49

Philip Watchorn’s New Year’s Eve party was like the city leg of Oswald’s Christmas ball. Held at Philip’s enormous mansion on the edge of Hampstead Heath, the party attracted a similar crowd: country aristos and slick corporate players along with his wife’s society crowd, foreign princesses, middle-aged former models and charity-circuit veterans. The house was vast, white and Georgian, the heath stretching out behind like a thick black carpet; its windows glowed amber as Serena’s Aston Martin pulled up at the black double gates. The front of the house was a hive of activity, with tumblers and fire-eaters dancing around a huge fir tree on the front lawn, while valet parkers rushed to spirit away a procession of expensive prestige cars and to help their plump owners in through the doors.

‘Tell me again why we’re not just phoning up Philip Watchorn and asking him what he knows?’ asked Serena, adjusting the straps of her silk dress. The theme of this year’s party was white, and Serena had taken the opportunity to make sure she looked like a snow queen, complete with long ivory gown and polar white fur shrug.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Cate cynically. ‘Let’s just call him up and ask if he smuggled Craigdale to Central America thirty years ago. Oh, and by the way, have you seen him recently? Perhaps killing our father? Yes, surely he’ll say “yes”.’

The truth was, Cate wasn’t exactly sure what had compelled her to come to the party or what it would achieve. It was less to do with what Dalgleish had called his ‘policeman’s hunch’, and more to do with a desire to feel that at least they were doing something. She’d cooked up plenty of theories, but she still didn’t even know for sure whether the Craigdale Killing was related to Oswald’s death. However, it certainly felt like an avenue that had to be explored, especially with their meeting with David Loftus scheduled for the next day.

Two security guards on the door instantly recognized Serena, and the two sisters were ushered inside, where crowds were circling a vast champagne fountain made from hundreds of bowls of champagne and waiters in white tails topped up everyone’s glasses with Krug.

‘So, now we’re here, what do you suggest we do?’ asked Serena like an impatient child. ‘If you ask me, we’re wasting our time. Bloody Maria is the person we should be talking to. Don’t you think it’s strange we haven’t heard a peep from her? Not the actions of a grieving widow, I’m telling you.’

‘Look,’ said Cate flatly, a little tired with Serena’s obssession with Maria. ‘We probably are wasting our time here, but let’s have a little look around, shall we? I don’t know what for. Maybe we’ll know when we see it.’

‘Ah, so we’re here to snoop? I love a snoop,’ smiled Serena. ‘And who’s going to suspect a pregnant woman on the prowl?’

Most of the rooms were open to guests, and everywhere glamorous people dressed in white were milling around, eating canapés, laughing and chatting to the sound of clinking glasses.

‘Talking of which, the pregnant woman needs the bathroom. Again,’ said Serena, as they wandered into the ballroom where a swing band was playing.

‘I’ll see you back here,’ said Cate, her eyes scanning the room.

A few people recognized her and stopped to offer their condolences. She picked up a cocktail, a White Russian she thought, tasting its creaminess, and moved to a set of doors opening onto a terrace.

‘Catherine Balcon, is that you? What a pleasant surprise.’

Cate turned to see Jennifer Watchorn dressed in the palest silver taffeta gown, enormous diamonds dangling from her ear lobes. She embraced Cate and kissed her on both cheeks as Cate inhaled the smell of heavy foundation and a rose scent.

‘I’m so sorry about everything,’ said Jennifer sadly, ‘I really didn’t think you’d be able to make it.’

Cate smiled weakly, thinking how odd their attendance must look.

Jennifer waved her hands around at the party. ‘I insisted we carry on and have the party tonight,’ said Jennifer, looking a little guilty and embarrassed. ‘Philip was against it, naturally, Oswald being one of his closest friends and all, but I really thought the show must go on.’

‘I’m sure that’s what my father would have wanted,’ said Cate politely.

Jennifer led Cate out onto the terrace, where red berry fairy lights cast a scarlet glow onto the stones. Jennifer linked one arm through Cate’s and, with the other, lifted her glass to take a sip of Krug.

