure stimulated Eberhardt’s libido in a way he knew a regular woman could not.

Anyway, he had lived alone since the death of his wife, Hilde, ten years before, and now had no intention of sharing his life with anyone. Coupled with this was the fact that Geneva banking circles, prim and censorious, would frown on any such liaison.

As he drove through the gates Eberhardt was relieved to note that there were no other cars outside the house. Highly secretive by nature, he preferred to keep these visits private and always used an alias.

Holding the can of film beneath his jacket he hastened towards the front door, which was opened almost immediately by a maid.

‘Good evening, Dr Weber,’ she said. ‘I will tell Madame you are here.’ A moment later she returned with a woman in her mid-fifties, elegantly and expensively dressed in black.

‘My dear doctor.’ Madame Valdoni proffered her hand. ‘What a pleasure.’ She turned to the maid. ‘A drink for Doctor Weber.’ She glanced at Eberhardt. ‘The usual?’

Eberhardt nodded. He pointed to his shoe. ‘Look at that. Soaked. This damn rain. Perhaps you could dry it?’

‘Of course.’ Valdoni motioned to the maid who knelt before Eberhardt and removed both his shoes and socks. ‘I will have them ready by the time you leave,’ she beamed.

‘Is everything arranged?’

‘As soon as you telephoned. We have someone quite special for you tonight …’

‘Not Genevieve?’ He felt a pang of disappointment.

‘She is away. Her mother is sick. But you will not be disappointed.’

When the maid returned with a glass of chilled white wine, Eberhardt, barefoot, followed Valdoni up the sweeping staircase. At the top she took the can of film he handed her and led him down a hallway to a thickly carpeted dressing room complete with day bed and wardrobe. A door led to an adjacent room.

A young Oriental girl stood there. She was perhaps sixteen years old and so incredibly lovely that Eberhardt was astonished. She was wearing black panties and a black brassiere. She too was barefoot.

‘Jasmine,’ the older woman said, handing her the can of film, ‘this is Dr Weber, one of our special friends. I am relying on you to take care of him.’

The girl nodded. ‘My honour, sir.’ She bowed and retreated into the other room.

Valdoni smiled. ‘Enjoy yourself, dear doctor.’ She went out closing the door.

Eberhardt undressed completely, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, and stepped into the next room, which was in semi-darkness. Uncarpeted, it contained nothing but a wooden chair with a bell push on one arm, a screen some six feet square, and a film projector on a table at the opposite end.

Eberhardt sat in the chair facing the screen. A moment later Jasmine came in. She was naked now, her body and hands slightly oiled. She was carrying two glasses, one filled with hot water, the other with ice cubes. She put these beside the cushion at the foot of the chair. Reaching for a packet beside the projector she took out a crumpled cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply before passing it to Eberhardt. She watched as he drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He passed the joint back to the girl, who again inhaled. Soon the small room was pungent with the smell of marijuana. Eberhardt began to relax. He stubbed the joint out on the wooden floor.

‘Ready,’ he said.

The girl knelt before him, her tongue flicking across her lips. She took a swallow of hot water and enveloped him with her mouth. His erection swelled. She curled her tongue expertly, making him groan.

Soon she stopped and slipped two ice cubes into her mouth. When she again enveloped him his erection began to subside. He moaned, looking down at her. But with the second mouthful of hot water his erection swelled even more. Three times the girl repeated the process, fingers teasing, tongue flickering, writhing, twisting, hair swaying, each time driving Eberhardt nearer to climax. Finally he pressed the bell push and a beam of light stabbed the gloom. The film began unrolling. Clasping the girl’s head in his hands, pulling her further to him, Eberhardt leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon the screen, reading every word of the German subtitles although he knew them by heart.

The print, old now and scratched in places, never failed to excite him. It was one of many made by the Nazis. The film, much prized, had been given to him by a German friend. ‘Something to warm you on those cold Geneva nights,’ he had joked.

The film depicted a chilling scene. There were four people in a small, cell-like room. One of them, a young dark-haired man, his face and torso bloodied, was in a chair, his hands tied behind him. Two other men, both in black SS uniforms, were taking turns beating him with truncheons.

On a single bed in the background lay a young woman, naked, her hands also tied. She was screaming. When the beating finished the SS men turned the young man’s chair around so that it faced the bed. Removing his tunic and boots one of the SS men dropped his breeches and approached the woman on the bed.

While the Nazi forced himself into her, the young man, struggling violently, tried to look away. He could not. The other captor held his head tightly, forcing him to watch.

Hypnotized by what he was seeing, his pulse throbbing, his breath laboured, the blood pounding in his ears, Eberhardt suddenly groaned and came with such force that he almost slid from the chair. After a moment the girl rose and tiptoed from the room.

When Eberhardt looked at the screen again the other man was on the woman. The prisoner in the chair now sat without moving, apparently in shock. As the SS man climaxed, his body shuddering, the woman beneath him spat in his face. Rearing back, the man struck her savagely causing blood to gush from her nose. He continued striking her.

When his companion finally rose from the moaning woman, the first SS man, dressed now, took out his revolver and fired once into the head of each victim.

Transfixed, Eberhardt watched until the film ran off the spool. He rose shakily. Taking the film he went next door to dress. His shoes and socks, now dry, awaited him. Before leaving he placed an envelope on the day bed.

In an upstairs room Jasmine watched as he accelerated away down the drive. She turned to her employer. ‘That film.’ She shuddered. ‘He’s sick, that man.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Genevieve told me.’

‘He’s a good customer,’ the older woman said.

They stood together watching the lights of the Renault as it reached the end of the drive and turned down the private road.

Madame Valdoni shook her head. ‘And he still thinks we don’t know who he is.’

She laughed softly.

Chapter 2

Eberhardt arrived early at his office the next morning. He had slept well, relaxed after his visit to Madame Valdoni’s. But he was apprehensive about the meeting he had arranged with his partner, Georges di Marco. Confrontations of any kind were not to his liking.

Sipping the first of the many morning coffees his secretary, Marte, brought him, he let his eyes wander down to the street below.

Even the most chauvinistic citizens of Geneva agreed that the rue de Hesse was an unremarkable thoroughfare. But Eberhardt had loved it ever since he first stood on the corner by the Café des Banques trying to decide whether to move his bank there from its original location in the rue du Rhône. It was that or the rue de la Corraterie, supposedly the most respectable financial address in Geneva. In the end he had opted for the rue de Hesse – already the home of the Banque Privée de Edmond Rothschild – and he had never regretted it. There his bank had grown and prospered to the point where it was now a major player in the world’s money markets. And he, at the age of seventy-seven, was one of the most respected bankers in Europe.

Many foreigners, Eberhardt knew, thought of Switzerland as a land of watches, chocolates and cuckoo clocks. But what made Switzerland work, what gave it its independence and its prestige, were the banks. There were the three great commercial banks, Credit Suisse, Union Bank and the Swiss Bank Corporation. And there were the private banks – Lombard Odier, Pictet, Rothschild, Darier, Hentsch and Eberhardt.

The private bankers of Geneva thought of themselves as an élite group. They belonged to the Groupement, the association of Geneva private bankers, the most exclusive sector in the Swiss financial system. And they had something else in common. They were all, without exception, paranoid about secrecy, fearing rightly that its abolition would lead to a wholesale withdrawal of the trillions in marks, dollars, pounds, lire and yen invested with them. Secrecy, in fact, was the law. Clause 47(b) of the 1934 Banking Act set out stiff penalties – fines and a jail sentence – for any bank director or employee who gave away secrets.

Foreign bankers liked to point out that Swiss bankers had a poor record in forecasting movements in the stock markets. The Swiss argued back that with them the emphasis was on security rather than spectacular performance in portfolio management. And bankers like Eberhardt were quick to reiterate how much more prudent they were than American bankers, who, in his words, ‘seemed intent on throwing away clients’ money’.

But Swiss bankers could no longer afford to be smug. A billion-dollar money laundering racket had resulted in the resignation of Switzerland’s Justice Minister. And the scandal at Credit Suisse, which had written off $700 million after fraud at its branch in Chiasso, had thrown doubt on Switzerland’s reputation for prudence. Then came the jail sentence handed out to Robert Leclerc, whose private bank collapsed. No one was particularly surprised at the judge’s decision; malpractice by a partner in a private bank rated just below murder in the eyes of the Swiss authorities. Eberhardt had no concerns about his own establishment, which was the third most prestigious private bank in Switzerland. His worry was the shadow that lay over the life he had built for himself in Geneva. And the fact that the man on his way up to see him knew what it was.

Georges di Marco had joined the Banque Eberhardt just before the Second World War, leaving the prestigious firm of M. M. Warburg and Co. And he had stayed with the bank as its fortunes rose, despite attractive offers to go elsewhere. He was a good banker with the right attributes: boldness, instinct, judgement and knowledge. And because Swiss law required at least two partners to head a private bank, Eberhardt had eventually elevated him to full partner.

Now this.

When di Marco walked in, Eberhardt rose to greet him. He was a small man with a long mournful face and wispy white hair. Eberhardt had often thought he looked more like an undertaker than a banker.

‘You know why I am here, Paul …’ Di Marco took a chair on the other side of the desk.

‘A friendly talk, I trust.’ Eberhardt forced a smile.

‘Paul, I am due to retire soon. I have been with the bank a long time – almost as long as you. I have served it well –’

‘You have served it brilliantly.’

‘I cannot leave without a clear conscience.’

Eberhardt mustered another bleak smile. ‘Georges, we have been through this so often …’

‘And I have always given in to your wishes.’

‘Come now, Georges.’ Confronted by the frail little man, Eberhardt felt some of his confidence returning. ‘It’s not a question of giving in. We are friends; partners. I respect your position. You know that. But we’re talking about something that happened years ago. It’s dead; forgotten. What you are suggesting would ruin the bank.’

‘We would survive.’

‘Survive?’ Eberhardt said heavily. ‘Georges, I have not come this far merely to survive.’ He picked up his gold pen from the desk and toyed with it. ‘Next year I will chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. I have a reputation to protect.’ He leaned forward. ‘Dine with me tonight. We will go to the Lion d’Or. Talk it over. Like old times …’

‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ The little man looked at his hands. ‘I have made my decision. I am going to talk to the authorities.’

Eberhardt tried to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. A frisson of anxiety made the side of his mouth twitch.

‘Georges, please, what kind of talk is that among friends?’ He paused. ‘What you need is a break. Take a few weeks off. Somewhere warm.’ He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Friends of mine have a house in Puerto Vallarta. I could call them. You’d like Mexico.’

‘You don’t understand,’ di Marco said. ‘What I’m looking for is peace of mind.’

‘But what you’re suggesting would make everything worse. It would destroy the bank’s reputation …’

‘It would enable me to sleep,’ di Marco said quietly. He looked straight at Eberhardt. ‘You made a decision forty years ago to say nothing to the Government when enquiries began. I begged you then to speak up. You refused. Out of loyalty I have kept quiet all this time.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Eberhardt said. ‘Even so –’

‘We are partners,’ the old man said. ‘I have some say.’

