Killer Diamonds Page 8

  ‘Baxter? Please ring Eduard at the studio’s PR office for me, please,’ she said, her voice composed. An observer would never guess the inner turmoil she was suffering, the guilt she was feeling at letting Thierry’s reputation be traduced. ‘No, Thierry is . . .’

  She paused, unable to finish that sentence.

  ‘Just ring him, please, Baxter. Tell him it’s an emergency, and that he needs to come over here right away. Immediately. And bring him straight up when he arrives. And no, Baxter,’ she reassured her anxious butler, who had broken into a stream of apologies, ‘don’t worry. I don’t blame you. How could you have turned them away from my front door? It’s not your fault. Just tell Eduard to come here straight away.’

  Her hand was trembling as she set the phone back in its cradle.

  ‘Here’s what’s going to happen, Pearl,’ she said, her voice still steady. ‘We’ll make sure that this is all covered up, just as you want. The head of publicity from the studio is coming straight over. When he grasps the situation, he’ll call whatever police officers he’s got in his pocket and they’ll arrive primed to believe whatever we tell them. You’ll trot out the story of how you struggled with Thierry and fought him off with my Oscar – I doubt you’ll even be taken into custody.’

  In her decades as a major star, Vivienne had heard of graver crimes than this being covered up by studios. Pearl had, after all, not actually meant to kill Thierry; what she had done would be considered manslaughter under almost any jurisdiction. Vivienne knew of one film star turned director, for instance, who, filming in a third-world country where cash was king, had done considerably worse to a series of barely legal prostitutes. No one reputable would work with him any more, but he had never spent a day in prison for what he had done.

  But as Vivienne watched the relief flood across her daughter’s face, it was no consolation to her that others had behaved even more appallingly than Pearl.

  ‘Angel will be kept completely out of it, of course,’ Vivienne continued. ‘Baxter will say he was downstairs. They won’t dream of asking a seven-year-old any questions if they don’t know he was up here.’

  Vivienne noticed bitterly that this comment took Pearl by surprise; it had not even occurred to her to protect her son from having any contact with the police. ‘And from now on, he’ll be living with me,’ Vivienne finished, bracing herself for Pearl’s reaction.

  ‘What?

  Pearl, who had been sitting on the rug, arms wrapped around her knees, jumped up so lithely that Vivienne had a flash of envy for her daughter’s youth. Vivienne kept herself trim and fit with diet and exercise (she was currently keeping her abdominals tight with the Callanetics video), but there was no substitute for the flexibility and suppleness she’d had in her mid-twenties.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Pearl shrieked. ‘What are you saying? Angel’s my son!’

  ‘Whom I will gain custody of the moment you get arrested for manslaughter – not to mention when you go to prison,’ Vivienne pointed out.

  This took a moment to sink in.

  ‘You can’t,’ Pearl breathed, clutching her hands at her chest. ‘I won’t let you take my son away from me!’

  ‘Oh, spare me the amateur histrionics,’ Vivienne said with contempt.

  ‘I’ll leave those to you, shall I, Mummy?’ Pearl said with biting sarcasm. ‘You’ve been peddling them for donkey’s years!’

  ‘My histrionics are strictly professional,’ Vivienne said coolly. ‘And they’ve been keeping you in the lap of luxury for your whole life. Well, that’s come to an end too, Pearl. From now on, you will no longer have custody of your son and your trust fund will be cut off. You’re on your own. I’ll make sure you’re not arrested and tried for manslaughter, but that’s the last thing I’ll do for you.’

  This news struck Pearl so powerfully that she couldn’t say a word in response; she broke instead into hysterical sobs. Angel, hearing his mother crying uncontrollably, emerged from the bathroom, where he had been hiding, trying not to listen to the fight raging next door. He had retrieved the ruby bracelet from the heap he had been concealing in the bathroom cabinet, wrapped it in a hand towel, and started to crush it with the heavy glass container of cotton wool balls that had been on the bathroom shelf.

  This was what had got Mummy into trouble. If he’d just managed to get rid of all this, Mummy wouldn’t have lied about him stealing the jewellery, and Grandma Viv wouldn’t have hit Mummy. And the destruction of something precious and valuable was giving him some relief from the big tight knot of tension in his chest, letting him breathe a little more freely, helping him conquer his overpowering impulse to cry . . .