‘You must tell me if you need anything at all. I’m here to help you.’

Cate knew it was time to strike.

‘Well, I’m just trying to keep busy,’ she said. ‘Work and so on. After the funeral, I’ll be going on a photo-shoot,’ she lied. ‘We’re going to Belize to shoot the cover. Haven’t you been there?’

Jennifer looked distracted as her eyes scanned the party guests. ‘Where? Oh. Yes, dear. Years ago, though. Before you were even born, I think. Philip had a lodge there, but he sold it years back. I never actually went there, Philip said it was far too isolated. Anyway, I much prefer the scene in Mexico.’

‘But when you were in Belize –’

Jennifer grabbed her suddenly by the arm, her mind racing off on another train of thought. ‘Now I don’t know who you’re here with,’ said Jennifer conspiratorially, ‘but you’ll never guess who’s come tonight as a guest of my dear friends Dickie and Ann Browning.’

‘Who?’ asked Cate, disappointed at the lack of information Jennifer had revealed.

‘Tom Archer!’ she said, smiling triumphantly. ‘Why don’t you go and find him? We have a whole mini-fairground out there.’ And she was gone.

Camilla pulled her Audi up outside Maria Dante’s Onslow Square home and peered up at the arched windows for any signs of life. She knew she should have called before descending unannounced, but she had come here on impulse, having driven through the square on her way to Venetia’s house.

She looked at the windows again and conceded that this wasn’t the only route to Venetia’s. She had wanted to see Maria. James Willoughby, the family solicitor, had called Camilla up earlier in the day to beg her to stop Maria hassling him on the phone, asking to know about Oswald’s will. ‘She’s called me three times demanding to know when the will is going to be read,’ said the lawyer, trying to be polite but clearly annoyed at being interrupted on his Christmas break. ‘I tried to explain to her that I would inform all beneficiaries after the funeral, but she wouldn’t hear of it. I think someone should have a word.’

When Camilla turned off the car engine, Onslow Square was in silence. Through glowing windows around the square, she could make out people raising glasses and throwing their heads back with laughter. Happy New Year, she thought. quietly wondering what the New Year had in store for her. She shuddered, despite the warmth of her cream cashmere coat, and ran up the small flight of stairs to Maria’s door, knocking on it sharply. Camilla had always felt ambivalent about Maria Dante, not really caring how or with whom her father found happiness. But hearing about Maria snooping around her father’s will, Camilla had been surprised just how protective she had suddenly felt towards the family – even her father.

The door creaked open and a tall, slim man of about forty-five, with a grey crop of hair and a sombre, pinched expression, answered the door. Camilla looked down to see bare hairy legs poking out from a knee-length silk dressing gown.

‘Can I help you?’

For a second Camilla wondered if she had the right address. ‘I’m looking for Maria Dante,’ she said, craning her head to look into the hall.

She saw a figure coming down the stairs, unfolding into view like a concertina. First the feet, knees, black curtains of hair falling onto shoulders, a face … Maria Dante.

‘Jean-Paul? Who’s there? Camilla!’

Camilla took a step into the house. ‘Maria, I’m sorry, I …’

As she walked forward, she saw that Maria was standing in a short red kimono that barely covered her thighs. She looked pallid. Washed out. For a second, Camilla thought it was the face of grief, until she realized she was simply not wearing her heavy make-up. It was the face of someone who had just got out of bed, the flush of her cheeks against her pale skin a telltale sign of sex.

‘Who’s this Maria – housekeeping?’ said Camilla, jabbing a finger at Jean-Paul, who inched away from her, backing up the stairs.

‘What are you suggesting?’ snapped Maria, looking flustered. ‘Jean-Paul is a friend from Paris. My new interior designer now that Venetia is so busy with her fashion.’

Her arrogance lit Camilla’s fuse. She stepped closer to Maria, glaring ferociously, daring her to continue the pretence.

