JANICE SET DOWN her coffee and checked her watch. She hated the night shift at Bow Street. 3.00 a.m. was the witching hour, time of drunks and crazies as the clubs discharged their clientele. At least her office at the back of the building was quiet. The silence was marred only by the electric heater beneath her desk ticking as the bars cooled.
She thought of Ian, surrounded by his criminal textbooks, working beneath the glow of the green desk lamp in his study. He’d be drinking cold coffee, swearing under his breath, making crabbed illegible notes on sheets of lined notepaper.
She wished he would understand that it didn’t matter if the station staff knew they were having an affair – no, not an affair, a relationship. Though neither of them were married, an affair was what it felt like, skulking around pretending they barely knew each other, then spending three nights a week in each other’s arms.
Tonight, the only thing that mattered to Ian was concluding the case. She wished she could be of more help, but right now he was in sole possession of all material relating to the murders.
Ian had wondered if Ixora could somehow be the culprit. At first glance, the idea seemed ridiculous. Violent predatory attacks were the province of the male. Janice sat back and checked the grips in her hair, pinning them back in place.
Strangely enough, she felt a common bond with the model. They were both ambitious and independent. They kept their private lives separate from their public behaviour. And they had both, in a way, stolen their men from a marriage. Although it was admittedly an unhappy union, Ian had still been wed when she had come to work for him.
She tried to see inside Ixora’s mind, tried to imagine the men in her life. Jealous admirers, spurned lovers. Men who worshipped, doe-eyed and desperate. Ego freaks, swaggering in sports cars. That was why she stayed with Ian; the macho bullshit was all behind him. Perhaps that was what had drawn Ixora to John Chapel.
Chapel. The name suited him. Plain and sturdy, with religious connotations. She could definitely see the attraction. He was a straight arrow, born with a frank look on his face that suggested he was permanently surprised by the wiles of the world. Ian was more cynical, and that made him more annoying. His distance was infuriating. Sometimes he seemed to be barely in the same room with her, and she felt like hitting him with anything that came to hand, just to get a reaction.
Surely Ixora sometimes felt like that.
But what would make either of them kill?
Ian said that murder was particularly associated with two emotions: anger and fear. Anger was felt by those seeking revenge on someone. Fear was felt by those fighting to protect themselves or their loved ones.
Protecting their loved ones.
Janice lifted the scab from her coffee with the end of a pencil, and took a sip. Ixora’s loved one was John Chapel. Suppose she killed to protect him. But if Ixora was the guilty party – then the one she was trying to protect Chapel from was – herself.
She grabbed the telephone receiver and quickly dialled Ian Hargreave’s home number.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ said John, throwing open the door. He had started to worry. It was the second day that Ixora had left the house early to try to raise money on the paintings. Now it was almost 6.00 p.m., the car booked to take them to the premiere was due at 6.30 p.m., and Ixora still had to change from her sweater and jeans.
John had spent the day attempting to arrange a legitimate loan via his bank and building society, with little success. He had no collateral, no job, nothing in the way of security to offer beyond the house his wife and son were occupying, and he was not prepared to put their welfare at risk.
‘How did you get on?’
‘Disastrously. Six months ago I was their golden boy. They were throwing platinum credit cards at me. Now I couldn’t raise the cash for a sandwich. How’d it go with you?’
‘All right.’ She removed her cap and threw it on the table, shaking her hair loose. ‘The provenance of the pictures is undisputed, but they’ve got to check the authenticity of the Holman-Hunt and the little Wright study.’
‘Is there any doubt about them?’ he asked, helping her out of her overcoat.
‘Only on two of the four. They want to run some tests. I spoke to the bank, and they said they were willing to advance the money on written receipt from the auctioneer. To avoid the delay of exchanging letters I made them fax all the paperwork with the exception of the signed documentation, which I had to ferry back and forth. The problem is, I still couldn’t get hard cash because by this time the banks were shut.’
‘But you have a written guarantee that the money will be in the account?’
‘Yes, it’ll be in there tomorrow. That should be all right, shouldn’t it?’
