Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

Then he felt afraid, and a wave of guilt hit him. Two nights ago he had killed, and thought no more about it. It had even made him feel good. He wondered what had happened to him, that he could kill as easily as this and then think no more of it. He wondered if it was normal or if, somewhere, in the last five years, he had lost a vital part of himself. He cast an eye around to ensure no one was looking at him; then he closed his eyes and began, without moving his lips, to say a prayer. ‘Please God, guide me to do what is right, amen,’ were the words with which he finished the prayer. He opened his eyes and felt better again, warmer, more courageous; he had succeeded in passing the buck to his Creator. It was up to God now to decide what Baenhaker did, and it would be God who would have to carry any blame.

The doors slid open at Earls Court, and Baenhaker got out; he had a lot of work ahead of him, and he wanted a clear head. He wanted to relax tonight, and thought about whether he wanted to read a book or see a movie. He felt that he didn’t want to be alone tonight, didn’t want to go back to his flat. He decided that what he really fancied was getting laid, but he had no idea where he could get a whore in Earls Court. The only whores he knew were the two at the Israeli Embassy who were occasionally wheeled out for blackmail purposes, but they were going to have to be replaced soon; at thirty-six and thirty-nine, with three and five children respectively, they were getting beyond the point where they could successfully pass as innocent young chambermaids.

Then he decided, to hell with it, he would get straight on with his work. He left Earls Court tube station and walked in the direction of Redcliffe Square. When he had returned to E-G, he had changed back into his casual clothes, and he felt inconspicuous as he walked along.

He had found Rocq’s address while going through Globalex’s offices, had photographed it along with everyone else’s — but Rocq’s he had taken special note of. He thought it mildly curious that in addition to working less than 400 yards from where Rocq worked, he should also live less than 400 yards from where Rocq lived.

He scanned the square for any signs of a Porsche, and saw none; then he walked down past number 34, where Rocq lived, without stopping; he carried on to the end of the terrace, then walked around the side, to check the terrace from the rear. It was eight o’clock, but still fairly light; certainly light enough for people to be clearly identifiable. He figured that on a Friday evening, Rocq would either be out or have gone away for the weekend; he was pretty sure he would be safe for the few minutes he needed in Rocq’s flat.

He rang the bell and waited; after a few minutes, he rang again. Either no one was in the flat, or the bell wasn’t working. He slipped the latch on the front door of the building, with a small piece of plastic in his pocket, and walked in. It was a typical communal entrance; cream plastic lino, a few circulars lying on the floor, a take-away pizza menu, an invitation to join a new religious sect, and a scattering of letters. One for Miss A. Moussabakias, two for F. A. Watling FCA, and one for Lady Rowena Melchenth-Henty. That last name added a certain class to the place, he decided — not that he’d ever heard of her, but there was no one titled living anywhere in his tip, unless it was the phantom curry-freak, which he doubted.

If Rocq had any great valuables in his apartment, he wasn’t giving any hints away with the lock he had on his door — a child of three could have picked it with a piece of wet string. Baenhaker closed it quietly behind him, and took a careful look around. The door opened into a huge open-plan drawing room and dining room. A white wall-to-wall shag carpet filled the floor area; there were two white velour sofas facing each other across a massive marble coffee table. By a window was a white marble topped table, with black lacquered legs, and a black lacquered chair; the dining table was smoked glass and had eight white velour-upholstered carver chairs around it. The colour in the room came from several vivid geometric original paintings. He walked down a corridor and came to a large bedroom. The bed was low and massively wide; built into the headboard, and matching bedside-tables were stereo speakers, lights, and a complete control panel on each side, which Baenhaker presumed was for the television at the foot of the bed. The bed was unmade and well tousled; a large fur rug hung off the side of it. It looked like a good romp had taken place in it. Baenhaker noticed the photograph of Amanda beside the bed, and emotion began to well up inside him again; he looked at and puzzled over the large roll of polythene on the floor by the wall. He walked over to the bedside telephone, and pulled a tiny microphone from his pocket, when suddenly there was the sound of a key in a door — then voices:

‘Amanda, you have the most filthy mind!’

‘And you love it, don’t you.’

‘I feel so horny I don’t know if I can wait to get to the bedroom.’

Baenhaker froze, and cursed himself for not having jammed the door lock. He looked frantically around for an escape. He rushed over to the window; it was double glazed, and only a small portion at the top would open. They were coming towards the room. He did something he had never done before in his life: he dived into a cupboard.

He heard them come through the door, and then there was a crash of bed springs.

‘Alex! Let me get my shoes off.’

‘Keep them on!’

‘Well, at least let me get my jacket off — ow — now I’m stuck — oooh, your hands are cold — ooh Alex — oh — oh — oh that’s good.’

Baenhaker listened in silence, quaking with a strange mixture of fear and fury. There was a creaking sound; it got louder and louder. With a panic, he realized it was the cupboard door swinging open. He put out a hand and slowly pulled it to. There was a loud ‘clunk’ as its magnet locking mechanism connected.

He began to feel baking hot in the cupboard; he was sitting uncomfortably on some very hard shoes, and was surrounded by suits and ties which draped themselves around his head. The bed began to creak consistently, faster and faster, and Amanda began to groan and shout. So many emotions rushed through Baenhaker that he was paralysed. For a moment he wanted to burst out of the cupboard, grab Rocq in one hand and Amanda in the other, and smash their skulls together. For another moment, he wanted to curl up in the cupboard, and just give up and die. He just hoped that after they finished what they were doing, neither of them was going to feel much like hanging any clothes up.

An hour passed; for the last quarter of it, there had been silence in the bedroom. Amanda’s voice broke the silence: ‘Do you really have to go to Switzerland tomorrow?’

‘I don’t want to Amanda, but I have to.’

‘It’s going to be such a gorgeous weekend — it’ll be rotten without you.’

‘It’s not going to be much fun for me — the last thing I want to do is spend half my weekend in an aeroplane.’

‘It’s only an hour’s flight.’

‘By the time I get to the airport, hang around — then Verbier is an hour and a half from the airport. And there’s fuck all to do in Verbier this time of year — I’m not exactly into mountain hiking.’

‘You say it’s business — why can’t you go during the week?’

‘I would, normally — but we have a panic on at the moment, and I cannot afford to be away from the office for even a few hours. Look — I tell you what — I’m catching the first flight out in the morning — it leaves nine o’clock. I’ll be in Geneva at 10.15 — with luck I’ll be in Verbier lunch time, sign everything I have to sign — and I may be able to make a late afternoon flight back here — be back in time to go out for dinner? How does that sound?’