Realizing she’d been found out, Maria exhaled dramatically, her wounded expression changing instantly into something more aggressive. ‘I suppose you’re loving this, Camilla. Seeing me and Jean-Paul,’ she hissed. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve found me like this, but life goes on. Oswald is dead.’

‘My father, your fiancé, has just died! How can you sleep with your decorator when your fiancé has just died?’

‘He’d have done the same,’ whispered Maria, her jet-black eyes blazing at Camilla. ‘You and your sisters, you’ve been dying to catch me out for something from the second we met. I loved your father, but all you wanted to do was to sabotage our relationship from the start.’

Camilla felt a burst of anger.

‘Let’s talk sabotage, shall we?’ spat Camilla, moving closer towards Maria. ‘The huge fee you conned my father into paying you for the Musical Evening. The cocaine you planted in Serena’s suitcase. The reporter you sent snooping in her room. And, while we’re talking subterfuge, how long have you been sleeping with Jean-Paul? I’d say weeks, months, rather than days, wouldn’t you? You didn’t love Oswald, Maria. You loved what you thought he had.’

Maria had a tough hide, but she was not prepared for the ferocity of Camilla’s attack. She clutched her arms defensively around herself. ‘Do you blame me?’ She lifted an eyebrow to challenge her. ‘You know what he was like.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Camilla more calmly. ‘I know exactly what he was like.’

She fixed the woman who was so nearly her stepmother with a look of pure contempt. ‘And now I know just what you’re like. You’re a devious, manipulating, power-hungry bitch who’s betrayed my father and betrayed my family. I know I speak for my sisters when I say that we don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.’

‘Finished?’ asked Maria coldly, not meeting the younger woman’s gaze.

‘No,’ replied Camilla, trying to catch her eye. ‘Tonight I actually came to talk to you about the will, but I won’t bother. Because if you even think about trying to take my family for every penny you mistakenly think is owed to you, I swear that I will ruin you. I will drag you so long and so hard through the courts that you won’t be able to afford a paintbrush, let alone the services of Jean-Paul.’

And with a look of pity directed towards the man in the dressing gown, Camilla turned on her kitten heel and walked back into the square. As the door slammed shut, she was sure she heard a scream.

Philip Watchorn’s house really was spectacular, thought Serena, wandering away from the main thoroughfare of the house. Personally, she wouldn’t have thought of living in Hampstead; it was too far north of the Thames for her. But this house really was as chic and grand as some old embassy from a fifties film. It was less stuffy than Huntsford, more cosmopolitan, more her. She licked her lips at the prospect of owning a house this large, tasting the watermelon gloss which she had slicked on during her visit to the bathroom. While she was in this wing of the house, she might as well look for a library or a study or something, she thought, taking a left down a quiet corridor.

Not all of the rooms at this end of the house were open. Serena tried two door handles: one was locked, one led to a dining room. With the lights switched off, the mahogany furniture cast spooky shadows in the darkness. She closed the door quietly and wandered further and further, her heels tip-tapping on the black-and-white marble floor. She turned a corner and saw a single door on her left. As it creaked open, she could see the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with heavy leather-bound books. The library. Looking up and down the corridor to check no one was around, she crept inside, shutting the door behind her.

Not having a clue what she was looking for, she tiptoed towards a big black leather-topped desk. It was ordered and tidy. There was a gold clock: Asprey, she noted. A crystal paperweight, a silver letter-opener, sheets of paper and a pile of post, some opened. The heavy Lalique desk lamp was asking to be flipped on, but she decided it was better to stay in the darkness and use the chink of light coming through the crack in the door to see. She felt like a member of the Famous Five.

Serena flipped her fingers through the post, bending low to read a few lines. Grateful letters to Philip from charities, correspondence from Coutts bank, other letters from banks in the Cayman Islands, Geneva and Jersey. She scanned them all, but there was nothing too interesting. In fact there was little she really understood. Pulling at the desk drawers, she found one locked, the others full of more papers and a pile of envelopes. Suddenly she stopped as she recognized a postmark on a large envelope: Huntsford. The handwriting was unmistakable: exaggerated initials, long loops in black ink. It was her father’s.