‘My dear Georges,’ Eberhardt leaned forward, ‘of course you do. But you must think of the consequences.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘When I started this bank there were 150 private banks in Switzerland. How many are there today? Twenty. Look at the clients we have – Robert Brand, Marie de Boissy, Francine Rochas, Max Schröder. World-famous names. We have survived because we are a fine bank, widely respected. Much of that respect was earned by your good work. You are a great banker, Georges. How can you think of throwing it all away now?’

‘I won’t change my mind, Paul.’ Di Marco got to his feet and began to walk towards the door.

‘I ask you again to consider the consequences,’ Eberhardt tried as a last shot. ‘Our reputations –’

‘Our consciences would be clear,’ di Marco said. He opened the door and went out.

Watching him go, Eberhardt knew he had lost. He had hoped to prolong the meeting, to reason with di Marco, make him see how foolish it would be to throw away the work of a lifetime. But the old man had already made up his mind. Like the good Catholic he was, he was going to confess his sins – but not to a priest. In doing so he would ruin the reputation Eberhardt had built up over fifty years. He rose wearily and crossed to the window, staring again at the street below. Raindrops were bouncing off the roofs of the cars parked on either side. He stood there for a long time.

Eventually, Eberhardt buzzed his secretary.

‘I’m leaving in a moment, Marte. Have the garage bring round my car.’

‘Immediately, Monsieur Eberhardt.’

He sat down in his chair again. He had been through this all before with André Leber, one of his account officers who, through diligence and hard work, had graduated to the bank’s executive committee before retiring. Leber had been after money, of course. And Eberhardt had been unwise enough to pay him. Ten thousand francs a month for five years. Just thinking about it upset him. It would have gone on and on had he not finally mustered enough courage to end it.

Now he would have to do the same thing with Georges di Marco. Crossing the room he opened his private safe and removed a black address book. Tucked inside was a slip of paper with a name on it. Eberhardt looked at it for a moment before putting it in his jacket pocket and closing the safe.

He would call the man from home, he decided. He prayed he was still available.

Chapter 3

At the same time that Paul Eberhardt was heading for home, Robert Brand’s Gulfstream IV was landing in the rain at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Staring out of the window at the glistening runway Brand had begun to feel better. That morning, getting out of bed in Geneva, an attack of dizziness had made him sway on his feet. Alarmed, he had waited until noon and called his doctor in New York.

‘Look,’ Rex Kiernan said, ‘it’s probably nothing serious. Maybe you got up too quickly. How’s your hearing?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Could be an inner ear problem. Want me to recommend someone over there?’

‘I haven’t the time. Anyway, I’ll be home soon.’

‘You should slow down,’ Kiernan said. ‘I keep telling you that. What is it – a year since your attack? All that trauma? Takes time. At our age the body heals more slowly …’

In Robert Brand’s opinion he had slowed down since his heart attack. At that time Kiernan had advised complete rest.

‘This is your life we’re talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re sixty-three years old. You’ve been through a terrible experience. Why don’t you use that damn great yacht of yours and take a long cruise, do nothing for a few months?’

Brand had agreed that he would. But the month-long cruise of the Mediterranean with a couple of business friends had only served to increase his sense of loss.

Trapped in a sterile and unhappy relationship for many years, Robert Brand, a handsome, energetic man, had almost abandoned hope of ever enjoying a romantic and emotional relationship with a woman. Instead he had allowed himself a succession of brief affairs, most of them unsatisfactory. Then one evening, in the bar of the Athenaeum Hotel in London, he had been introduced to Jane Summerwood.

The attraction had been immediate. She had left with friends that evening, but he had managed to track her down. And, in the ensuing weeks, they had fallen in love.

Within three months he had made up his mind. He would ask his wife for a divorce – regardless of the consequences – and marry Jane, a decision hastened by the discovery that she was pregnant. He could still remember her face, flushed with happiness, when he took her down Bond Street to buy the engagement ring.

He had told only one person of his plan, his friend Bobby Koenig. Koenig had encouraged him. ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘You have one life. Don’t waste it.’

A month later Jane was found dead in a London park. The police, with no clues, had put it down to another senseless random murder.

And within weeks Brand, almost immobilized with grief, suffered a heart attack. At first he was forced to rest, but then, ignoring Rex Kiernan’s warnings, he had plunged back into work. And, until that morning in Geneva, felt reasonably fit.

According to the latest Fortune magazine, he was now the sixth richest man in America. A workaholic, he spent most of his time on the top floor of the thirty-storey black glass building on Madison Avenue where the Brand Corporation was based. There, he put in a fourteen-hour day, overseeing a business empire with interests in oil, shipping, hotels, food processing and drugs.

‘The Man Who Has Everything’, Business Week dubbed him in a piece that was laudatory but glaringly short of facts, for Brand never gave interviews and provided no biography for inquisitive journalists. Even the accompanying photograph was an old one.

Brand knew that success usually came either through an accident of birth or the sheer power of will. But in his case it was both. At twenty-two, with $50 million inherited from his father, he had tasted the heady fruits of power and found them to his liking.

Calculating risks to the nth degree he flew in and out of the world’s capitals making deals and increasing his fortune. He took gambles that even the biggest banks balked at. With the Pacific Rim booming, he waited until Indonesia’s currency became convertible and then invested heavily, knowing the country was rich in natural resources. Within two years his investment had tripled. He then moved into the Finnish market, which was underpriced, and doubled his money within a year. Then, anticipating the dollar’s fall, he invested heavily in other currencies.

Since Jane’s death, however, he found himself deriving less and less satisfaction from the mere making of money. He wanted someone, or something, to change his life, to set him on a new course.

Speeding down the neon-lit autoroute into Paris he lay back against the chill leather of the limousine and closed his eyes. He realized he had never felt so lonely in his life.

Georges di Marco awoke suddenly. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 2.30 a.m. He had been asleep less than two hours. Touching his forehead he realized it was damp with perspiration. The dream. It was always the same. Ghosts from the past, jeering, pointing fingers. And money, stacks of it, scattering in the wind as he tried to count it. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. I’m an old man, he thought; I should be sleeping soundly. My conscience should be clear. Instead I awake in dread.

For a moment, as a spasm of nausea assailed him, he feared he might be sick, and reached for a handkerchief. What’s the matter with me? he thought, on the edge of panic. Why is this happening? He took a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table.

I must tell someone, he decided. That man with the Federal Banking Commission – Albert-Jean Cristiani – I will call him. Take him to dinner. Ask his advice. Produce the diary, perhaps. He will know what I should do. He will realize I am an honourable man.

He bunched the pillows beneath his head. Switching off the light he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

Chapter 4

Julia Lang had thought herself prepared for the encounter, for the time when she would have to face him again, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was standing there in the lobby of London’s Burlington Hotel talking to one of the guests, she was swept by a feeling of such revulsion that for a moment she feared she might be physically sick.

It had been-sixteen years since their last meeting and seeing him again it seemed to her that he had not changed at all. The same aristocratic stance, hands behind his back; the same black hair brushed straight back; the same rimless spectacles. And the same dark grey suiting with a light blue tie.

Her face set, she walked towards him.

He turned, pivoting on one foot. ‘Miss Lang. Good morning.’ It was as if nothing had ever happened; he might have been greeting her after an absence of a day instead of all those years.

He turned to the elderly American by his side. ‘Mr Elliott, this is Julia Lang, Publicity Director for the hotel.’

The American looked approvingly at Julia’s shoulder-length blonde hair and deep-set grey eyes. In a lobby full of pale-faced people in heavy winter coats she stood out sharply in her forest-green velvet jacket and black skirt.

He smiled warmly. ‘Glad to know you, Miss Lang. I was just telling Mr Moscato here how impressed we are with the Burlington.’

‘Will you be staying in London long?’

‘Just a week. Mrs Elliott wants to see a couple of shows. I want to get some shirts made. Turnbull and Asser – I like their shirts.’

Julia smiled politely. ‘If there’s anything I can do while you’re here …’

‘Thank you, Miss Lang. We’re being looked after very well.’

Julia excused herself and walked back towards the executive offices. She realized with a pang of dismay that just being near Guido Moscato had made her feel soiled. She had not expected that. Well, she would have to come to terms with his presence. It was that or quit; those were her only choices. But she loved her job. And if she walked out with two years left of her contract, her chances of working for another London hotel were slim.

In her office at the end of the corridor, Emma Carswell, her secretary, was waiting with a sheaf of letters to sign. Seeing Julia’s expression, she frowned.

‘You’re looking glum.’

‘I just ran into Moscato,’ Julia said.

Emma groaned. ‘He’s finally here, then.’

‘Arrived yesterday.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Julia shook her head. ‘There was someone with him.’

‘You’re sure he recognized you?’

‘Of course.’

Emma nibbled on her lower lip. ‘Of all people for the Sultan to hire.’

‘He must think Moscato is a good choice,’ Julia said.

‘How did he ever hear of him?’

‘Everyone knows the Palace on Lake Como.’

Emma put the letters on her desk. ‘I still think you should have told the Sultan what happened …’

‘Emma, the Sultan runs this hotel as a business. People’s personal lives don’t come into it.’

She moved round to the other side of her desk and sat down in the swivel chair.

‘Are you going home to change for the party?’ Emma asked.

‘I brought a dress with me.’

She had been looking forward to the cocktail party that evening, planned months earlier to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Burlington’s reopening after its £40-million face-lift. All the hotel’s guests had been invited, together with people from London’s social and political circles. Julia had even bought herself a black cocktail dress from Louis Féraud, an extravagance she excused by convincing herself it would be useful for other occasions. But with Moscato’s arrival at the hotel much of her earlier enthusiasm had waned.

Emma paused before returning to her own office. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ she said, her face rather implying the opposite.

Julia mustered a faint smile and reached for her pen.

By 7.30 p.m. the Terrace Room was crowded. Guido Moscato stood just inside the wide mirrored doors greeting guests.

Inside the huge room, bars had been set up at either end. In the centre a buffet table was laden with delicacies prepared by the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset. In a far corner a willowy young man was playing forties melodies on the piano. Blue-jacketed waiters moved among the guests offering canapés and drinks. The buzz of conversation was very loud.

‘Don’t just stand there. Mingle.’

Julia turned. Bryan Penrose, the hotel’s Director of Sales and Marketing, was standing beside her. She smiled. She and Penrose were friends.

‘You’re looking spectacular,’ he said. ‘New dress?’

She nodded.

‘I never want to see you in anything else,’ he said.

He winked at Julia and moved away. Left alone, Julia scanned the room for familiar faces. Someone waved to her from the bar by the window. She recognized Bobby Koenig, an American screenwriter and frequent visitor to the hotel. He was standing talking to an impressive-looking man with grey hair. Julia moved towards him, nodding to people she knew.

‘Julia.’ Koenig grasped her hand warmly. ‘You know this gentleman, of course. He’s paying a fortune for the privilege of staying here. Julia Lang … Robert Brand.’

She was faintly surprised to see Brand there. Although he was not registered under his own name and had requested no publicity, word had soon filtered down through the hotel grapevine that the secretive American billionaire had checked into the Empire Suite.

