Over the years the image and the reality had become inseparable. In his own misguided way, Adam now saw himself as the perpetual outsider, the ultimate loner. He had simply become, in one colleague's terms, 'not a nice person, not a regular chap'.
Being rich helped. His parents had been killed in a motor accident whilst on holiday in Spain when he was only nine. A successful property developer, his father had set up a trust fund for his two sons that had accumulated over the years to give Adam the sort of unearned income some considered obscene. Adam's identical twin, the second to be born, Marcus, had also died in the car. Adam had been left at home to keep his ailing grandmother company, something his father had insisted on. He knew it would help the old lady, his own mother, and the children's only living grandparent. Indeed, she had been the only living relative outside the parents and the two boys.
At the funeral Adam had stood between his father's lawyer and accountant, both of them now trustees to the boy's future. Even at that age he knew they didn't really care about him, and only when he was much older would he discover how large a fee they charged to administer his inheritance and his upbringing.
He missed Marcus most of all. He often remembered the desolation as he watched the last coffin, the smallest, being lowered into the ground in a Woking cemetery. He'd stood there, refusing to cry because his father wouldn't have expected it of him, and watched the earth being scattered over the wooden coffins. The lawyer, the one he disliked most, had grabbed his hand and half dragged him away. The funeral was over and he probably had another meeting to get to. Adam remembered the other mourners staring at him, saw the pity in their eyes. 'Poor little boy. Fancy losing his parents at such a young age.' None of them had been close friends, mostly business associates.
Adam had straightened up, held his head high and walked out of the cemetery. He was his father's son.
He wanted to stay in the flat that night, to sleep in the bed next to where Marcus should have been. But he went to his grandmother's. He stayed there until she died. He was never allowed back to his parents' flat. After they had died, the flat was sold and Adam lived in a mixture of boarding schools and trustees' homes until he was eighteen. With a handsome income at that young age, he had to wait until he was twenty five before his parents' flat came up for sale. He didn't mind paying over the asking price, it was the only home he had ever wanted, the only place he felt he belonged. He was close to Marcus again, his twin had never died in his own mind. He had shared his school-days, his whole growing up with him. With Marcus so close, he knew he wasn't on his own.
He hated the emptiness of the flat when he had been away. To him, this home, where he had lived with his parents and twin until their sudden deaths all those years ago, was a living being. As all homes should be. Although regularly maintained by a live-out housekeeper, it needed the daily wear and tear of life to generate its character.
Lily, his elderly housekeeper, had not expected him, so the fire was unlit, the services off. He smiled, knew she would chide him for not contacting her. She could organise his life from tomorrow morning.
He dropped the brown holdall on the sofa and crossed through the lounge to the big Georgian window on the far side. He unlatched the security lock and swung it open, letting the cold December chill in and the sounds of London street life below.
The noise and the freshness pumped him up, swirled through the room and made him feel at home immediately. It was always good when the apartment came to life again.
He picked up his bag and entered the bedroom. He threw the bag onto the bed and inzipped it, took out his shaving gear and toothbrush. He was a dapper and meticulous man, always perfectly turned out, always looking his best. He went into the bathroom to freshen up. He took off his dirty workman's shirt, part of his undercover disguise, and stepped out of the torn blue jeans.
The badger hair shaving brush was soon being soaked under the tap and then whisked in the Geoffrey Trumper cream shaving mug. 'Luxuriant Shaving Cream from his celebrated establishment in Curzon Street, Mayfair — By Royal Appointment' read the lettering on the side. When he had lathered his face he picked up the sharpened cut throat razor and carefully shaved off the stubble that had been a necessary part of his appearance for the last few months.
The shaving complete, the face washed clean, he examined his features. He was annoyed with the white outline on his lower face where the stubble had been, so markedly different from his upper face which was weather worn. An hour under the sun lamp would soon sort that. The eyes, dark brown in colour, were clearer and brighter now, more dominant than they had been with his stubbled face. The face was no longer that of a workman, but of a young, alert and intelligent man. He smiled, enjoyed the sophistication of his features.
The hair was still straggly, still unwashed and partly matted. He would have to wait for the water to get hot before he could shampoo it.
He pulled the hair gel and apple shampoo out of the wall cabinet and put them beside the shower, ready for use in a short time.
With time to spare, he returned to the bedroom and opened his wardrobe. The suits waited like empty soldiers, racked in parade formation on their hangers, the ties and shirts in the shelves alongside. He ran his hands over the cloth, felt their expensive softness, looked forward to wearing the clothes he felt most comfortable in.
He grinned. It was good to be back.
When Adam stepped out of the lift into the underground garage, there was no comparison to the stubbled workman who had entered the flat an hour earlier.
This was urban man.
The suit he wore was faintly striped over a brown cloth, the shirt pastel blue, the tie hand painted. The trousers were held up by a slim, black leather belt, the monogram AN shaped into the buckle. The clean-shaven face was crowned with black gelled hair, short, slick and swept back at the top, long in a Pharaoh style down his neck. It was wavy as it ran back, sharp ridged and glossy. The end of the Pharaoh cut fell over his upturned coat collar, the lapels folded forward as was expected in the high fashion of the day. Black, highly polished, soft leather slip-on shoes completed the outfit.
He crossed the shared garage to his car bays and switched on the light. Seeing them after a tour of duty always gave him a burst of pleasure. Emma and Steed. Named after his favourite characters in the TV series 'The Avengers'.
Emma was a red 1955 Mercedes Gullwing 300 SLC sports car with a white interior. Capable of over 155 miles per hour, it was probably the finest sports car ever produced. Adam loved its shape, its sexuality, its sense of speed even when it was standing still. The Gullwing's sensuality simply gave him the horn.
Steed, the more masculine of the two, was a 1990 Ferrari F40, with a top speed of over 200 miles per hour with 0-60 in four seconds. Just as the Mercedes had been during its time, a racing car with a road going body.
These were Adam's children. These, and the apartment upstairs, the only things he considered of value to himself.
He decided to take the Ferrari.
And whatever his orders, Adam Nicholson wanted people to know he was back.
Ch. 5
Nearly seven thousand miles away, in the early Californian morning, Billie Wood looked out from her La Jolla condominium at the mist that rolled in from the sea. Behind her, Christmas decorations spanned the big living room, the fairy lights still flickering on and off in unison.