It wouldn’t hurt to look, Serena thought, pulling out a sheaf of papers. It was a contract, only three or four sheets long, unsigned and undated, between Oswald Balcon, Nicholas Charlesworth and Philip Watchorn, collectively acting as BWC Holdings, but, beyond that, it was all Greek to her. Serena scanned the words but kept getting lost: why did they insist on using such archaic language? She wished Camilla was here: her legal brain would decipher this in a second. Apparently, it was a ‘transfer document’ and, as far as she could tell, BWC were transferring something to Oswald. She re-read it more slowly, working it out like a puzzle. Daddy, it seemed, wanted Nicholas and Philip to transfer their shareholdings in Fierce Temper to him for the sum of one pound. She held the papers up, her eyes trying to focus in the dim light. She knew enough about contracts from her dealings with agents to know that one pound was the nominal amount needed to make a contract valid, but she was still puzzled. If she was right, Philip and Nicholas were giving Fierce Temper away to Daddy for nothing – but that couldn’t be: the horse had had a brilliant season. She didn’t know much about racing, but even she realized that, having won four major races in a season, Fierce Temper must be worth a fortune. So why give him away? Why? Because they had to, was all she could reason. Was Oswald making them? Was that it?

Suddenly she felt on edge, standing here in the dark, holding something she felt sure was significant. She had to get out, to show it to Cate. The contract wouldn’t fit in her tiny clutch bag, so she stuffed it under her arm then glanced at her watch. Shit! Cate must be wondering what had happened to her. Making for the door, Serena froze. She could hear two low voices chatting as they walked into the room. Instinctively she ducked down behind the desk. Her belly was too big to fit into the kneehole between the drawers so she sat down awkwardly on the floor. She could hear Philip Watchorn and Nicholas Charlesworth quite clearly now.

‘You must try this excellent cognac,’ said Philip to Nicholas, ‘it’s an eighteen seventy-three. I bought it at auction a couple of years ago. I reckon we ought to toast ourselves, don’t you?’

She could hear the clink of crystal tumblers.

‘I’d prefer that eighteen forty-seven claret I know you’ve got in the cellar,’ said Nicholas.

Serena didn’t need to see the two men to know they were in high spirits. They were pacing around the study now and she could feel her hands becoming moist. Her legs were beginning to cramp as she crouched down on the floor, praying that they would not come near the desk.

‘Did you see that Serena and Cate Balcon are here?’ said Nicholas, his voice piqued and anxious.

‘I know,’ said Philip, clearly not pleased to see them either. ‘I certainly don’t remember inviting them.’

‘So why the hell are they here?’ snapped Nicholas. ‘Shouldn’t they be mourning rather than partying? You don’t think they know something, do you?’

‘Relax. Serena loves a party, whatever the weather.’

Serena could almost see the smirk on Philip’s face. Nicholas was not to be placated, however. ‘But Cate’s more canny. If Cate is here, maybe they suspect something,’ he said.

‘Suspect what?’ said Philip, his voice lowering considerably. ‘Poor Oswald’s just had a nasty little accident. What’s that to do with us?’

‘Yes, I suppose …’ said Nicholas, sounding much less confident than his friend. ‘Have the police spoken to you yet?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Philip dismissively. ‘I simply told them everything we’d agreed. I can assure you the police are merely going through the motions. There really is nothing to make them believe that this is anything other than Oswald getting pie-eyed and falling from the rooftop. Anyway, the snow would have contaminated any evidence. God bless the bumbling bobby and God bless the English weather.’ He sneered.

Underneath the desk, Serena’s mouth had dropped open. Nicholas did not need to spell it out. They had pushed Oswald from the ramparts. They had killed her father. Feeling the Fierce Temper contract under her arm, she suddenly thought of David Loftus. Was it blackmail? Was Oswald blackmailing Philip and Nicholas? Finally, she heard the tumblers being put down and footsteps walking across the room towards the door. Thank God, thank God. Her leg had gone numb with cramp under the weight of her pregnant body. She tried to shift it slightly and, as she did so, the heel of her shoe slipped, sending her foot to the floor with a muffled thump.

