‘Thank you,’ Angela replied, then added hesitantly, ‘would you like me to teach you how to do it?’
‘Oh, that would be wonderful!’
Angela walked over to an armchair and picked up her bag. She took out some silks then found a small design of a rose. Laura perched on a chair arm. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she said, as Angela showed her the soft colours, from pink to oyster.
‘I think these would be perfect for that rose.’ Angela laid out the silks in a row.
‘What delicate shades. And the stalk?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The stalk, the leaves and the thorns?’ Laura looked into Angela’s nervous hazel eyes.
‘Oh, yes. Well, I have some greens, but not so many shades to choose from.’ Laura leaned in close, her bare arm touching Angela’s as the other woman threaded a needle. ‘Now, it is imperative you make a good knot. It’s so tedious if it works loose.’ Angela was rather enjoying the beautiful girl’s avid attention. ‘Now, I’d begin with the outer, lower petal first. It’s very simple and quite therapeutic, but there’s an art in getting the stitches even. One tighter than the others leaps out conspicuously.’
Laura was genuinely interested. She had hardly held a needle before, and was so inept that Angela giggled. ‘There’s no need to be quite so rigid. Hold the needle lightly between your first finger and thumb.’
Laura jabbed in the needle and withdrew it so sharply she dug it into Angela’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she leaped to her feet with concern as Angela rubbed the place where a pinprick of blood appeared. ‘Oh, my goodness me,’ Laura said, moving Angela’s hand away. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She kissed the tiny speck of blood, then licked Angela’s arm with her tongue.
‘It’s fine, really, it doesn’t hurt,’ Angela said, the flush of heat between her legs making her cheeks flame.
But Laura did not pull away. Instead she moved closer. ‘I want you so much.’
Angela gasped and, shakily, said that Laura should leave. But Laura did not move away. She slid one arm around Angela, and opened her blouse. Angela felt as if her legs would buckle beneath her.
‘I want you to dress in my underwear,’ Laura whispered, as she licked Angela’s neck, then flicked her tongue into an ear. By now, her hand was working a breast free of its lace, her fingers rubbing the nipple. She knew when she felt the nipple harden that it would be even easier than she had anticipated. ‘You have the most incredible breasts.’ She nuzzled Angela, then traced Angela’s mouth with her fingertips, slipping one into her mouth. Angela began to suck as Laura drew the blouse away from the waistband of her skirt.
‘Oh, yes, oh, yes,’ Angela murmured, and began to drag her blouse free, to throw it to one side as Laura inched her skirt lower. ‘Lock the door,’ Angela gasped.
But Laura had drawn her skirt to her ankles and was on her knees, her tongue tracing the band of Angela’s lace panties. She brought Angela down on to the floor, and couldn’t resist glancing at the tiny red blinking dot in the corner of the room.
She tilted Angela’s chin up. ‘Surprising what a little prick can lead to!’
They both smiled, and Laura glanced again at the camera lens, laughing because she knew that every moment had been filmed.
‘I chatted to William Benedict this morning,’ Annabella Bellingham said to her husband, as they drove back from Heathrow airport. Her husband barely looked up from his paper: it was enough for him that he had had to meet his wife. Conversation was surely beyond the call of duty. ‘He seems rather nice, really. Not at all the sleazy character the newspapers had us think. We talked about that fellow Justin, the designer.’
‘Wasn’t he a friend of Oliver’s?’
‘That’s right. Justin Chalmers.’
‘Chalmers,’ her husband repeated. Bellingham recalled Justin’s face. He didn’t know the boy terribly well, but now, somewhere in the fog of his mind, a bell was ringing.
His wife was powdering her nose. ‘You remember him, you invited him to the party. Well, he’s throwing some sort of bash over at Benedict’s island while he’s away.’ She peered at herself in the tiny mirror. Just mentioning the party where Oliver had died had made her heart sink again and she steeled herself not to cry as she had just finished her make-up.
Annabella snapped shut her compact. ‘Justin Chalmers is staying there with his sister, Laura.’
Her husband banged his hand down on the open newspaper. ‘Justin and Laura! That’s it, Justin and Laura. But Chalmers wasn’t their name was it? What were they called?’ He clenched his eyes in thought. ‘Moorcroft, that’s it. Child A and Child B, as they were known in the press. Justin and Laura Moorcroft. I knew I recognized them.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Bellingham explained that while he was going through his drawers to find the relevant paperwork required for the shipment of Oliver’s body back to England, he had come across some old files and documents belonging to his father.
‘I don’t understand what this has to do with the Chalmerses.’
‘Wait, and I’ll tell you. You know Father hoarded everything and that I’d always meant to clear out his desk but never got around to it? Well, I was tossing stuff into the wastepaper basket, when I found this file among a stack of others. It was headed “The Moorcroft Case”.’
‘The Moorcroft case?’
‘Yes, I just said so, didn’t I? I flicked through and caught sight of some photographs of a couple of children. I knew they looked familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on who they were.’
Bellingham pressed the intercom to speak to the chauffeur, turning to his wife as he did so. ‘Did Benedict say where he was heading?’
‘No, but he was on the same flight,’ she said, as her husband barked at the driver to pass him his mobile phone.
‘Do you know what you dial for Directory Enquiries?’ he asked his wife.
‘Ask the operator.’ Sometimes the way her husband switched subjects infuriated Annabella. It was as if anything she had to say was immaterial. But she was taken aback when she heard him ask for Sir William Benedict’s number. She sighed: he wouldn’t be listed. She was right, but after numerous calls to friends, Bellingham succeeded. He had to talk to Benedict, urgently.
Angela walked on to the veranda for afternoon tea. The Baron and Baroness were arguing but stopped abruptly as they saw her approach.
‘Oh, I’m gasping for a cup,’ she said, sitting down primly, cross-stitch bag at her side.
‘Have you had a pleasant afternoon?’ the Baron asked, as his wife poured tea.
Angela gave a girlish giggle. ‘Yes, I have, as a matter of fact.’ She was hoping Laura would join them, but next to arrive were Daphne and Clarissa Hangerford.
‘Was that your husband I saw earlier?’ the Baroness asked Daphne. ‘On an outgoing boat?’
Daphne nodded. ‘It’s always the same. He just can’t settle. He was worried about a horse or something. I didn’t really understand. He just went all silent. To be honest, he’s been impossible to deal with the past few days. And this morning, he sprang out of bed, determined to go home. That nice Justin has been so helpful arranging his flight. He asked if we wanted to go as well, but we’ve only just arrived.’ She shrugged. ‘So that’s that.’
‘Sod bloody Daddy,’ said Clarissa. Her mother glanced at her. She had been in a terrible mood recently, and no matter how many times she’d asked why, Clarissa had refused to answer her.
Clarissa could not stop thinking about her father and every time she did she wanted to scream. She had washed herself over and over. Now she wanted to hit out and hurt someone, preferably him. Now the bastard had slunk off, afraid to face her. He was a perverted sexual deviant. He had fondled his own daughter’s body as if she was a whore, then run away. ‘Where’s Max?’ Clarissa asked, in a strained voice.