‘Julia is Publicity Director for the hotel,’ Koenig said. ‘And one of the most eligible women in London.’ He retrieved his champagne glass. ‘She’s single, she speaks fluent Italian and she once got a love letter from Marcello Mastroianni.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Am I right?’

‘You’re impossible,’ Julia laughed. ‘Revealing all my secrets. Anyway, it was Alain Delon.’

‘Close enough,’ Koenig said. ‘Both actors.’

During this banter Brand had not taken his eyes from her. She felt vaguely disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, she decided, were the darkest she had ever seen. He was an impressive figure in his beautifully cut dark suit. Impressive and handsome.

‘Bobby tells me you have a new manager,’ Brand said.

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened to the last one?’

‘He died. He was the one who brought me here. Andrew Lattimer. A lovely man.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘The Ambassador Royal.’

Was he really interested, Julia wondered, or just making a polite conversation.

‘Miss Lang …’

She turned. Freddy, one of the barmen, was holding out a glass of champagne.

She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

‘Oh go on,’ Koenig said. ‘It’s good stuff. Must be costing the hotel a fortune. Mind you, with what Robert’s paying for his suite they can afford it.’

It occurred to Julia that Brand probably had no idea what the suite cost. Such petty details were no doubt handled by his staff. She could not imagine him standing by the cashier’s window filling out traveller’s cheques.

Julia took the glass and put it down at the edge of the bar.

‘You may not know it,’ Koenig said, ‘but Robert owns two of the best hotels in New York – the Raleigh and the Carlton House. He’s always trying to recruit new talent for them. So watch yourself.’

‘Tim Perrin’s at the Raleigh?’ Julia asked.

‘He is,’ Brand said. ‘And doing a fine job. You know him?’

‘He was assistant manager here.’

‘We’re very pleased with him. You must come and see us when you’re next in New York.’ Brand glanced around the room. ‘You put all this together?’

‘Most of it.’

‘You got a great turnout.’

‘Free drink,’ Koenig said drily. ‘Never fails. Anyway, Julia has magic powers.’

‘I believe it,’ Brand said. He had hardly taken his eyes from her. How old was he, she wondered. Early sixties? It was hard to tell, he exuded such energy. ‘I suppose everyone tells you you could be Grace Kelly’s kid sister?’

Julia, never comfortable with compliments, flushed slightly. ‘Not everyone,’ she said.

‘I knew her years ago,’ Brand said. ‘Wonderful woman. Before Rainier came along, of course. I couldn’t compete with a prince.’ He looked at Julia intently. ‘Any princes in your life, Miss Lang?’

‘Mine’s on the way, according to my horoscope,’ she said, laughing.

‘You know what the French say?’ Brand chuckled. ‘Every woman waits for the right man to come along. In the meantime she gets married.’

‘You’re sure that’s what the French say?’ Julia said.

‘Positive.’

Was he flirting with her? She hoped so.

She needed a morale boost after her encounter with Moscato. And Robert Brand was one of the most charismatic men she had ever met. She felt a surge of attraction towards him and was disconcerted. This was a cocktail party for the hotel. He was a guest; she an employee. She must not forget it.

‘If the peasants could see us now,’ Koenig said, surveying the room, ‘they’d be lining up the tumbrels outside.’

‘We don’t do this very often,’ Julia said.

‘Well you should,’ Koenig replied. ‘Give me the excuse to come here more often. I love this town.’

‘Can’t think why,’ Brand laughed. ‘It’s freezing cold and it rains all the time.’

‘What a masterly summing up of one of the world’s great cities,’ Koenig said, deadpan.

‘Well, it’s true,’ Brand insisted.

‘It’s the last truly civilized city on earth,’ Koenig said. ‘A cornucopia of pleasures. New York is violent and vicious … Paris is too desperately chic … Rome is bedlam-’

‘So is London,’ Brand said. ‘I don’t understand what you see in the place.’

‘I told you. It’s civilized.’ Julia watched Koenig, amused, as he got into his stride. ‘Remember Sam Danovich, the producer? The great Sam? He brought me here thirty years ago to do a rewrite on a script. He loved it here. He said, “There’s no other city in the world for the cultivated man.” By the time I’d finished the film I agreed with him.’

‘On the basis of what?’

‘The conversation, for one thing. People here talk about ideas.’

‘Give me an example,’ Brand said.

‘Well, just last night at dinner the woman next to me asked if I thought it was mere coincidence that none of the great philosophers – Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche – was married –’

‘You are too easily impressed, my friend,’ Brand said. ‘A little Reader’s Digest trivia can hardly be categorized as good conversation.’

‘Sneer all you like,’ Koenig said. ‘All I know is that back home in Los Angeles we’d have been asking people which dermatologist they used and how much the new addition to their house cost.’

‘Both subjects of considerable interest,’ Brand chuckled. ‘Particularly if you live in a tiny house and have spots all over your face.’

‘I’m being serious,’ Koenig protested.

‘So am I,’ Brand replied. ‘I promise you there are plenty of idiots here too.’

‘Agreed,’ Koenig said. ‘But there’s one other great thing about London: you don’t need an Uzi by your bedside to feel secure.’

Brand turned to Julia. ‘Our friend tends to exaggerate, as you’ve noticed. But then he’s a writer.’

‘Sorry, Mr Brand. I agree with Bobby. I love London too.’

‘New York is much more exciting.’

‘A morally bankrupt city,’ Koenig said. ‘With a social world made up of fools who consider it desirable to associate with people simply because they are rich.’

‘Are you suggesting they don’t do that in Los Angeles?’

‘Only morons,’ Koenig said easily. ‘Morons and movie stars.’

Brand glanced round the room. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Look who’s over there. Jack Blacklock. Black Jack himself. We must go and say hello.’ He turned to Julia. ‘I enjoyed talking with you, Miss Lang. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

‘I hope so,’ Julia said.

Koenig smiled and squeezed her arm. Watching them leave, Julia felt curiously deflated. Brand had such a powerful presence it was as if she had been left in a vacuum.

Looking round she saw Moscato approaching. She felt a sense of dread.

‘I saw you talking with Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘Does he seem happy with the hotel?’

‘Perfectly.’ She turned abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the reporters outside. They’ll need some details of the party.’

She wove her way through the crowded room towards the door, taking a last glance at Brand and Koenig, who were deep in conversation with a tall, flamboyant-looking man wearing an eye-patch. They did not look her way.

The rain had eased as Julia left the hotel. Only a few reporters still stood around, hunched in their raincoats. Two of them nodded to her.

As she walked down the steps, she called goodnight to Henry Wilson, the uniformed night doorman.

‘Good night, Miss Lang.’

Henry liked Julia. She always had a cheery word for him – unlike some of the other hotel executives. After six years he knew quite a lot about Julia Lang. He knew she was thirty-three and unmarried. He knew how conscientious she was; how late she often worked. He liked the way she held herself, the way she dressed. She was, in his book, a very stylish lady. He had even met her boyfriend, Michael Chadwick. Nice enough, but not good enough for her.

Tonight she seemed preoccupied. Working too hard, he decided, stepping forward to open the taxi door for a late arrival.

At 11 p.m. on Friday in Geneva, Paul Eberhardt picked up the telephone in his study and dialled the number of Georges di Marco.

‘Georges, I’m sorry to worry you so late but there are a couple of papers here that require your signature.’

‘My signature?’ The old man’s voice was vague. He sounded as if he’d been dozing. ‘Surely it can wait until Monday?’

‘I’m afraid not. I must express them to New York tomorrow. Don’t distress yourself. I’ll send someone round with them.’

‘It’s very late, Paul. I was about to retire …’

‘I realize that, but this is really urgent. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you otherwise. I’d bring them round myself but I am still at the office.’

‘What papers are they, Paul? I don’t recall –’

‘The de Boissy estate.’

‘I thought that was all settled.’

‘There are a couple of loose ends.’

‘Very well. Send them round.’

‘The messenger will wait and bring them back.’ Eberhardt paused. ‘You haven’t had second thoughts, I suppose?’

‘Second thoughts?’

‘Our discussion the other morning.’

‘No, Paul. No second thoughts.’

‘Then you must do what you think is right, Georges. We must all do what we think is right.’

When the buzzer sounded di Marco pressed the button to open the street entrance and unlocked the door of his apartment. He went into the bedroom to remove his comfortable slippers and put on more formal black shoes.

When he returned to the living room he was surprised to find the messenger standing by the open door with a large envelope in his hand.

‘I did knock,’ the man said.

‘That’s all right. Come in, come in. I just have to sign a couple of papers.’

He took the envelope from the messenger, a burly young man, and went over to the desk by the window. Inside the envelope were two blank sheets of paper. He turned, bewildered.

‘There’s nothing –’

Before he could finish his arms were pinioned behind him and tape was wrapped around his wrists. He let out a whimper of fear.

‘What are you doing?’

Before he could say more another tape was pasted over his mouth.

Eyes wide with fright, the old man was hustled out of his apartment. The door slammed behind him.

The morning following the cocktail party Julia had arranged to have breakfast with an American travel writer and take him on a tour of the hotel. When she finally got to her office Emma was waiting for her.

‘I hear it was a great success,’ she said. ‘Everyone was there.’

‘Not everyone,’ Julia said. ‘The Foreign Secretary didn’t make it.’

‘Oh pooh,’ Emma sniffed. ‘Who cares about him? Robert Brand was there, wasn’t he? Imagine him turning up.’

‘Life is full of surprises.’

There was a pile of messages on Julia’s desk, together with that morning’s mail.

‘Anything important?’ She flicked through the notes.

Emma held up a letter. ‘There’s an invitation to speak on public relations at the annual conference of the International Travel and Tourism Research Association in Acapulco. Expenses paid.’

‘Acapulco,’ Julia signed. ‘Wouldn’t I just love to do that. But how can I get away now?’

‘Tell Moscato to get stuffed and go.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

Emma chuckled. ‘So what shall I tell them?’

‘When is the conference?’

Emma consulted the letter. ‘A couple of months’ time.’

‘Don’t reply just yet. Who knows what’s going to happen?’

Emma turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of champagne in your bottom drawer. Came an hour ago.’

After Emma returned to her own office Julia opened the drawer. Wrapped in Cellophane was a bottle of Krug ’81. Thank you for inviting me, the card read. It was signed: Robert Brand.

Chapter 5

Julia Lang stood by the bedroom window of her flat, sipping a glass of white wine, looking out over the darkened town. It was a cold, wet night, the sky a seemingly endless panoply of grey. The lights of the pub on the corner were hazy in the light mist. Across the street she could see directly into another flat. In one brightly lit room a man and a woman were sitting in armchairs, reading. They looked comfortable, settled, at ease. She felt a momentary pang of envy. She was, she knew, ambivalent about marriage. Did she really want it? Would she trade her independence for a shared life with a man? When she had first come to London from Birmingham her one aim had been to have a career of her own. To abandon that plan now, to marry and have children – was she ready for that?