‘What was that?’ asked Philip. Hearing footsteps move back into the room, Serena twisted her body until her bottom was on the floor, hanging her head between her knees. She didn’t need to look up to know that the two figures were looming over her.

‘Serena Balcon! What on earth are you doing?’ growled Philip. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes were deadly serious. Nicholas grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She slumped down in the leather chair behind the desk, Nicholas’s hand lingering on her arm, squeezing the flesh a little too hard.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, his eyes wild.

Serena tried to smile confidently, even though her hands were as clammy as glue. ‘Oh, you know what it’s like, being pregnant and all,’ she stammered. ‘I really shouldn’t have come partying. I felt terrible, so I came to find somewhere dark and quiet to sit down for a moment.’

Philip simply nodded. ‘On the floor. Behind a desk.’

‘Serena, what are you doing here?’ said Nicholas, shaking her arm. There was a flutter as the contract dropped to the floor. Philip stooped to pick it up and showed it to his friend, exchanging a cold, knowing look.

Serena tried to rise to her feet, but was suddenly aware of a taut pain on either side of her abdomen. She sat down again. Putting her head between her knees, she closed her eyes for a second. Suddenly the situation seemed crystal clear to her. She lifted her head and looked up at the two men, then at the contract, and the pieces suddenly slotted together. Craigdale had been harboured at Watchorn’s Central American house. Oswald knew about it, perhaps even helped. Oswald now needed money. He was blackmailing them. Oswald was offering his silence in return for Fierce Temper. Clearly Philip and Nicholas weren’t in the mood just to hand over a multimillion-dollar horse, so they had killed him. They had killed Daddy.

Venetia looked around the library of her Kensington Park Gardens home, sinking back into her favourite leather club chair, and decided that, however fabulous the property was, it just had to be put on the market. To her, the house had the same atmosphere as Huntsford: it was cold, empty and lonely, just more expensively decorated. In the New Year, she was definitely going to downsize. Her home, her life, her ambitions. She was going to expect less because what had this year shown her? That disappointment and betrayal lurked everywhere. From her husband, her father, her body – which had denied her the right to have children; even from a man she had once loved: Luke. Everything she’d had, wanted or needed had been taken away.

And then there was Jack. She’d been the architect of that failure herself, she accepted, but it didn’t make her feel any less mournful. She poured herself a vodka from the bottle beside her. After Oswald had virtually evicted Jack from the ball, she had run away, unable to handle the conflict between the two men. She had felt as if she was being asked to choose between her lover or her family, and she had let Jack leave. By the time she had rejoined the party, Jack had gone, and with it, she thought, his part in her life once more. She took a slug of vodka; fate had obviously decided that their relationship was not to be.

And now, what did the New Year hold? First, they would have to deal with David Loftus. She groaned. They were due to meet him again tomorrow and she had no idea where that conversation would lead. Camilla was due any minute; she hoped that she had some bright ideas although, after the revelations of Leonard Graham’s letter, Camilla had even bigger worries herself.

In the distance she could hear a tapping on the front door. She looked at her watch and cursed. She’d invited Camilla for supper and the monkfish fillets were still in their Harrod’s Food Hall packaging.

‘Hang on, Cam. I’m coming,’ she called as she opened the door. Standing in the cold was a figure that made Venetia’s heart leap.

‘Jack!’

Although she was afraid, Serena was defiant. She knew she was in a dangerous situation, but rage had quickly overcome her fear and she looked up ferociously at Philip and Nicholas.

‘It wasn’t an accident, was it?’ she hissed, thinking of her father’s body lying sodden and lifeless in the Huntsford moat. ‘It’s the horse,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘It’s all about the bloody horse, isn’t it? It’s all about money!’ she spat.

Philip grabbed her face. His grip was tight, menacing. His lips parted to speak, but Nicholas spoke first.

