But while Kanya had been more happy to see him each time, more intimate as she sought to move on from simple sex to a real relationship, Jarnow had told himself that their encounters were purely for pleasure. He was halfway round the world, and had licence to do what he pleased without anyone at home ever finding out. After all, he was a married man! But what happened in Thailand stayed in Thailand, right?
Until that one night in the bar.
He had been with Kanya and some of her friends in a corner booth. Beautiful girls, drinks, kisses and wandering hands — and then the click and flash of a camera, and the horrible plunge of his stomach as he recognised the smirking face behind the lens. One of Perch’s reporters. The man had interviewed him only the previous day about his soon-to-go-public company’s future plans and business dealings in Thailand.
With the snap of the shutter, the story had just jumped from the business section into the front half of the tabloid. And Jarnow had even given him a quote that could be misused, about the warmth and friendliness of the Thai people…
He had begged the reporter to delete the photo. Then tried to bribe, and finally threatened. But each escalation only made the man more arrogant and smug. For a moment, Jarnow even considered attacking him and taking his camera — but he was not alone, three of his friends arriving as backup when they saw the altercation. Humiliated, quivering with anger and disgrace, Jarnow was forced to back down.
He had phoned the newspaper the following day in the hope of persuading someone that the story was not worth publishing, only to find that the reporter had already submitted it. Whether it was printed or not was up to the editor — Desmond Perch.
Through some fluke, Perch was between meetings and deigned to take the call when Jarnow pleaded to speak with him. But merely being asked not to publish the story only served to inflame the editor’s temper. His company’s imminent share offering made Jarnow a figure of public interest — and potential stockholders had a right to know about the behaviour of its director. Could a married man who secretly cavorted with Thai ladyboys, and threatened to assault the intrepid reporter who exposed him, be trusted to run a company in an honest manner? No, the story would be printed. And Perch made it clear that Jarnow himself had assured it by daring to challenge the freedom of the press. Discussion closed.
And when Jarnow returned to England, his life was ruined.
That had been over a year ago. But now, after his divorce, his ostracism by his ‘friends’, the company’s calamitous public offering and his bitter expulsion from its board, and using up most of his remaining savings… he’d had his revenge.
He finally gulped the whisky in a single mouthful, clapping the empty glass down on the table beside the newspaper and staring again at the man dominating the front page.
On learning that Perch was due to attend a media conference in Bangkok, he saw his chance for vengeance. The promise of a new life in England — and selected examples of the paper’s institutional hatred of transsexuals and foreigners — had eventually persuaded Kanya to help him, after considerable charming, cajoling and even bullying. The murder weapon, the champagne bottle, had been surprisingly easy to make, his years of experience in the manufacture and transport of pressurised containers being put to unexpected but highly satisfying use. Then, once aboard the plane, his constant faked Skype calls — headphones disguising that there was nobody on the other end of the line — and demands on the stewardesses had kept the first class cabin’s occupants distracted, and gave him an alibi, while Kanya dealt with Perch.
It was the perfect murder.
Best of all, there had even been a scapegoat on the flight. Leviticus Gold had flirted with the then-male Som, establishing a connection between them, and had a well-known dislike of Perch and his newspaper. Stealing his champagne glass in the confusion after Perch’s body had been discovered and planting it and a few hurried-purchased works of Gold’s at the flat had successfully pointed the police in the wrong direction. The celebrity’s arrest had already been on the news.
There was nothing that could lead back to him, Jarnow was sure. All the arrangements to rent the flat had been made from Thailand, the money sent through Kanya’s account rather than his own, and he had been extremely careful not to leave any fingerprints or other traces. He’d had his revenge — and got away with it…
The doorbell rang.
He jumped at the unexpected sound, then stood as the bell rang again, more insistently. Who was it? He wasn’t expecting anyone…
Jarnow went to the door — and again felt a sickening sensation of falling in the pit of his stomach as he saw who was outside.
‘Evening, Mr Jarnow,’ said Brownlow. ‘Can we talk to you, please?’
Jarnow battled to keep his expression blank. ‘What about?’
‘It’s about the murder of Desmond Perch,’ added Meadows, standing beside her superior. There was someone else behind them, but his back was turned.
‘I told you everything I knew at the airport. I haven’t remembered anything else.’
‘We also need to talk to you about the murder of Som Niratpattanasai,’ Brownlow went on.
Fear squeezed the businessman’s heart. ‘I… don’t know who that is.’
‘Oh, but you do,’ said the third figure — turning sharply to reveal a very familiar face. Leviticus Gold held up a black champagne bottle. ‘After all, you gave him, or should I say her, this. Surely you remember?’
Jarnow stared at the bottle in shock — then darted back with surprising speed for his size and slammed the door.
Brownlow was just as quick, one foot whipping forward against the jamb to stop the door from closing. But even with his sturdy, thick-soled shoe, the force of the impact was enough to make him yelp in pain. He staggered backwards as the door bounced open again.
Meadows rushed through it to chase Jarnow. ‘Stop!’ she yelled. The big man ignored her and charged through a side door at the end of the hall. She followed — only to reel back with a shriek as Jarnow hurled a chair at her, knocking her to the floor.
Brownlow hobbled quickly down the hall to her. ‘Rachel! Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she gasped, scrambling back to her feet. The crash of a door being thrown open reached them. Meadows kicked the chair aside, and both officers raced after their suspect.
Jarnow was already out in the back garden. He had snatched up his car keys from a counter on his way through the kitchen, and scrambled over the wall into the neighbouring garden. A path ran alongside the far side of the house. He ran to it, hearing Meadows shout after him, and made an adrenaline-fuelled sprint to the street.
His car was just a few spaces away. He thumbed the remote. Lights flashed in response. He ran to the Vectra and grabbed the door handle—
‘Excuse me!’ said a voice behind him.
Jarnow looked around—
Pop!
He screeched and clapped a hand to his face as a champagne cork hit him in the eye. ‘Oh, so sorry,’ said Gold with a sardonic smile, shaking froth from his hand. ‘You didn’t think I’d brought the actual murder weapon, did you? The police need it as evidence — this is from my own stock. But I think it was well worth two hundred and fifty pounds just for that.’
Hand still covering his wounded eye, Jarnow rounded on the tall man. ‘I’ll tear your bloody head off, you poncy little fu—’