She knew she really liked Michael Chadwick, the man with whom she had been involved for a year. He was a design artist of great flair, who had already won most of the prestigious prizes available for his work. He was bright and cheerful and witty. She liked him a lot. She just didn’t know if she wanted to marry him. He had already asked her twice.

She had many friends and was much in demand socially, but she did need a man in her life. Someone to wake up with, to touch during the dark hours, to watch shaving in the morning, to share breakfast with. Someone to talk to. Particularly at a time like this.

The re-emergence of Guido Moscato into her life had shocked her. She had known for only a month that he was coming. The Sultan of Malacca, who owned the hotel, had kept the news quiet until negotiations were complete. During those four weeks she had been plagued by indecision. Should she stay or should she go? And, if she walked out on her contract, should she give the Sultan, whom she liked, her reasons?

Sixteen years earlier, when she had staggered up from the Italian lakeside, bruised and battered, almost unable to see, she had vowed that one day she would settle the score with Moscato. Picked up by two English tourists, she had been taken to the small hospital at Bellagio where a doctor operated to save her right eye. Ten days later she had flown to London. Over the years the hatred she had developed for the man who had raped her had gradually abated. The idea that she might one day see him again had never occurred to her.

Now here he was, the new Managing Director of the Burlington. All her loathing for the man had come back. And, to her surprise, her resolve to somehow get even.

At the hotel only Emma Carswell knew what Moscato had done to her. Emma had become a friend and confidante as well as an efficient colleague. When Julia had arrived at the Burlington six years earlier she had been utterly dismayed at the sight of the secretary she had inherited from the previous Publicity Director. A large, raw-boned woman in her mid-fifties with grey hair and a rock-like jaw, Emma Carswell looked formidable indeed. But within a month she had proved invaluable. She did everything – kept Julia’s appointment book, dealt with the mail, told white lies on the telephone when necessary, remembered birthdays, made endless cups of tea and quietly handled all the innumerable office tasks that bored Julia to distraction. Over the years they had developed a deep affection for each other and it was to Emma that Julia had confided her fears when she learned of Moscato’s appointment.

Emma had been outraged. ‘You poor dear,’ she said, hugging Julia. ‘What a contemptible bastard. Why didn’t you report it?’

‘It was different then,’ Julia said. ‘Attitudes have changed a lot, thank God. Anyway, I doubt the Italian police would have taken the word of an English visitor against that of a respected hotelier. I just wanted to get out of there; to forget about it.’

‘You think he knows you’re here?’

Julia was sure. From the day he signed the contract Moscato would have had a complete list of Burlington Hotel employees before him. Discovering that Julia Lang was there apparently had not worried him. Perhaps he had reasoned he could get rid of her easily enough. A publicity director, however good, did not rate highly in the scheme of things. He would not know that she had a contract guaranteed by the Sultan himself with whom she had a warm and friendly relationship.

She loved the hotel and had made it her life. But her work would bring her into contact with Moscato on an almost daily basis. Could she stomach that? Should she?

Finishing her wine she got into bed. The sheets were cold through the satin of her nightdress. Rosie, her cleaning lady, had changed them that day. Shivering a little she curled up, trying to keep warm. Just before she fell asleep she thought about Robert Brand.

Chapter 6

Every Wednesday for almost twenty years Paul Eberhardt had lunched with his lawyer, Maître Claude Bertrand, at the Club des Terrasses, the private Geneva club belonging to the Groupement.

Over their favourite dish, friture de perchettes – fried fillets of small lake perch – and with a bottle of wine between them, they would bring each other up to date with events. Eberhardt considered Bertrand his best friend as well as his trusted lawyer. On this occasion, he decided, it would be prudent to bring up the subject of di Marco.

‘I am concerned about him,’ he said. ‘He’s disappeared. He has not been at the bank this week.’

‘He may be ill. You’ve called his home?’

‘Of course. He’s gone.’

Bertrand frowned. ‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know. He called me last Friday night, late. Something about a family emergency …’

‘I didn’t know he had a family.’

‘A sister. In Zurich. I’ve called there. She hasn’t seen him in months.’

‘How very odd.’

‘Do you think I should report it to the police?’

Bertrand reached for another roll. ‘I should wait until the end of the week. You don’t want to look foolish, Paul. He’s probably just taken a few days off.’

‘Without telling me?’

‘Old men do strange things.’ Bertrand chuckled. ‘Perhaps he’s gone off with some woman?’

‘Be serious, Claude. He’s seventy-nine years old.’

‘What of it? You’re seventy-seven and still quite vigorous.’ Bertrand smiled slyly. ‘How are things at Madame Valdoni’s, by the way?’

Eberhardt glanced around the club. ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’

Bertrand poured them both another glass of wine. ‘Take my advice. Wait until Friday.’

‘If you think so,’ Eberhardt said.

Around 8 a.m. on a chill Monday morning, a small boy throwing stones at what he took to be a log floating in Lake Geneva was horrified to discover that it was a man’s body. When the police arrived from nearby Montreux they found sodden cards on the corpse identifying him as Georges di Marco, Vice President of the Banque Eberhardt in Geneva.

Contacted by the police, Paul Eberhardt drove immediately to the morgue at Montreux to identify the banker whose body lay on a gurney between two other cadavers. Eberhardt appeared stricken at the sight and for a moment it was thought he might break down. After a brandy in the police lieutenant’s office he recovered. Could he think of any reason why di Marco should have drowned himself, he was asked. He could not. Di Marco had been due to retire shortly and was looking forward to it. When last seen at the bank he had been in good spirits.

‘We were great friends,’ Eberhardt added. ‘He was with me almost from the beginning. I cannot imagine what drove him to do this terrible thing.’

The lieutenant nodded understandingly. You could never know, he reassured Eberhardt, what went on in people’s minds.

At the funeral in Geneva two days later, attended by both Eberhardt and Claude Bertrand, there was only one relative of di Marco’s present among the mourners – his distraught elderly sister. Eberhardt, his arm around her frail shoulders, told her he had arranged for her to stay on for a few days at the Richemond Hotel. All the bills were to go to him.

Chapter 7

Julia had just finished work on the hotel’s weekly newsletter when Emma buzzed her.

‘There’s a Jill Bannister on the line,’ she said. ‘Says she’s Robert Brand’s personal assistant. That’s a secretary who earns more money than I do.’

Surprised, Julia hesitated before replying. ‘Put her through.’

‘Miss Lang?’ Jill Bannister’s voice was English upper class but friendly. ‘Mr Brand was wondering if you were free at lunchtime today?’

Julia felt a small rush of anticipation. ‘I could possibly be.’

‘Good. Can you meet him at the Delevingne Gallery in Duke Street, St James’s? Say around noon?’

‘I could make it by 12.30,’ Julia said.

‘That will be fine.’

Julia hung up. She was puzzled. Was he inviting her to an art show or lunch? For a moment she toyed with the fantasy that he wanted to buy the Burlington and was seeking her advice. She knew the first thing she would tell him: get rid of Guido Moscato.

She got up and went to the mirror and inspected herself. Not bad, she decided, glad she had opted that morning for her plum-coloured Escada jacket with the big gilt buttons and a black skirt. With her black boots it was an attractive outfit.

She went back to her desk and buzzed Emma. ‘I’m going to look at some art with Robert Brand,’ she said. ‘Impressed?’

Emma chuckled. ‘I’m trying not to be,’ she said. ‘But yes, I am. Very.’

The Delevingne Gallery was halfway down Duke Street next to a wine bar. When Julia arrived Brand was standing in front of an ornately framed painting of Venice’s Grand Canal, talking to a young man in a dark business suit. He broke off as she came through the door, greeting her quite formally. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘here you are. Miss Lang, this is Nigel Burley.’

The young man extended a limp hand.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Brand demanded, nodding towards the painting.

‘Stunning,’ Julia said. ‘Canaletto – right?’

‘So Mr Burley believes,’ Brand said.

Julia peered more closely at the canvas. ‘It’s not signed.’

Burley cleared his throat. ‘Many of his works are not.’

Julia studied the painting again.

‘There’s been a lot of interest,’ the dealer said. ‘It’s a beautiful work.’

‘But not Canaletto, I think,’ Brand said. ‘More likely one of his imitators.’

‘Imitators?’ Julia said. ‘How many did he have?’

‘Many.’ Brand stood back from the painting. ‘He was widely imitated both in Venice and during his stay here. He was in Britain for almost ten years, you know, painting country houses, London views. People like Michael Marieschi, Antonio Visentini, Antonio Joli – their work often passes under Canaletto’s name. I fancy this is Marieschi.’

‘How do people know?’ Julia was intrigued.

‘They don’t,’ Brand said. ‘Unless they are well informed.’ He turned to Nigel Burley, who was impassively fingering the carnation in his buttonhole. ‘How much are you asking?’

‘Two million.’

‘Pounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘A lot of money.’

‘Worth it, we feel.’

‘Bring it down a little,’ Brand said. ‘I might be interested. Though I doubt it’s Canaletto.’

‘I’ll have to talk to Mr Delevingne,’ the young man said. ‘He’s in France at the moment.’

‘Do that,’ Brand said. He took a card from his wallet. ‘You can reach me at the Burlington for the next few days. After that at my New York office.’

‘I’ll let you know by Friday,’ Burley said, accompanying them to the door.

Brand and Julia walked slowly up the street, stopping now and again to look at paintings in other galleries before turning into Jermyn Street.

‘I trust you’re hungry?’ Brand asked. ‘Best fish in London right here.’ Without waiting for a reply he took her arm and steered her through the door of one of London’s most expensive restaurants. The staff seemed to know him. The manager made a great deal of fuss, ushering them to a booth in one corner. As soon as the menus were brought, Brand put on spectacles. They seemed, if anything, to enhance his attractiveness. They ordered – grilled sole for Brand; fried plaice for Julia, with chablis to accompany the meal.

Brand sat forward, his hands together. ‘You like that Canaletto?’

‘But you said –’

‘It’s a Canaletto all right. Does no harm to throw people like Delevingne off balance, though. They think they know everything.’

Julia laughed. ‘Shame on you.’

Brand laughed too.

‘That other artist…’

‘Marieschi? He’s real enough. Imitated Canaletto a lot. But Canaletto was a superb draughtsman. His work stands out from the others.’

‘You seem to know a lot about him?’

‘I bought my first Canaletto when I was thirty. Began reading up on him –’ He broke off. ‘This is a private conversation, you understand.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just … well, I realize you deal with the press a lot.’

‘Only in matters relating to the hotel.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’

‘Good. I won’t.’

Brand seemed to relax when the waiter brought the wine. He sampled it and nodded. The waiter filled their glasses and departed. Brand shrugged. ‘The truth is I don’t like talking about my collection. Even if you love art, which I do, there’s no way you can say: I have a Renoir, a Picasso and a Gauguin, without sounding crass.’

Julia nodded.

‘I have one Rembrandt. I think it’s genuine. One of my friends swears it’s a Fabritius.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘One of Rembrandt’s pupils. Rembrandt sometimes signed his students’ paintings to get a better price for them.’

‘Then you can’t tell?’