‘It’ll have to be. I’ll phone Mancuso now and explain the situation. If he’ll play ball, I’ll withdraw the full amount first thing in the morning.’
‘Great. We can go to the movie with an easy mind.’ He made to kiss her, but she slipped past him, running to the stairs and kicking off her shoes.
‘We can get the electrics fixed. I love candlelight, but this is ridiculous. Leave me alone for half an hour. I’m wearing something special, so it’ll take some major refurbishment. You’d better get your dinner jacket on.’
While the hot water pipes gurgled and clanged in the ceiling above, John called the casino. Mancuso was not on the floor, or in his office. At John’s insistence, his assistant eventually tracked him down. Although he expressed his displeasure at being disturbed he grudgingly conceded to John’s request, on the condition that he brought the bank’s letter of confirmation by the casino later that night.
John reluctantly agreed, knowing that they would be in the area following the premiere. At precisely 6.30 p.m., the doorbell rang.
A black Mercedes waited in the street, its engine purring.
‘It’s here,’ John called to the landing above, ‘the cab’s here!’
He waited a moment, watching the top of the stairs. The chauffeur was still standing in the doorway. He gave John a ‘Bloody-women-always-late-but-you-can’t-help-loving-them’ look, and smiled. Suddenly he was staring past him with his mouth hanging slack, as if he’d just been knifed in the back.
John turned around.
Ixora stood on the stair in a strapless dress of glittering frost, an ivory version of the dress she had worn on the night he thought he had first seen her at Waterloo Station. Her hair fell in a glossy black fringe above her eyes. Only the rope of pearls was missing from her throat.
The fluidity of movement as she descended the staircase in flickering candlelight, the way she slowly raised her hand to her forehead, returned the feeling that time itself had slowed to allow an appreciation of her beauty. He took her hand as she reached the bottom step. He could feel her pulse tapping hard inside her wrist.
‘You look like a movie star,’ he whispered, ‘and in a couple of hours you’ll be one.’
‘I’m nervous. No, I’m fine,’ she said with a paralysed smile.
‘Let’s go.’
The crowds in Leicester Square were packed from the walls of the buildings to the yellow steel barriers that police had erected from Charing Cross Road to the cinema. A large square pass had been taped to the windscreen of the Mercedes, allowing it through the police cordon. As the car ahead pulled up, Scott Tyron and his new girlfriend alighted to a roar of approval from the crowd. A firestorm of flashlights illuminated their path along the red carpet to the reception area. The film’s distributors and the cinema manager were to accompany them on a series of brief interviews while they were waiting for the arrival of the royal entourage.
The chauffeur drove to a halt beside the carpeted kerb, then alighted to open the passenger door. Ixora swallowed hard and gave him her gloved hand, glancing back at John with a nervous smile. Immediately there were cameras firing everywhere as a battery of reporters clustered about her. John guided her into the foyer as the crowd noisily voiced their admiration. Much to his surprise, Scott Tyron smiled across and shoved his way clear of a BBC film crew to join them. He was sporting freshly tanned skin and newly bleached hair for the occasion, and had dressed in a black suede cowboy jacket with sleeve fringes and silver cacti on each lapel, presumably so that no one could miss who they were dealing with.
‘Hey, how are you guys?’ he cried in a voice that succeeded in cutting through the deafeningly false bonhomie around them. Several of those attending the premiere turned to watch a real film star having an honest-to-goodness conversation, just like ordinary common people. He kissed Ixora a little too warmly on the mouth, then pumped John’s hand.
‘Where do you think they found these so-called celebrity guests?’ he asked before either of them had managed to speak. ‘It looks like the Night Of The Living Career-Dead. I guess you didn’t make it to the Cast and Crew screening, huh?’
Ixora shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Well, neither did the script. At least you’re still in it, although that’s a mixed blessing. Remember the restaurant scene? The old guy who played the waiter had a heart attack at Christmas and died. Good career move.’ He looked around and waved at Diana Morrison, who was leaning on the arm of an attractive young Italian.