‘Your father was always so bloody arrogant!’ he said, ‘but so spineless with it. Rather than face up to his debts and dig himself out of his hole, he chose to try and extort what was rightfully ours.’

Philip touched Nicholas on the arm to stop him, but Charlesworth was in full flow, as if a vent had been ripped in his chilly armour.

‘When it suited him, he was happy to have us on side. Oh yes, happy to let us take Alistair out of the country so he could keep his hands clean. See? Spineless,’ he laughed cruelly. ‘And then, he takes the high ground and threatens to tell Scotland Yard unless we give him Fierce Temper. Well, we weren’t going to do that, were we?’

‘Where’s Alistair Craigdale now?’ whispered Serena.

Nicholas shook his head in a small, deliberate gesture.

‘Craigdale died years ago. Just as well,’ he smiled callously. ‘He was becoming a terrible drain. With dear Alistair dead and Jimmy Jenkins on the way, your father was the only one who knew what happened. Now we can put it all behind us.’

‘But how could you?’ said Serena, her voice low and quiet. ‘You were friends …’

Philip, who had been silent until this moment, finally spoke. ‘It was an accident,’ he said resolutely. He put his hand on Serena’s shoulder and began pressing it gently into the arm of the leather chair. ‘We were up on the ramparts discussing the transaction. Somewhere quiet, where we could think,’ he said, as if explaining something obvious to a child.

‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ spat Serena. ‘Why take him up on the ramparts to talk?’

‘Believe what you wish,’ said Philip dismissively, ‘it doesn’t make any difference to us what you think. Oswald was drunk. I’m sure the toxicology reports will confirm that. He simply slipped. No one need know anything different.’

‘You liar,’ said Serena, trying to stop her voice from quavering. She tried to lift herself up from the chair, but Philip applied more pressure to keep her sitting where she was. ‘Let me go!’ she hissed.

Philip and Nicholas exchanged a look. It was only for a second, but Serena saw it was loaded with danger. She struggled again, terrified now. They had killed one man at least, and maybe they had done away with Craigdale, too, when he had become too much of an inconvenience to them. Who knew what they might do to her? She tried hard to pull herself free, but Philip was a big man and his clutch was like a vice. With his free hand, Philip reached into the pocket of his white dinner jacket and pulled out a mobile phone.

‘Dimitri?’ said Philip into the telephone, ‘I need you in the study as soon as possible.’

Serena felt her heart drop. She had a feeling she was in a lot of trouble.

The view from the terrace was exquisite. There was a huge gazebo-shaped marquee, and surrounding it were vast lawns that twinkled with candy-coloured lights. She could make out several fairground rides with clowns handing out popcorn, hot dogs and toffee-apples. Standing under an outside heater, she could also make out a familiar figure. Tom Archer. He was talking to a group of affluent-looking forty-somethings, but looking a little bored. She tapped the shoulder of his white Armani tuxedo and he turned to give her a surprised smile.

‘Cate! What on earth are you doing here?’ he said, stepping forward and embracing her warmly. ‘Your father … I’m so sorry. Did you get the flowers I sent? I’ve been wanting to call you.’

‘Sorry, it’s all been so busy, I haven’t really been able to take much in,’ she said, rather embarrassed that she hadn’t had time to read any of the many cards, letters of condolence and flowers that had been sent after her father’s death.

Tom looked concerned. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home?’

‘I needed to get out of the house. Anyway,’ she said, quickly changing the subject, ‘who are you here with?’ she asked, nodding towards the group.

‘Dickie Browning and his wife.’

Browning was one of Britain’s most respected producers, owning the prestigious movie company, Limelight Pictures.

‘Remember that script I was writing in Dorset? Well, Dickie’s producing and I’m directing it. They insisted I needed a night out,’ said Tom with a wry smile. He excused himself from the group and the pair of them walked to a vending trolley lined with light bulbs. A pretty, raven-haired girl dressed as Snow White handed them two cones of popcorn.

‘So, who are you here with then?’ asked Tom, crunching on a few chunks of fluffy corn.