  But at the noise of Mummy sobbing and wailing, Angel was on his feet. He didn’t bother to put back the cotton wool ball container, but he did stuff the hand towel and its contents into his trouser pocket, calculating swiftly that there was no way anyone would search him now. Dashing through into the bedroom, he threw himself at his mother, wrapping his arms around her waist, begging her not to cry.

  ‘She’s taking you away from me!’ Pearl cried. ‘She wants to take you away from me for ever, Angel!’

  Vivienne leaned forward.

  ‘Pearl,’ she said, articulating each word so perfectly that, as they dropped from her lips, they were as clear and sharply pointed as the diamond that had cut her daughter’s cheek. ‘I will give you a choice. If you tell the truth about everything that happened in this room – about your coming here to steal from me, and hitting Thierry because he tried to stop you – I will support you one hundred per cent. I will pay for the best lawyer. I will look after you when you come out of prison. I will tell Angel that although you did the wrong thing, you are taking responsibility and behaving honestly and that I’m proud of his mother for the first time in her adult life, and I will support him living with you when you’re free again.’

  She paused, looking at Pearl, whose violet eyes were wide with surprise as she heard this speech. Vivienne waited to see if Pearl would answer her, accept; but no response was forthcoming, and so Vivienne continued with the second part of her offer.

  ‘Or,’ she said equally deliberately, ‘I will cover this up for you. You won’t spend a day in prison, but you won’t see your son again until he’s eighteen. I will make sure that you don’t corrupt him any further. The poor boy has been through enough. God knows what he’s seen already, living with you! And now you’re using him as an accomplice – making him lie for you, cover up for you! It can’t go on.’

  Vivienne paused again, but Pearl still remained silent. Ever since giving birth to her son, Pearl had thought of him as her ‘get out of jail free’ card. He had been an angelic- looking baby, hence her choice of name; and the sight of her holding little Angel, gazing down at him with her sweetest expression, had never failed to provoke sighs of admiration and comments on how much the two of them looked like the Madonna with Baby Jesus in her arms. Whenever Pearl got into trouble, the well-rehearsed tactic of summoning her son so that she could wrap her arms around him and look pleadingly up from his tangle of blond curls, identical to her own, always made a vast difference to whoever had a grudge against her.

  What an irony: the nickname Pearl had given Angel was now actually coming true. Just as in the game of Monopoly, the ‘get out of jail free’ card, it turned out, could only be played once. If you chose to use it, you had to discard it.

  I’ll get him back, Pearl thought. Mummy can’t actually hold on to him till he’s eighteen! She’s just throwing threats around because she’s angry . . .

  Glancing sideways at Thierry’s corpse, Pearl had to admit that her mother had reason to be furious. Pearl had gone too far this time. Of course, properly looked at, Thierry’s death had been an accident, and surely, after a while, when she calmed down, Vivienne would realize that and give Pearl custody of her son once again. Pearl would just have to keep herself out of prison and play for time . . .

  ‘You can take Angel for the time being,’ she said
, doing her best to make it sound like a highly noble decision. ‘I can see that I have issues right now I need to work on before I’m ready to be a full-time mother.’

  ‘Mummy!’ Angel screamed, looking up at her incredulously. ‘Mummy, no!’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself, Pearl,’ Vivienne said, looking intently at her daughter. ‘This is until he’s eighteen, and it’ll be locked down tight. You’ll sign Angel over to me today. The studio’s legal team will draw up an agreement for me that you’ll have to sign before I organize representation for you. If you think you can refuse to sign it just because I supported your story, think again. I’ll not only withdraw my support, I’ll tell the police I’ve just found out that Thierry was gay, which will mean you can rule out any idea of trying to claim self-defence. You have no money for lawyers, and I’ll testify against you if I have to. You’ll probably end up going to prison for murder.’

  Vivienne had no idea whether this was true, but she was sure that Pearl was even more ignorant about the French legal system than she was. By the time Vivienne finished, Pearl was trembling with fear as she absorbed the extent of the threat her mother was making.