‘It’s difficult. The Rembrandt Research Group, subsidized by the Dutch Government, examined ninety of his works and claimed that half were not genuine. Which means a lot of galleries are out millions of dollars.’

Julia, who had never spent more than £100 on a painting in her life and considered that extravagant, shook her head. ‘So there are no real experts?’

‘No.’

The fish arrived. Brand turned to her. ‘When was your mother born?’

‘In 1920.’

‘Then your grandmother was probably born before the turn of the century. Do you realize if she’d had a little money to spend how many great artists were alive at that time? Cézanne, Monet, Renoir. Utrillo was still alive in the 1950s. Of course people here weren’t even aware of avant-garde French paintings until about 1910. Until then English taste rarely went further than paintings of Highland stags.’

‘I should have had a wealthy grandmother,’ Julia said.

Brand busied himself dissecting his fish. ‘They’re still alive, your parents?’

‘They were killed in an air crash six years ago.’

‘Ah.’ She waited for the usual solicitous remark. He didn’t make it. ‘You’re not a Londoner?’

‘I was born in Birmingham.’

‘I’ve been there,’ Brand said.

‘It used to be a fine old Victorian town,’ Julia said. ‘Then the planners went to work. Now it’s a mess.’

Brand picked up his wine glass and swirled the liquid around. He looked at her, his black eyes boring into hers. ‘Is it true what Bobby Koenig said? Are you one of the most eligible women in London?’

‘A slight exaggeration.’

‘But you’re not married?’

‘No.’

‘Involved, I’m sure?’

Uncomfortable at the questioning she hesitated before replying. ‘I am involved,’ she said, more sharply than she intended. She met his gaze challengingly. ‘What about you? Where is your wife, Mr Brand?’

‘Robert, please. My wife is in Mexico. We have a place there.’

‘She doesn’t travel with you?’

‘Rarely. She dislikes hotels. She prefers to stay in Acapulco.’

‘I’ve been invited to speak there. At a conference.’

‘You’ve never been?’

‘No.’

‘You must go. It’s quite spectacular.’

‘But you prefer New York?’

‘My company is headquartered in Manhattan. And I have a house there.’

‘Where do you keep your art? In Acapulco?’

‘Can’t keep valuable paintings there. Too much heat and humidity.’

‘It sounds as if you don’t see much of your wife?’

‘No,’ Brand said. He seemed relieved when the waiter came to take their plates.

Over coffee they talked about London.

‘I don’t really dislike it as much as I make out,’ Brand said. ‘I just like to provoke Bobby Koenig. He gets so mad at me.’ He chuckled. ‘Actually I think it’s a fine city.’

‘Does Bobby always take the bait?’

‘Swallows it whole,’ Brand smiled.

‘I love this city,’ Julia said, ‘always have.’

‘You live in town?’

‘Near Regent’s Park,’ she said. ‘One of those old mansion flats.’

‘I know the area,’ he said. ‘Last year I rented a house overlooking the park.’

‘Then you must know London well?’

‘Fairly well. I’m here a lot.’

‘Then I hope we’ll see you back at the Burlington.’

‘Have no doubts about that, Julia,’ Brand said.

She held his gaze for a moment, then glanced at her watch.

‘Ye gods,’ she said. ‘Look at the time. I’ve got to be getting back.’ She jumped to her feet.

‘That’s too bad,’ Brand said. ‘I was enjoying myself.’

‘So was I,’ Julia said. ‘And I learned a lot about Canaletto.’

He stood up. ‘I think I’ll stay for a second cup. Will you be all right?’

‘Of course.’

As she walked along Jermyn Street to look for a taxi Julia’s thoughts were jumbled. Clearly the conversation in the gallery had been designed to impress her. He was showing off. Though she had to admit that listening to a man contemplating buying a work of art for two million pounds was a lot more fascinating than seeing someone dithering over a twenty-pound sweater at Marks and Spencer.

But what was the point? Was he hoping to recruit her for one of his New York hotels? If so it was an odd way to go about it. If he was interested in her personally – and when a man wanted to know if you were involved he was usually asking: How about me? – then he was out of luck. She had no intention of getting involved with a married man, even an attractive one like Robert Brand. She had to admit he was charismatic. He positively exuded sex appeal. Dammit, she thought, why are those sort of men always married?

She looked at her watch again. It was a quarter past three. She was very late. She stood in the centre of St James’s Street on a traffic island, praying for a taxi.

It was 3.45 by the time Julia got back to the hotel. As she walked into her office a woman rose to greet her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Lang. I’m Chantal Ricci.’

‘Yes?’ Julia was annoyed. Visitors were never allowed into her office without an appointment, but Emma was not at her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

Dark-haired and quite astonishingly pretty, Chantal Ricci was wearing a fitted double-breasted blue jacket and straight navy skirt. She looked chic and elegant.

‘I just wanted to introduce myself.’ She had a very slight accent. ‘I’m starting work on the new magazine for the Burlington.’

‘What magazine?’

‘Mr Moscato didn’t tell you?’

‘I know nothing about it.’

‘I believe the final decision was only made this week. The Sultan is excited at the idea.’

‘Is he now?’ Julia tried to cover her irritation by glancing through the pile of messages on her desk.

‘I’m surprised we haven’t met before,’ Chantal said. ‘I was deputy editor of Trends for three years.’

‘What will you be doing on the magazine?’

‘Editing it.’ Chantal got to her feet. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I have an office here in the executive corridor.’

‘I didn’t know one was free.’

‘I believe it belonged to the Director of Sales and Marketing.’

Julia frowned. ‘Bryan Penrose?’

‘He’s moved down the corridor. It’s more convenient, apparently.’

Julia stared at the young woman standing before her. Twenty-five, tops, she decided. Stunning-looking. Obviously very sure of herself. You didn’t need great talent or ability to produce a hotel magazine – many hotels, particularly those in Italy and Asia, had them – but you needed some. She felt vaguely upset. Producing a magazine for the Burlington would not necessarily have come under her aegis but she felt she should have been consulted.

‘How often is this magazine to be produced?’

‘Twice a year.’

‘That won’t keep you very busy.’

‘Mr Moscato has other things for me to do as well,’ she said. ‘He feels there are several areas where I can be of help.’

‘You’re Italian?’

‘Milanese.’

‘Chantal is not an Italian name?’

‘My mother was French; my father Italian.’

‘I see.’ You, Julia decided, are someone I must watch out for.

‘Well.’ Chantal flashed Julia a brilliant smile. She had a wide mouth; her teeth were regular and perfect. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

After she’d gone Emma came in with a cup of tea.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She was in your office when I got back. She said it would be all right.’

Julia nodded. ‘Her name’s Chantal Ricci. She’s going to bring out a magazine for us.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Moscato’s, I suppose. I knew nothing about it.’

Emma put down the cup. ‘And how was the art show?’

‘Interesting.’

‘You should get out of the office more,’ Emma said meaningfully. ‘Puts a bit of colour in your cheeks.’

The nightmare recurred …

‘I would like you to consider staying on with us,’ Moscato said. ‘You’re the best receptionist we’ve ever had.’

‘But the other girl? I’m only a temporary replacement.’

‘We’ll find another spot for her.’

Julia had never felt happier. She loved Bellagio, the town on Lake Como where Franz Liszt had once spent a year, which had once played host to Stendhal and Mark Twain. And she loved the Palace Hotel. People there had been so kind she had now decided to make hotels her career. But she had promised her parents to go back to England after six months. And already she was a little homesick. Two weeks after their talk, when Moscato suggested dinner with his wife at Il Cielo on the lakeside, she was flattered and excited. Here was a sophisticated Italian hotel manager taking a personal interest in her. What luck!

That night she put on her prettiest dress and shoes. Flushed and excited she arrived at the restaurant early. Moscato was already there – alone. His wife, he explained, was not feeling well. The dinner was a great success, with Moscato being attentive and encouraging. Afterwards they walked back along the lakeside, admiring the full moon shimmering on the water.

At one point she stumbled and Moscato took her arm. And then it began. Turning, he kissed her so hard he bruised her lips. Startled, she pulled away. ‘Signor Moscato, please don’t.’

Then Moscato pushed her roughly to the ground, ripping off her dress, tearing at her pants. She screamed but the scream stifled in her throat and a great stab of pain consumed her body as he thrust into her. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please. No.’ She clawed at his face as he pounded into her but it was useless. The more she fought the more excited he became.

Then he began hitting her, slamming his right fist into her face, grunting like an animal as each blow went home. She felt blood in her eye and a tear in her cheek, and the taste of blood in her mouth.

Finally it was over and Moscato staggered to his feet. ‘You asked for it,’ he panted. ‘Leading me on like that. You asked for it.’ He stood looking down at her, breathing hard. ‘Go and clean yourself up,’ he said. With a final glance at her he turned and headed back towards the hotel leaving her lying there, bleeding and bruised, whimpering softly, almost senseless …

Chapter 8

Hunched over a cup of coffee, Albert-Jean Cristiani sat by the window of a small bar in the rue du Rhône watching passers-by as they walked along the fashionable Geneva shopping street. He was feeling despondent. It had been a difficult week so far. He had a deep-seated suspicion it was not going to get any better.

He sighed and raised his hand to order another cup. It was after 11 a.m. but he saw no point in hurrying. The investigation on which he was engaged was going nowhere. He might as well enjoy a few more minutes of people-watching. And contemplate his forthcoming retirement at the age of fifty-five. Just that week he had picked out a small office for himself on the corner of the Quai Wilson where he planned to set up as a private investigator.

For twenty years Cristiani, a short, stocky man with thinning hair, had been one of four special investigators for the Swiss Federal Banking Commission. When he had first joined the Commission it had been a puny thing with a staff of five. Now it was fully staffed with bright young lawyers and accountants eager to gain a few years’ Government experience before branching out on their own. And it had clout. It was now a criminal offence to mislead or lie to the Commission. At the slightest hint of impropriety it invoked the clause in the 1971 Banking Law, which stated that the director of a bank must behave ‘irreproachably’. Failure to do so could result in the Commission withdrawing a bank’s licence.

Cristiani’s main function was to monitor ‘irregularities’ in the bank system and report them back to his head office in Bern. Since he joined the Commission, there had been plenty of ‘irregularities’. So many, in fact, that Cristiani had not been surprised when his irate boss finally called him in for a meeting.

‘I’ve just had a call from the Director,’ Commissioner Pierre Bonnet said grimly. ‘He is incensed. The world now sees us as a place where any Mafia boss or drug dealer can hide his money. We’ve got to put a stop to it. We must restore Switzerland’s reputation as a law-abiding country.’

Sitting opposite his portly boss, Cristiani had nodded dutifully. Was the Commissioner kidding himself? A law-abiding country? Bonnet knew as well as he did that for years the Bern Government had engaged in secret surveillance and eavesdropping on its own citizens. And that somewhere in the capital there were almost 600,000 dossiers on Swiss citizens tucked away.

But this was serious. This was about banks. The life-blood of Switzerland. He had not been surprised when, next day, Bonnet issued a strongly worded statement to every bank in Switzerland. It said, in effect: No more scandals.