‘I have to catch Diana,’ said Scott, squeezing their arms. ‘She’s either brought her grandson along or she went out for a pasta last night. See you guys at Langan’s.’ He shoved his way back into the throng, the cinema guests switching their attention from one star to the next like Wimbledon spectators.
‘There you are!’ Park Manton, the producer, appeared between them. ‘Are you being presented?’
‘I suppose someone will tell us what to do,’ said Ixora.
‘Oh, it’s easy. You go and stand in that little roped-off section of the foyer between those huge flower arrangements, then the royal couple walk slowly past and shake your hand, and ask you something inconsequential, like did you enjoy making the film, then you lie and say yes, then they move on. I’m sure they genuinely believe that all London cinemas are filled with fresh flowers for each performance. Have you got any coke on you?’
‘No,’ said Ixora. ‘I have an addictive personality.’
‘Give me a break,’ said Manton, screwing up his face. ‘It’s not addictive. I should know, I’ve been doing it for years. Don’t be too disappointed when you see the film. The Cast and Crew went badly, but then they saw it under adverse conditions: the projector was plugged in. Everyone’s blaming the director, poor love. Scott’s been going around telling people that when the rabbi circumcised Farley he threw away the wrong piece. You can’t trust anyone in this industry, it’s a snakepit. See you in the lineup, gorgeous.’ He coasted off across the foyer like a breaker parting pack-ice.
Ten minutes later, the crowd outside began cheering as the royal limousine arrived. The audience had been sent to their seats. Spotlights were heating the waiting area to an unbearable degree. John had been allowed to remain beside Ixora in the lineup, although he knew that he would not be formally introduced. While her husband talked with the chairman of the film’s British distributors, the Duchess of York paused briefly before each cast member and moved on. It was odd, John thought, that such a friendly gesture should be so invested in nervous tension. As soon as the royal couple had been directed to their seats, the members of the lineup took their places amid much sighing of relief. The lights faded, and the film began to roll.
One hour and fifty-five minutes later, as the end credits rose across the screen and the auditorium was filled with deafening spontaneous applause, John turned to Ixora and squeezed her gloved hand.
‘My God, Ixora, you’re on your way. You’re really on your way. You were brilliant.’ She looked back at him in the darkness, her eyes glittering wetly. She seemed unable to speak. The film was really very good. Much of the original script had been lost in favour of stylish visuals set to music, but Ixora was sensational. Perhaps she had been lucky in finding a part that matched her natural personality, but it seemed that in spite of what everyone had thought, she really could act. Her screen time amounted to not much more than fifteen minutes, but she was by far the most memorable character in the entire film, outshining Scott Tyron with absurd ease. No wonder he had been so friendly to her in the foyer. He had seen her performance at the Cast and Crew and had presumably decided that it would be better to make an ally of her than an enemy.
‘They used my real voice!’ said Ixora excitedly.
As the lights went up, John took her hands in his. ‘Listen, you’re going to be mobbed any second now, so I just want to say that – whatever happens to us in the years ahead – I will always, always love you, Ixora. You have my total trust and my undying love.’
‘Oh, John, don’t say that, please.’ She suddenly began to cry. He tugged out a handkerchief and passed it to her.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘It’s just – I wish to God I didn’t love you so much—’
‘Why?’ He didn’t understand what she was trying to say.
‘It’s so hard for me—’
‘Ixora, daaarling, you were magnificent!’
Suddenly there were people all around her, desperate to bestow praise, longing to be seen with her and recognised, anxious to be touched in some way by this new phenomenon. John rose from his seat and stood back, allowing her the freedom of her new-found fame.
He felt sure now that he would lose her, that he had already lost some indefinable part of her that was bound up in her reticence, her mystery. After tonight there could be no more mystery. Her private life would become public knowledge. Her private thoughts would be made available in magazine articles. Her films would eventually be released on videocassette, where her electronic image could be reduced in speed, the slow motion cadence of her limbs wheeling across the screen at the whim of each enthralled viewer. This was what he had helped to create and shape. He was happy for her, but the moment was tinged with the sadness of loss.
Perhaps somehow he sensed the truth; that it was to be the last night of happiness they would ever have together in their lives.