‘Actually,’ said Cate slowly, ‘Serena …’

Tom nodded silently, but she was convinced she could see the hint of a smile. She was sure there was no new woman in Tom’s life. If there had been, surely she would have read about it in the gossip columns? There was still hope, thought Cate.

Tom smiled awkwardly. ‘I tried to call Serena the other day at Huntsford. She wasn’t there.’

‘Well, let’s go and find her now,’ said Cate, looking at her watch. ‘She went to the bathroom about half an hour ago.’

‘That’s Serena,’ said Tom, looking visibly more relaxed. ‘Come on, lead the way.’

The man Serena assumed was Dimitri walked into Philip’s study minutes later. He had a neck as thick as a tree stump and muscles straining beneath his black suit.

‘Who’s this?’ spat Serena. ‘Security?’

‘Something like that,’ said Philip.

Serena felt her skin prickling with fear. She tried not to look intimidated – there had to be some way she could talk her way out of this situation.

‘Look, Philip, Nicholas. I’m sure it was an accident,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s incredibly dangerous up on those ramparts at night. And it was icy.’

‘I tell you what, Serena,’ said Philip. He slid his arm around her shoulder and moved so close she could smell the sour scent of cognac on his breath. ‘Let’s not spoil the party with all this talk about Oswald’s accident. You go with Dimitri to cool off and we can discuss this another time.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with Dimitri,’ said Serena, wriggling from Philip’s grasp. ‘I want to go back to the party.’

‘Don’t make this difficult,’ said Philip. He nodded to Dimitri who grabbed Serena’s arm.

‘Let me go!’

Dimitri pressed his body against hers and suddenly she could feel a cold, blunt cylinder pressing into her side. Looking down she could see the dull blue-black casing of a gun nuzzled against the white silk of her dress; she felt bile collecting in her throat. She took a breath but the room felt airless.

‘Go that way,’ said Philip to Dimitri, motioning his head towards the French doors.

‘You and Dimitri are going to go for a drive but, as the car is parked on the other side of our little fairground outside, you’re going to have to be very good,’ said Philip.

Dimitri rammed the barrel of the gun harder into her side and forced Serena to move.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she howled, her eyes blazing at Nicholas.

‘But you are,’ replied Philip flatly. ‘You’re going to walk across the fairground without a peep and, if you get a little feisty, then we will find Cate and get her to join our little party too.’

‘You do that and I’ll kill you,’ she snarled, arching her back away from him.

‘Start walking,’ said Dimitri.

Cate wondered if she should tell Tom the real reason why they were at the party, but decided it was better to leave him totally out of this. As soon as they had found Serena, she would go and have a look around herself. It was only ten o’clock, after all: there was still plenty of time.

Pretty girls – and older women trying to look like pretty girls – stood in the long queues for the many bathrooms scattered around Philip’s mansion. But none of them was Serena.

‘Where the hell is she?’ grumbled Cate, beginning to get a little anxious now.

‘She’s probably gone home,’ laughed Tom. ‘She has this terrible habit of sneaking off from parties. Being eight months pregnant can’t be much fun, can it? Or maybe she just saw me and decided to scarper.’

Cate looked up at his face, and for one moment her anxiety softened as she realized Tom was quite excited at the prospect of seeing her sister.

The house was vast, with huge rooms and long corridors bookended, Cate noticed, by CCTV cameras. The security-conscious rich, thought Cate grimly, wondering who was watching them. As they walked further from the party, they found themselves alone. The rooms were dark and the tap of their heels against the marble floors sent an eerie echo around then.

‘Well, she’s not going to be down here, is she?’ said Tom turning back.

Cate hesitated, then nodded. ‘OK. Let’s go back outside. I’m sure she’ll come to find me,’ she said, feeling a mounting sense of unease.