  ‘You have to stay with Granny Viv from now on,’ she managed to say to Angel, reaching down to prise his hands off her waist. Taking his shoulders, she turned him around so that he was facing Vivienne, and gave him a little push towards his grandmother.

  Vivienne managed a smile for Angel, though it was not her best. Pearl gave Angel another push. Obediently, he took a step, and then another, until he reached Vivienne’s arms.

  ‘I haven’t been a very good mother, Pearl,’ Vivienne admitted as she picked up Angel and sat him on the bed beside her, her arm around him. ‘I’ll take part of the responsibility for you turning out this way. I’ve neglected you and spoilt you, and that’s a toxic combination. I promise you, I won’t make the same mistakes with Angel. He’s just as precious to me as he is to you.’

  Tears were pouring down Angel’s face once more.

  ‘Is Mummy going to go to prison?’ he asked, twisting his head around to look up at his grandmother.

  ‘No,’ Vivienne said, tightening her arm around him for reassurance. ‘Mummy’s not going to go to prison. But you’re going to be living with me from now on, darling. Mummy made a big mistake –’

  Over his head, Vivienne glanced once more at Thierry’s body, drawing in a steadying breath to cope with her guilt at minimizing his death as a ‘mistake’.

  ‘– and now she has to go away and be by herself and think about what she’s done,’ Vivienne finished, realizing that she was talking about Pearl as if she were a child.

  She is a child, Vivienne thought sadly as she returned her gaze to her daughter, who was standing there, hands shoved into her jeans pockets, her face as defiant as that of a toddler about to throw a tantrum. I’ve kept her a child for far too long. And it’s my poor Thierry who paid the price for my failure to be a good mother.

  Baxter was tapping at the closed living room door.

  ‘Madame, the gentleman you summoned is here,’ he called.

  She knew she should meet them in the living room, prepare them for what they were about to see. At forty-eight, she still considered herself in her prime: she was at the height of her beauty, with work offers still pouring in. And yet, confronted with the death of her secretary, her daughter literally with blood on her hands, and her grandson to bring up, a wave of exhaustion swept over her. All she could do was sit on the bed and watch as Baxter led Eduard into the bedroom. They came to a sudden halt just over the threshold.

  ‘My God!’ Baxter exclaimed, his habitual poise completely deserting him at the sight of his colleague’s body lying in a pool of blood.

  ‘Baxter,’ Vivienne said wearily, ‘please take Master Angel away. He’s hungry and thirsty and he shouldn’t be here any longer.’ She fixed her daughter with a bitter stare. ‘Frankly, he should never have been here in the first place.’

  ‘Of course, Madame,’ Baxter said, wrestling the mask of composure back onto his face with a visible effort. ‘Master Angel, come with me, please.’

  Angel climbed down from the high bed, and then paused, looking anxiously at his mother.

  ‘Mummy?’ he said in a tiny voice, as Eduard stepped to one side, both to allow the child to be removed easily and also to better assess the scene before him, cogs almost visibly whirling behind his eyes. Pearl made no response to her son.

  ‘Mummy?’ Angel repeated, but Pearl still couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer him. ‘I don’t want to go!’ he persisted, his voice rising now. ‘Mummy, don’t make me! I want to stay with you!’

  Put on the spot, Pearl could not meet his imploring eyes. She stared down at her feet, clad in battered suede Chelsea boots, and muttered, ‘Angel, you’re going to be living with your grandmother for a while.’

  ‘No!’ Angel said, looking from one woman to the other. ‘No, please, I want to stay with Mummy! Please, Grandma Viv!’

  ‘Pearl?’ Vivienne said to her daughter. ‘You still have a choice.’

  Pearl bit her lip in fury.

  ‘Angel, you have to stay with Grandma,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘In any case,’ Eduard interposed in perfect, but heavily French-accented English, ‘this is no place for a child. He must immediately be removed.’

  Vivienne walked over to Angel.

  ‘Darling, go with Baxter and have something to eat,’ she said softly. ‘He’ll look after you. We need to talk about grownup things now, about the poor man who’s dead. I have to take care of him.’