He knew the edict would be ignored. It would have no more effect than the booklet the Big Three banks had issued some years before. In The Truth About Swiss Banking, they stated: ‘The purpose of Swiss banking secrecy is to protect the innocent, not shield the guilty.’ He was told the booklet produced guffaws of laughter in Washington where officials knew there wasn’t a bank in Switzerland that would turn away a man with a suitcase stuffed with $100 bills.

Sometimes Cristiani wondered where all the cash came from. Drug money, of course, made up much of it. That, and money skimmed from the casino tables of Las Vegas and Atlantic City. But it was surprising to him just how many ordinary people now passed through Geneva’s Cointrin Airport with tote bags stuffed with notes.

But it was not another money scandal that occupied Cristiani’s thoughts as he sipped his second cup of coffee. It was the death of Georges di Marco. There was something suspicious about it.

Despite his age, the man had been in apparent good health. He held an important position in one of Geneva’s most respected banks. He was popular with his peers and friends. He had a pleasant apartment off the rue des Granges. He seemed financially well off. Why, then, would he have decided to end his life? It made no sense.

The question of the coat bothered Cristiani. When found, di Marco had been wearing only a suit. Cristiani could not imagine the elderly banker walking a mile to the lakeside on a freezing winter’s night without an overcoat.

There was something else. He had no key in his pocket. Had he just walked out without locking the door? That, too, seemed unlikely.

Inspector Thibault, the police officer investigating the banker’s death, had dismissed any suggestion of foul play by pointing out that there were no signs of a struggle. Cristiani had been astonished at such naivety. Only two years before there had been a report of a drowning in Lake Garda, ostensibly due to suicide. Later a man had confessed to the murder. The victim’s hands and legs had been bound with tape, he explained, before being lowered over the side of a boat with a rope around his waist. When he was dead the man’s body had been pulled back to the surface and the tapes and rope removed. No signs of struggle. An apparent suicide.

Cristiani had met di Marco several times, most recently when they had dined at the same restaurant. They had talked briefly and di Marco had asked to see him again. He had seemed agitated. Cristiani told him to call. A few days later, sounding nervous, di Marco had telephoned to set up a dinner appointment. Before they could meet again he was found dead.

When Cristiani telephoned Paul Eberhardt to discuss di Marco’s death and voice his concern about the coat and the key, the banker had seemed equally baffled.

‘I’ve thought about that myself,’ Eberhardt said. ‘I simply don’t understand it. It’s a complete mystery. Why did he do this terrible thing?’

Cristiani listened politely. Although he knew Eberhardt only slightly, the elderly banker had intrigued him ever since a rumour had surfaced a few years earlier that he was being blackmailed. The rumour stemmed from the fact that he had continued paying a former officer of his bank, a man named André Leber, 10,000 francs a month even though he had left the bank several years earlier. Cristiani’s enquiries had come to nothing and in the end he had concluded that if the banker wanted to support a former colleague that was his affair. Leber had later died in a car accident.

Frustrated, Cristiani made his way homeward, holding his umbrella with both hands against the gusting rain. Perhaps the death of di Marco had been a genuine suicide, he decided. That was what the police and the coroner had determined. But if it wasn’t, was it something to do with Paul Eberhardt?

Paul Eberhardt had spent an anxious morning. The phone call from Cristiani had worried him. Inspector Thibault was the man handling the di Marco investigation – yet it was Cristiani who was asking all these questions: What had di Marco’s mood been when he left the bank that night? Was he depressed? How long was it before he was due to retire? Had anything happened at the bank to upset him?

Eberhardt felt he had answered the questions well, but he could tell Cristiani was not satisfied. He had brought up the question of di Marco’s overcoat and the fact that he had left his apartment unlocked.

Eberhardt had confessed himself baffled.

What had surprised him was to learn that di Marco had invited Cristiani to dinner in Lausanne – far enough away to ensure privacy. So di Marco was going to tell his story just as he had threatened. And to an investigator of the Federal Banking Commission. Thank God he had acted in time to stop that.

He reached for his coffee. It had grown cold. He rang for Marte to bring him a fresh cup. He was safe. He was convinced of that. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Chapter 9

Michael Chadwick had booked a table at the Connaught Grill, a place he often entertained clients and where, Julia knew, he would charge their dinner to expenses. He was in a buoyant mood.

‘So how’s the new manager?’ he asked after they had ordered.

‘I’ve hardly seen him,’ Julia said. ‘He’s been locked away in his office.’ When the news of Moscato’s appointment to the Burlington had first broken she had considered telling Michael about what had happened in Italy. In the end she had said nothing.

‘It won’t affect you, will it?’

‘I hope not.’

He turned to her, a smile on his face.

‘If it does I’ve got the solution.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Come with me to Australia. We’ll get married there.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve been offered a job with Myers-Barswell.’

Julia took his hand. ‘Michael, that’s wonderful.’ Myers-Barswell, she knew, was one of the top advertising agencies in Australia. It was the kind of firm Michael had dreamed of joining. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘Yesterday. I had a long talk with them. They know my work well. And it’s big money. So this is a celebration.’

Julia leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I’m thrilled for you,’ she said. She felt like a hypocrite as she said it. Their relationship had dragged on because she had not had the heart to end it. Now, out of nowhere, the opportunity had presented itself.

‘So what do you think?’

‘It’s wonderful news …’

‘I mean, shall we do it?’

‘Michael.’ She laughed nervously. ‘I can’t just walk out on my contract.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’d sue me.’

‘Come on, Julia. The Sultan adores you. Tell him what’s happened. He’ll understand.’

‘You know how I feel about you,’ she said. It sounded weak and she knew it. ‘It’s just –’

‘You don’t want to marry me,’ he said flatly.

‘It’s not that. It’s just – well, marriage scares me. Not marriage to you; marriage to anyone.’

‘So how long are you going to wait?’ he demanded. ‘You’re thirty-three years old. You say you’d like a child. You can’t put it off forever.’

‘Please, Michael, let’s not argue.’ She tried to inject a little enthusiasm into her voice. ‘Everyone says Sydney is terrific. You’ll have a wonderful time …’

‘Don’t push so hard,’ Michael said. ‘I get the message.’ He looked up sharply as the wine waiter came over with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. ‘That’s not for us.’

‘Compliments of the gentleman over there.’ The wine waiter inclined his head and proceeded to uncork the bottle. Both of them looked across the crowded Grill. In the far window alcove Robert Brand was sitting with a handsome, well-dressed woman who looked to be in her early forties. Brand raised his glass to them.

‘Who’s that?’ Michael demanded stiffly.

Julia felt her face flush. She felt suddenly embarrassed. Why? She had nothing to feel guilty about.

‘Robert Brand,’ she said. As the waiter poured the champagne she raised her glass. ‘Go on,’ she muttered. Michael raised his glass with a bleak smile.

‘How do you know him?’ he asked.

‘He’s at the hotel. I met him at the cocktail party the other night.’

‘Who’s the woman with him?’

‘No idea.’

‘You must have made quite an impression,’ Michael said. ‘This is good champagne.’ He picked up the bottle from the ice bucket and inspected it.

‘For God’s sake,’ Julia said.

‘Cristal. You did make an impression.’ He let the bottle slide noisily back into the ice bucket.

Julia realized Brand must have been sitting there for some time. She felt oddly discomfited. They ate their food in silence. Every time she looked up she was conscious of Brand’s eyes.

‘Look,’ she said finally, ‘I have a bit of a headache. Do you mind if we have an early evening? I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow.’

‘Fine with me,’ Michael said grimly. He raised his hand for the bill.

On the way out they stopped by Brand’s table to thank him.

‘This is Jill Bannister, my personal assistant,’ he said. ‘I believe you’ve talked.’ The good-looking woman nodded. Brand looked at Julia. ‘Should you be here at the Connaught? Won’t that be construed as consorting with the enemy?’

‘I didn’t expect to be spotted,’ Julia said. ‘Anyway, it’s a good idea to check out the opposition.’ She smiled faintly, aware of Michael sulking by her side. She tried to bring him into the conversation. ‘This is a favourite place of Michael’s.’

‘Well, I trust your dinner was as good as ours,’ Brand said.

‘It was.’ Michael’s tone was stony.

They talked for a moment longer and then went out into Carlos Place. In silence Michael drove Julia back to her flat. At the door he turned to her. ‘You met him just once?’

‘I told you. At the hotel.’

‘He’s interested in you,’ Michael said. ‘Doesn’t try to hide it, either.’

He gave her a brief peck on the cheek before driving off.

When she stepped out of the lift she saw the white box propped against her front door. Inside were two dozen long-stemmed red roses. The card read: Long-stemmed roses for a long-legged lady. R. B.

Julia took them into the kitchen, put them in a vase and placed them on the hall table. If Michael had come up with me he’d have seen the box, she thought. That’s all the evening needed.

But how had Robert Brand found out her address? Careful, Julia, she told herself. Careful …

Two days later Emma walked into Julia’s office with an early edition of the Evening Standard.

‘There’ll be hell to pay over this,’ she said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Palace requested no publicity when the Queen lunched here yesterday.’

‘That’s normal.’

‘There’s a picture here on page three.’

‘What?’

‘Look for yourself.’

Emma put the paper in front of Julia, open at a picture of the Queen and a man identified in the caption as Sir Miles Cartland leaving the hotel. In the background stood Moscato. The headline ran: Cosy lunch for two at the Burlington. The story accompanying the picture listed what the Queen had eaten for lunch and noted: Afterwards Her Majesty sent her compliments to the chef, Gustave Plesset.

Julia groaned. ‘How did they get this? Moscato must have seen the photographer.’

‘Of course.’

‘You think he did this?’

‘Or his protegée, Miss Ricci?’

‘Whoever it was is a damn fool,’ Julia said. ‘The Queen won’t come here again.’

‘Maybe Mr Moscato thinks it was worth it,’ Emma said. ‘Something for his scrapbook.’

While Emma went out to get sandwiches Julia tried to concentrate on a profile she was updating about the Sultan. Her thoughts kept wandering. She found it hard to believe that Moscato would have been so stupid as to ignore the Palace ruling that the Queen’s private lunches were to be treated as exactly that – private. And yet …

At that moment the phone rang.

‘Hello again, Miss Lang.’ It was Jill Bannister on the line. ‘Mr Brand was wondering if you would care to see the new Pinter play, which opens tonight? He has two tickets.’

Julia hesitated. Clearly someone else had let Brand down. ‘I realize it’s short notice,’ Jill Bannister continued, ‘but Mr Brand only returned from Rome an hour ago. I was able to get two cancellations.’

‘He gets around, your boss,’ Julia said.

‘Yes, he does.’

Julia had not spoken to Michael since their disastrous dinner and was in no mood to spend the evening alone. ‘I’d be delighted,’ she said.

‘He’ll pick you up at 7.30 for the eight o’clock curtain.’

‘I’m at 208 –’ Julia began.