The French doors led into pitch-blackness. Serena wiped the sweat from her palms onto the fabric of her dress as she stepped into the night. They picked up a path that snaked round the side of the house, the noise of the party growing in the background, louder and louder, until they turned the corner and in a burst of light the fairground appeared in front of her. Hordes of people talking, laughing, drinking, dancing. Serena hadn’t seen this side of the party yet: the vast back lawns of the house had been transformed into a fairground, an orgy of light and sound. Clowns holding armfuls of balloons added bursts of colour to the stark white of the evening’s theme. Despite the night’s chill, half the guests were now packed into this open space, making Dimitri’s closeness to Serena’s body not unusual. People glanced at Serena as she walked by, eager to get a look at the glamorous party-goer, completely unaware that she was being marched through the fairground with a gun in her back. ‘Keep smiling,’ whispered Dimitri, as passers-by did their double-takes.

She pasted a rigid smile on her face, her muscles taut with fear, her eyes frantically scanned the crowds for Cate. Her throat felt blocked when she tried to swallow. She wondered desperately what would happen if she just tried to make a run for it but, feeling the cold circle of metal against the curve of her back, knew she could not outrun a bullet.

‘Please, Dimitri. What do you want? Money? Do you know who I am? I’m rich. I can give you however much you want if you let me go,’ she whispered, hardly daring to turn her head.

Dimitri pressed his head against the side of hers, so close that she could feel the slight wetness of his lips on her ear lobe.

‘Maybe you can give me something later,’ he laughed quietly. A shiver of dread crawled over her skin as she felt his hardness push right up against her.

Suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. For a second she thought she might have been shot, until she realized that the pain was an internal ache from her womb. She stopped and clutched her side, tears finally welling up behind her eyes.

‘Please. My baby.’

Dimitri remained silent, increasing the pressure of the gun on her skin as a reminder of her situation, and pulled her forward.

‘Cate, what’s wrong? You look a bit pale,’ smiled Tom, helping himself to a crab claw from a tray. ‘Serena is a grown woman – she’s quite able to look after herself at a party.’

Cate knew she had to tell him why her sister had to be found right now. ‘We came here for a reason, Tom,’ said Cate, stepping out onto the terrace. ‘Philip and Nicholas are involved in something … Look, it’s too long a story to tell you right now, but it would be just like Serena to confront them about it and I think that would be a very, very bad idea.’

‘Mixed up in what?’ he replied, perplexed.

From the other side of the fairground, Cate could make out a familiar sheet of blonde hair weaving through the crowds. ‘There she is,’ she said, relieved.

‘I told you she’d be all right,’ smiled Tom, also spotting the back of Serena’s head. His heart felt leaden as his line of vision edged sideways and he saw the tall figure of a man walking so intimately behind her that they had to be lovers.

‘Looks like she has company,’ he said, turning to Cate with a shrug.

Seeing that they were getting close to the edge of the fairground, with Philip’s row of cars edging into view, Serena knew that time was running out to do something. Anything. To cry out for help seemed so simple, but the barrel of the gun had locked her into an airtight bubble. She turned her head back as far as she dared to scan the crowd. Light, colour and faces blurred in surreal slow motion as she passed them, until her eyes locked with someone safe and familiar. Tom.

Cate didn’t recognize the bulky man pressed up against Serena and immediately sensed something was wrong. Serena had obviously seen Tom and she watched as her sister’s eyes flickered along until they locked into her own gaze. Even from a distance, she could see her jaw was tense, her skin pale, her eyes and the small crease of her brow registering one thing – fear.

‘Tom, get to her,’ said Cate suddenly, pushing him forward.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just do it.’

Tom tried to push his way through, but the crowd was thick, and a mass of balloons clouded his line of vision in a sea of pink, yellow and red.

Serena could see Tom moving towards her and she felt a surge of power, her instincts telling her that now was the final second in which she could act. She screamed loudly, the noise shattering and silencing the crowds. She struggled from Dimitri’s grasp and pushed against him with all her strength. Thrown off-balance, he grabbed for her, pulling her to the ground as Tom frantically pushed through the solid press of panicking people to reach her. Serena’s knees buckled, there was a harsh crack of a firing gun, and then everything went still.