  ‘Will I see Mummy after?’ Angel asked, his voice higher as he began to panic now, the realization of what was happening sinking in. ‘After I have my snack?’

  When Vivienne and Pearl fell silent, Angel started to cry yet again. Vivienne gave the butler a nod, and Baxter took Angel’s arm gently just as the boy’s sobs became audible. He was too tired now, too hungry and thirsty, to have the energy for loud wails; but his heartbroken, miserable, exhausted sobs were much harder to listen to than childish screams of frustration. Angel’s little shoulders were sagging, his hands covering his face, his small skinny body so pathetically frail and fragile as Baxter escorted him from the bedroom that no one could say a word. Vivienne, Pearl and Eduard all stood there in silence, listening to the small boy crying, a desolate, mournful sound that resolved itself into one word repeated again and again into his tear-wet palms:

  ‘Mummy . . . Mummy . . . Mummy . . .’

  Chapter Four

  London, 2015

  ‘Well, your résumé is excellent, Miss Lavington,’ said the sleek, strikingly attractive woman sitting across the coffee table from the job applicant. She put down the folder she was holding and turned to the handsome blond man sitting next to her.

  ‘Do you have any questions for the candidate?’ she asked him.

  ‘I do, Miss Delante!’ he beamed, his eyes sparkling.

  He leaned forward, hands propped on his knees, as his colleague shook back her enviably thick mane of glossy black hair from her smooth face. The configuration of her wide, full cheekbones and delicately tapered eyes spoke of Chinese origins, as did her vellum-coloured skin; but the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and her eyes, which looked either hazel or green depending on the light, indicated that there was probably a Celtic element to her ethnic make-up. She was perfectly groomed and faultlessly dressed for conducting an interview, in a grey gabardine Joseph trouser suit and a silk blouse whose khaki shade set off her eyes.

  ‘Miss Lavington!’ the male interviewer said, fixing the pretty young woman seated in the armchair opposite him with such a charming smile that she blushed a little, despite her extensive experience. ‘As Miss Delante has been explaining, our boarding school is a very exclusive environment. The parents of our charges are sophisticated people from the absolute elite of society. Any teacher we hire must have not only an impeccable CV, but also the social skills to fu
nction as a role model for our students. It’s our responsibility to select staff members who truly incarnate good character. In so many ways, we are moral guardians.’

  Miss Lavington was nodding politely at these words, her hands folded neatly in her lap, seated demurely with her knees and ankles pressed together. Her outfit was perfectly judged: a navy two-piece outfit with a knee-length pleated skirt and a Peter Pan collar in the same shade, the blouse fastened down the front with a series of small covered buttons. Sheer flesh-coloured tights, navy leather shoes with two-inch heels and T-bar straps, and pearl stud earrings were her only accessories. She had parted her blonde hair at one side and drawn it back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her make-up was discreet and her nails painted with a French manicure; her Cupid’s bow mouth was glossed in pale beige.

  ‘I definitely feel I can be the kind of teacher you’re looking for, Mr Winter,’ she said, looking from one to the other of her interviewers. She pushed her dark-framed glasses a little higher up her nose. ‘I very much enjoy working with young people, and I would love to think of myself as a worthwhile role model.’

  ‘Good, good!’ Mr Winter said approvingly. ‘Well, at this stage of the interview process, what we generally like to do if we’re feeling positive about the candidate –’

  He glanced over at Miss Delante, who nodded confidently.

  ‘– is to ask you to tell us how you would handle a scenario that quite often comes up, as it were, when we’re dealing with young people who are well into adolescence and working through all of the consequent changes that they’re experiencing physically and mentally.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Miss Lavington said, her delicate eyebrows drawing together a little in confusion. ‘I’m not quite sure that I—’

  Miss Delante laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry! Mr Winter never uses one word where three will do, I’m afraid,’ she said with great friendliness. ‘He’s always been like this. I joke that he swallowed a dictionary at birth. What he means,’ Miss Delante continued, crossing her legs so that the heel of one Gina stiletto rested on her trousered knee, ‘is that young people in a boarding school in the Swiss mountains are inevitably thrown together. There’s bound to be some sexual experimentation. It’s simply unavoidable.’