‘We have the address,’ Jill Bannister said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

Chapter 10

As they entered the theatre lobby, crowded with people, some elegantly dressed, some in jeans and sweaters, Brand appeared tense. When a dark-haired young man nodded to him and said, ‘Good evening, Mr Brand,’ he affected not to notice. Then, as they walked towards the stalls entrance, a photographer who had overheard the exchange approached. ‘This way, Mr Brand,’ he called, raising his camera.

Brand quickly turned his back, steering Julia past the usher taking the tickets. She saw the photographer frown – hadn’t she seen him somewhere? – before turning his attention elsewhere.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brand said, as they made their way to their seats. ‘I don’t like to be photographed.’

Julia said nothing. It was not, she guessed, that he minded being photographed. He didn’t want to be photographed with her! In case his wife saw the picture? What was wrong with taking a friend to a first night? It wasn’t as if they were seen entering a backstreet hotel.

At the interval, a champagne cocktail and a tonic water awaited them at the bar – arranged beforehand, obviously.

‘Enjoying it?’ Brand asked, as they moved to a quiet corner.

‘Very much,’ she said, deciding to put the incident with the photographer from her mind. So he didn’t want his picture taken? So what?

‘Writes good dialogue, Pinter,’ Brand said.

‘So they say. I’ve never met anyone who actually talks like that.’

‘The pauses, you mean? Most people don’t pause when they’re talking, do they? They shoot off at tangents. It’s interesting replaying a conversation on tape, as I have to sometimes.’

When they left the theatre, Brand’s Daimler was waiting outside with Parsons, his elderly driver, at the wheel. By the time they reached Mayfair, Brand and Julia were laughing together. The car pulled up in Berkeley Square beside a small canopy.

They descended the steep steps to Annabel’s. Brand seemed to be well known there, and nods and smiles greeted them as they proceeded along the hall towards the restaurant. The maitre d’ welcomed them effusively before leading them to a table against the wall. It was still fairly early. The club was not even half full. Brand ordered drinks. ‘I’m sorry the evening got off to a bad start,’ he said.

Julia shrugged. ‘I understand. You’re a married man.’

‘That’s not it.’ Brand seemed surprised that she had stated it so bluntly. ‘My wife knows I have a social life here. It’s just … well, I have a great antipathy towards the Press. Photographers in particular.’

‘They’re just doing their job,’ Julia said.

‘They must do it without my help.’ Their drinks arrived. Brand held up his glass and touched it lightly against hers. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘you don’t understand and I can’t expect you to. It isn’t that I didn’t want to be photographed with you. Dammit, you’re a beautiful woman, Julia; there isn’t a man on this planet who wouldn’t want to be pictured beside you. I just don’t want to be photographed, period.’ He looked into his drink. ‘I’m known to be a wealthy man. And the only way I can have any kind of a private life is for people not to know what I look like. Then I can’t be pestered. As it is, we get a hundred begging letters a week. Everyone wants something from me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I took it personally.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you.’

Julia shook her head. ‘We’ve already had several enquiries about you from newspapers.’

‘Were you able to stall them?’

‘I said you weren’t registered, which is true.’

‘If you have any problems refer them to my office in Grosvenor Square.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what they want? To sit down with me and waste hours of my time asking what it feels like to be wealthy. Either that or it’s financial editors wanting me to forecast the market. I haven’t got time for any of that nonsense. I work a long day. For me time is money.’

The club was beginning to fill up. When the waiter came over with the menus they both ordered the rack of lamb. From the wine list Brand selected a bottle of ‘66 Mouton-Rothschild.

Julia was still puzzled. ‘If you never give interviews and don’t have your picture taken, how did that photographer know who you were?’

‘He didn’t until that fellow called out to me.’

‘There must be some photos of you about?’

‘Not many. Paris-Match once staked me out in New York and Acapulco. Acapulco was no problem. I use a helicopter when I’m there; land right on the roof of my house. In New York I leave through the underground garage.’

‘They never got the picture?’

‘All they got was a picture of the car leaving the garage.’

‘It doesn’t sound too much fun, being you.’

‘It has its moments.’

Julia glanced around the room. In one corner an elderly Englishman was pressing champagne on a young, heavily made-up woman, who was giggling. Suddenly Julia remembered. ‘I forgot to thank you for the roses and the champagne you sent after the party.’

‘I hope you’ve drunk it already?’

‘I’m saving it for a special occasion.’

‘You must drink it immediately. One thing I learned from my father was to live for today.’

‘What did he do – your father?’

Brand looked at her for a moment as if trying to decide whether to confide in her or not. ‘He was a financier. When he was quite young he set about making money.’

‘Just like that.’

‘All you need is the confidence to take risks.’

‘I’ve met a few wealthy men at the hotel,’ Julia said. ‘None of them seemed particularly happy.’

‘Did you ask them?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Why did you assume they weren’t happy? Because they didn’t go around smiling?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Making money is a serious business,’ Brand said. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t trust people who go around smiling.’

The food arrived and they ate contentedly for a while, listening to the music coming from the dance floor. Julia had to remind herself to take it easy when the wine waiter approached to refill her glass. It wasn’t every night she got to sample ’66 Mouton-Rothschild.

‘Your father must have been proud of you,’ she said.

Brand shook his head. ‘He died before I really got started. When I was twenty-one he gave me a large sum of money. I had a penthouse on Park Avenue, a butler, a chauffeur-driven car. And I was desperately unhappy.’ He paused. ‘Then I got a real kick in the stomach. My best friend killed himself with a shotgun. You know why? He was bored with life. He was twenty-five years old and he was bored with life. That jolted me to my senses. I decided to try my hand at business. Then my father died and left me his fortune. I used it well.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’

‘It is easy – if you have some capital and are prepared to take chances. Most people don’t try to make money with all the risks that entails; they just want to have money. I take risks all the time; speculate in currencies. Ten years ago I bought heavily into Deutschmarks. A month later the Deutschmark rose five per cent in one day against the dollar. I made $50 million overnight.’

‘Fifty million?’

‘Thereabouts,’ Brand said. He smiled at her astonishment. ‘I don’t say that to brag. Just to make the point about taking chances.’ He picked up his wine glass and then, having second thoughts, put it down again. ‘Incidentally, I bought the Canaletto.’

‘You did?’

‘A million and a half,’ Brand said. ‘A steal. That man Delevingne doesn’t know as much about art as he thinks.’

‘From what you told me,’ Julia said, ‘nobody does.’

Brand turned to her. ‘What painters do you like, Julia?’

‘Oh, Utrillo, I suppose. Cézanne. Monet.’

‘You’ve been to Giverny?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘When I was very young my father wanted me to be a painter,’ Brand said. ‘I had a tutor to teach me the basics but I had no eye for perspective; no talent at all. I went to Giverny too, and sat in that garden of Monet’s, looking at the water lilies, trying to absorb something of what he must have felt. When I got home I painted a couple of water lilies. They looked exactly like fried eggs. I gave up.’

‘So now you collect. The next best thing.’

‘I suppose so. I get a lot of pleasure from my collection. When you come to New York you’ll see it’

‘When I come … ?’

He leaned forward. ‘I want you to join my team at the Raleigh.’

She laughed. ‘You know nothing about me. How do you know I’m any good?’

‘I know.’

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I can’t do that. I have a contract.’

‘I’m sure if I talk to George we can work something out.’

‘George?’

‘The Sultan of Malacca.’

‘His name isn’t George.’

‘We call him that. Nobody can pronounce his real name. We do business together.’

She looked around the dark, elegant room, listening to the murmur of voices from other tables. Incredible, she thought. A job interview in Annabel’s.

‘Well?’ Brand was looking at her intently. She felt suddenly adrift; unsure of herself. Life had always seemed to her just moving from one set of problems to another, never getting ahead, never actually arriving at the point where she could say: I’m ready to start living. Was Brand offering her the chance?

‘What exactly would joining your team entail?’

‘You’d be doing just what you do now.’

‘Tim Perrin would have something to say about that.’

‘Julia,’ Brand sounded exasperated, ‘I own the damn hotel.’

‘I understand that. But I know Tim and I like him. I won’t be forced on him.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘If Tim wants me he must ask for me. It shouldn’t come from you.’

Brand looked at her hard. ‘But it was George Malacca who arranged your contract.’

‘That’s true. But it was Andrew Lattimer who hired me. The Sultan arranged my contract only because he wanted me to work for the Royal Malaysian in Kuala Lumpur, which he’d bought at the same time.’

‘You didn’t like the idea?’

‘Not just then.’

The music from the dance floor at the far end of the room was getting louder. Julia wondered if he would ask her to dance.

‘Will you think about it?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘You’d be such an asset,’ Brand said. ‘Bobby Koenig says you speak Italian. Was that from school?’

‘I spent six months in Italy when I was seventeen. My mother’s idea.’

‘Rome?’

‘With a family. Then I took a summer job at a hotel on Como.’

She noticed that some of the juice from her rack of lamb had spilled onto the tablecloth. Glancing at Brand’s still almost full plate she felt guilty that she had enjoyed her meal so much.

Brand held up his hand and ordered coffees. ‘I have to fly to Scotland tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Something’s come up. You know where Silicon Glen is?’

‘Somewhere near Edinburgh?’

‘Biggest concentration of electronic manufacturing plants in Europe. We have a factory there making microprocessors.’

The idea that this hugely wealthy man should actually be visiting one of his factories astonished her. Surely he had people to do that sort of thing? ‘Will you be there long?’

‘A few days.’

‘Do you need help at Heathrow? We have someone on duty …’

‘Thanks,’ Brand said. ‘I’m leaving from Luton. The plane’s there.’

Of course. He didn’t fly like other people. There would be no lining up for him, no search of hand baggage. He would drive straight out to his private plane, climb aboard and be airborne.

‘A real luxury,’ she said. ‘A private plane …’

Brand nodded. ‘It makes life easier when you move around a lot.’

‘You have a yacht too?’

He glanced at her, amused. ‘You’re interviewing me?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just interested. I don’t usually meet people with private planes and yachts.’

‘I’m sure that’s your choice,’ Brand said. ‘An attractive woman like you …’

The insinuation annoyed her. ‘Some women do use their looks to meet wealthy men,’ she said. ‘I’m not one of them.’

Brand leaned forward. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I put that badly.’ He laid his hand briefly on hers, then withdrew it. ‘May I call you when I return from Scotland?’

‘I won’t walk out on the Burlington.’

‘Don’t be too sure.’

He finished his wine and glanced towards the dance floor. ‘I have a mediocre sense of rhythm,’ he said, ‘but perhaps I can persuade you to take a whirl around the floor with me?’

Julia smiled. ‘I’d love to.’

He held her close, in the old-fashioned way, so that their bodies locked together and she could react to the slightest pressure from him. He was not a great dancer but he was more than competent. As they moved around the edge of the floor he executed a few elaborate dance steps that she did her best to follow.

‘Well,’ she said when they returned to the table, ‘that was something.’

‘A pitiful attempt to convince you I’m more lively than I look,’ he said.

‘You’re a much better dancer than you admit.’

‘But no Baryshnikov.’

‘Few men are.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘May I ask a personal question?’

‘Of course.’

‘What’s she like, your wife?’

‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘back to reality. Well, you’re probably right. Mustn’t get carried away.’ He paused, almost as if he had not been asked the question before and was unsure how to reply. ‘She’s very attractive,’ he said at last. ‘In my estimation, at least. She is not what you might call, well, affectionate, but perhaps that is my fault. She has not been entirely well for some time, unfortunately.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Remembering a friend’s claim that all married men, intent on seduction, had stories ready about their wives – how unkind they were, how lacking in understanding, how frigid – Julia was relieved that Brand, at least, did not fit the pattern.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Thirty-five years. We met when I was just starting out. I was not a sophisticated young man. Grace was a photographer for National Geographic at that time, widely travelled. She had been down the Yangtze, gone overland to Lhasa in Tibet, driven through the Khyber Pass from Afghanistan to Pakistan. I had done nothing but spend money. It was she who gave me ambition.’

‘You have no children?’

‘We decided against it. We were both wrapped up in our careers. And, indeed, in each other. A mistake, perhaps.’

‘You said she spends most of her time in Acapulco?’

‘She likes it there. She has many friends.’

‘And you?’

‘There are a couple whose company I enjoy. One is a fisherman; the other a Polish sculptor, a great bear of a man: Voytek Konopka. He’s quite well known there. You’d like him, I sense. When is that conference in Acapulco? The one you’re invited to?’

‘The end of next month.’

‘I might arrange to be there. Show you around. What’s the organization called?’

‘The International Travel and Tourism Research Association.’

‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘I’m still not sure I can leave things here.’

‘I’ll pencil it in anyway.’

Taking a slim memo pad from his pocket he scribbled something on it and handed the note to Julia. ‘That’s Jill Bannister’s address and phone number. If you ever want to get in touch with me you can do it through her.’

‘She sounds very efficient, your Miss Bannister.’

‘She is. I’m lucky to have her.’

By the time they had finished their second cups of coffee it was after midnight, the club was crowded and the dance floor was packed. Brand called for the bill, signed it and, taking Julia’s arm, led her out to the waiting car.

As he dropped her off at her home he said, ‘I’ll tell Tim Perrin to expect you sometime soon.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she said, laughing.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Brand said. He closed the door and the car slid away down the street.

The phone was picked up on the third ring.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Well.’ Grace Brand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘We haven’t heard from you in a while.’

‘There was nothing new to report.’

Grace Brand paused. ‘And now?’

‘There’s a new face on the horizon. I think your friend may be about to stray again.’

‘Who is it this time?’

‘Her name is Julia Lang. She works at the Burlington Hotel.’

‘What is she – a maid?’ There was a sneer in Grace Brand’s voice.

‘She’s the hotel’s Publicity Director.’

‘He’s been seeing her?’

‘A couple of times. Lunch. The theatre.’

‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Keep me informed of developments.’

‘Of course.’

Chapter 11

There was one person, Julia felt sure, who could tell her about Robert Brand, who now intrigued her greatly. What was his story? Bobby Koenig would know, but he had now checked out of the hotel. That left Lisa Faraday.

Since working with her during her brief stint as a model when she first arrived in London, Julia had remained close friends with Lisa. A bubbly and attractive redhead in her early forties, she was a former small-time actress who had hoped for a film career in the long ago days when it seemed Britain might actually have a film industry of its own. She had tried various jobs after that, including working as a secretary at an embassy in Bryanston Square and serving as a receptionist for a specialist in Harley Street. None of the jobs lasted. Lisa had one great trouble: she could not resist men. She slept with both the ambassador and the specialist. She had a list of former lovers that astonished Julia.

Her name began cropping up in divorce cases. Then she was offered a trip to Syria by a businessman she met at Regine’s in Paris. He took her first to Damascus, then all over the Middle East, ending up in Cairo. There she was introduced to one of the young Saudi princes. Within a week she had moved in with him and left the businessman. Six months later she was pregnant.

As a result of the romance she was faintly notorious and decidedly newsworthy. She was also the recipient of a pension from the Prince, which allowed her to live, if not in luxury, at least in comfort in a five-room apartment in St John’s Wood. And to educate the child of the liaison, a dark-eyed four-year-old named Deena.

Julia liked Lisa, for she was good-hearted and excellent company. And, despite everything, undefeated. And it was to Lisa that she brought up Brand’s name when they met for lunch at a restaurant round the corner from the hotel.

‘Brand?’ Lisa echoed, stopping with her fork halfway to her mouth. ‘Robert Brand? You actually met him?’

‘At the hotel. The cocktail party.’

‘He was there? Incredible. What’s he like? All those stories …’

‘What stories?’

‘You can’t have forgotten. Jane Summerwood. The woman in the park …’

Julia frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It was in all the papers. She was beaten to death …’

‘So?’

‘You’re unbelievable,’ Lisa said. ‘Brand was her lover. She was three months pregnant.’

‘What?’ Julia stared at her.

‘He was supposed to be getting a divorce. It was a big scandal.’

Julia sat back, stunned. ‘How could I have missed that?’

‘It was last year. Perhaps you were away,’ Lisa said. ‘They never found out who did it. Brand was in New York at the time. There were rumours he had a heart attack afterwards.’

Julia, shaken by what she had just learned, was silent for a moment. Poor devil, she thought. What a ghastly thing to have happened. But it was curious. He had talked about his wife as though they had an amicable, if not close, relationship. Yet only a year ago he had been planning to leave her and marry this Jane Summerwood.

Lisa pushed aside her plate. ‘Be honest. What did you think of him?’

Julia told her about the visit to the gallery, the subsequent lunch and their evening at the theatre.

Lisa’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps he’s interested in you? Jesus, Julia, be careful. He’s not your league at all. The Brand Corporation. Oil, ships, hotels, munitions. You know they’ve got an office in Grosvenor Square?’

‘He told me.’

‘A big place. I went to a party there once.’

‘I don’t even know if I’ll see him again,’ Julia said.

‘Do you want to?’

‘He’s very good for morale. He wants me to join one of his hotels in New York.’

‘That might be fun. But what about Michael?’

‘He’s been offered a job in Australia.’

‘Is he going to take it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Encourage him. You two aren’t going anywhere.’

‘I know it. The trouble is he doesn’t.’

Lisa finished her coffee. ‘Did Brand tell you he was still married?’

‘Of course.’

‘Her name’s Grace. They’ve got this huge house in Acapulco. I’ve seen pictures of it in Travel and Leisure. They say it cost $30 million. Can you imagine?’

‘No,’ Julia said. ‘I can’t.’

They parted outside the hotel.

‘You be careful,’ Lisa said, looking concerned.

Julia nodded, her mind in a whirl. So Robert Brand had been going to marry another woman. She had been killed. It had been in all the newspapers. Had he assumed she did not know? Was that why he had taken a house in Regent’s Park? To be with this woman?

She walked back to the executive corridor deep in thought.

When Julia arrived back at her office she found Emma had placed a copy of Trends on her desk, a page marked with a paperclip.

It was a full-length interview with Guido Moscato written by Chantal Ricci. The tone of the piece was adulatory. Moscato was called one of the world’s great hoteliers, ranking alongside Jean-Claude Irondelle of the Hôtel du Cap at Antibes and Kurt Wachtveitl of the Oriental in Bangkok.

‘When Signor Moscato arrived in London he realized that the British capital had no hotels of the first rank,’ she had written. Julia read this with growing astonishment.

The Savoy had become like an old woman who has had too many face lifts by mediocre surgeons; the Ritz a pale shadow of its elegant older sister in Paris. Signor Moscato took a look at them and knew that London was crying out for a first-class hotel.

This is incredible, Julia thought. The article continued.

Signor Moscato has entertained the Queen in the hotel’s magnificent restaurant. The rich and famous from all over the world can be spotted rubbing shoulders in the lobby or sitting over drinks at the bar. The staff is the envy of every hotelier in London. Their loyalty to him is unquestioned. He makes every one of them feel that it is his or her contribution that makes the hotel great …

And so it went on.

Julia reached for her buzzer. ‘Have you read this?’ she asked when Emma appeared.

‘Can’t you tell by my face?’ Emma replied. ‘I almost threw up.’

‘He must be crazy,’ Julia said. ‘So must she. When the newspapers find out she’s also working here they’ll have a field day at our expense. I can’t let those two get away with this sort of thing.’

Brandishing the magazine she stormed off to see Moscato.

‘Why wasn’t this cleared with me?’ she asked angrily, confronting him in his luxurious office.

Moscato looked up at her. ‘First, Miss Lang, I’d appreciate it if you would not take that tone with me. Secondly, there was no reason why you should know about it. Miss Ricci suggested the idea. I agreed. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Don’t you realize how ridiculous this makes us look?’ Julia snapped. ‘Some columnist is bound to discover this woman is employed here.’

Moscato sat back. ‘I am anxious to let people know what I am doing at the Burlington,’ he said. ‘You have suggested nothing –’

Julia gaped at him. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of weeks …’

‘Miss Ricci saw no need to wait.’

Julia stood quite still, trying to control her temper. ‘Signor Moscato, this is not going to work unless we get something straight right now. I am the Publicity Director for the Burlington. Stories about the hotel go through me. All of them. I take responsibility for them. And never would I have allowed this to go through. It’s rubbish.’

Moscato’s face flushed. ‘You are being impertinent, Miss Lang. I suggest –’

‘I am always open to suggestions,’ Julia said sharply. ‘But any more wonderful publicity ideas – such as this piece of self-promotion, or advertising the Queen’s visit here – will come to me for approval. I hope that’s understood. I have a contract with the Sultan and as long as he feels I am doing a good job for the hotel this is where I stay. Good afternoon.’

Sitting at her desk, still fuming over her clash with Moscato, Julia remembered Lisa’s remarks about Brand’s house in Mexico. She buzzed for Emma.

‘We keep Travel and Leisure, don’t we?’

‘Since they did that piece on us.’

‘Could you get me the file, please, Emma?’

‘Can I find something for you?’

‘I just want to flick through it.’

Julia glanced at a dozen copies of the glossy travel magazine before she found it. After Brand’s claim to abhor publicity she was surprised to find six whole pages devoted to Casa Shalimar, the opulent Brand house built on three levels above Acapulco Bay. There were fountains and waterfalls on every level and it was hard to see where the vast swimming pool ended and the sea began, so cleverly was the house designed.

This is truly paradise, ran the caption under one of the pictures, showing half a dozen guest suites, each with its own pool. There were no pictures of Brand, but several of Grace, one taken of her standing at the water’s edge, silhouetted against the sunset. She looked elegant and serene. Julia examined it closely. Grace was a tall, slim woman, deeply tanned, wearing a flowing white caftan. Julia looked at her for a long time before putting down the file.

Why am I doing this? she thought. None of this has anything to do with me.

‘Do you realize what you’re suggesting?’ Commissioner Bonnet glanced sharply at the investigator sitting on the other side of his cluttered desk.

‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ Albert-Jean Cristiani said. ‘Di Marco’s suicide makes no sense.’

Bonnet grunted. ‘He was an old man. He had nothing to look forward to.’

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