Archer, Jeffrey - Hidden in Plain Sight

10

‘MR AND MRS Warwick?’

William wondered how long it would take him to get used to that. He blinked and looked up, to see a stewardess he recognized from the plane.

‘Yes?’

‘Would you and your wife be kind enough to follow me?’

‘What’s happening?’ asked a sleepy voice, as William gently woke Beth. ‘I’d just fallen asleep.’

‘I have no idea, but I imagine that if we follow this lady from the airline, all will be revealed.’

Beth stood up, stretched her arms and yawned like an animal emerging from hibernation before reluctantly accompanying her husband.

‘Maybe she’s taking us to the first-class lounge,’ whispered William.

‘A better class of sofa not to sleep on.’

‘Plus free food and drink.’

‘Wrong again, oh great detective,’ said Beth, as they walked straight past the first-class lounge and out of the terminal.

A driver opened the back door of a waiting courtesy car displaying the airline’s livery.

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ said William, as they climbed into the back.

‘Where do you think they’re taking us?’ asked Beth.

‘Not Rome, that’s for sure,’ said William, as the car moved off.

‘Nor London,’ said Beth, as the driver ignored the signs for the motorway and turned left down a country lane.

They drove for a couple more miles before the car slowed and passed through a set of wrought-iron gates onto an even smaller road that had been carved through a dense forest. They must have travelled for about another mile before a beautifully proportioned Georgian mansion of honey-coloured stone clad in ivy loomed up in front of them. When they came to a halt outside the entrance, a young man dressed in a smart green uniform rushed forward and opened the back door of the car.

‘Welcome to the Lakeside Arms Hotel, Mr and Mrs Warwick,’ he said, as they stepped out onto the gravel drive. ‘Would you be kind enough to follow me?’

The vast oak door opened while they were still several paces away, and a tall, elegantly dressed man wearing a dark jacket, striped trousers and a silver-grey tie awaited them. He looked as if he’d just come from their wedding.

‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs Warwick,’ he said. ‘My name is Bryan Morris, and I am the manager of the hotel.’

Without another word he led them up a wide, thickly carpeted staircase to the first floor before stopping outside a set of double doors with the words ‘Nell Gwynne Suite’ painted in gold leaf on a panel. He took out his pass key, opened the door and led them into a suite of spacious rooms that was bigger than their flat in Fulham.

‘This is the bridal suite, which overlooks the lake,’ the manager said, as he walked across to a large bay window. ‘I do hope the peacocks won’t disturb you.’ He paused for a moment by a dining table that was laid for two, and straightened a napkin before leading them through to the master bedroom, which boasted a vast bed that could have comfortably slept four without any of them meeting. He still hadn’t finished his guided tour; the next room he took them into was a bathroom that boasted a jacuzzi as well as a walk-in shower that could have accommodated a football team.

Speechless, they followed him back into the bedroom to find that their suitcases had mysteriously appeared, and their nightwear had been unpacked and laid out on the bed. A bottle of champagne was standing in an ice bucket. The manager uncorked it, poured two glasses and handed them to his guests.

‘Please pick up the phone and order dinner whenever it suits you,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the menus on the dining table.’

‘Can I stay here for the rest of my life?’ asked Beth.

‘Not if you’re still hoping to fly to Rome in the morning, madam,’ said the manager. He bowed, retreated and closed the double doors quietly behind him.

‘Am I dreaming?’ said Beth, as she raised her glass. ‘Because I can’t believe the airline does this for every customer who’s held up overnight.’

‘Don’t let’s ask too many questions, or we may find ourselves back in the airport lounge,’ William said, as he looked at the double bed and began to unbutton Beth’s jacket.

‘Caveman,’ she said.

‘Some cave,’ he replied.

‘She wants what?’ said Faulkner.

‘Limpton Hall, with all the fixtures and fittings. That includes the seventy-three oil paintings, although she says you can keep the statue of yourself.’

‘Anything else, dare I ask?’

‘Twenty thousand a year to pay for her staff,’ said Booth Watson, ‘as well as a final settlement of one million pounds.’

‘I presume that’s it?’

‘Not quite. She keeps all her personal belongings. Jewellery, clothes, etc., plus the Mercedes and Eddie, your chauffeur, who’ll remain on your payroll.’

‘Tell her to get lost.’

‘I already have, if not in precisely those words.’

‘Don’t forget she slept with Warwick in Monte Carlo, and they’re still lovers.’

‘I don’t think so, Miles. As you found out first-hand when you turned up at a wedding I advised you not to attend.’

‘You wrote my script, in case you’ve forgotten,’ Faulkner reminded him.

‘Reluctantly,’ said Booth Watson.

‘But I wasn’t to know Christina would be there.’

‘Because unlike you, she’d received an invitation, which would rather suggest they’re not lovers.’

‘In any case, it’s still her word against mine.’

‘If a jury had to choose between a tearful, wronged wife and a man serving a suspended sentence for fraud, which side do you imagine they’d come down on?’

‘It wouldn’t matter, because as you’ve so often told me, a jury can’t be informed about any previous convictions I’ve received.’

‘A ridiculous rule, but one that I admit works in your favour. Unless of course any of them have read a national newspaper during the past year.’

‘You think it might end up in court?’

‘Bound to, if you’re not willing to settle.’

‘I’m not going to let go of any of my pictures without putting up a fight,’ said Faulkner. ‘It’s taken me a lifetime to build the collection.’

‘If you want to hold onto them, Miles, she’s going to expect something in return. And unfortunately the collection’s worth more than all three houses, the yacht and the plane put together, none of which she has shown any interest in.’

‘Delay the settlement for as long as you can, BW. I might just have another card up my sleeve.’

Breakfast was served in their suite at ten o’clock the following morning, with copies of the The Times and Telegraph on a side table.

‘Their first mistake,’ said Beth with a grin. ‘But I don’t suppose they have many guests who take the Guardian .’

‘Or the Sun for that matter,’ said William, as he began to tuck into a full English breakfast, while Beth sipped her freshly squeezed orange juice and read about Prince Andrew’s and Fergie’s wedding plans.

At 10.20 there was a gentle tap on the door and, like the fairy godmother, Mr Morris reappeared.

‘I hope you both enjoyed a good night’s sleep,’ he ventured.

‘Couldn’t have been better,’ said William, after he’d drained his coffee.

Not much chance of that when you’re married to a caveman, Beth wanted to tell him, but kept her thoughts to herself.

‘I only ask because you didn’t order dinner last night.’

‘We were both full of crisps and peanuts,’ Beth blurted out.

‘Unfortunately you missed the early morning plane for Rome. However, we managed to book you onto the twelve thirty-five flight, and the airline has upgraded you to business class. A limousine will be waiting outside to take you back to the airport.’