Sleeping Cruelty

Chapter two

William was always up and dressed by six, his chauffeur standing by to take him to his first appointment of the morning. Recently he had been planning a takeover of a German electronics company. It was part of a large corporation owned by Baron von Garten, whose steel empire had been in his family for generations. However, it had been hinted that they were selling off their smaller electronics bases. Three previous meetings had been cancelled so William had sent his private plane and an invitation to breakfast at the Connaught. He was determined to get his hands on the prime site, sniffing out, with his fine business acumen, that von Garten was in financial difficulties. He knew that once he had his foot in the door he could make further inroads into the von Garten companies.

Sir William arrived at exactly nine for his breakfast meeting. He had been so busy making calls he had not noticed that one shoelace was undone and in danger of tripping him up as he marched through the Connaught Hotel reception into the dining room. William sat down at a table with a pristine pink cloth and a single rose in a tubular silver vase. He tossed aside the menu and ordered grapefruit, coffee, wholemeal toast and kippers. He always had the kippers at the Connaught: they were perfect, not too smoked, and grilled with just a dab of butter. Just thinking about his breakfast, his mouth watered and he’d eaten two rounds of toast before his guest sauntered into the dining room.

Baron von Garten was accompanied by a shrewish little man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a soft leather briefcase. William waited, tetchily drumming his fingers on the table, but the Baron made no apology either for being half an hour late or for the previous cancelled meetings. His companion introduced himself as Herr Eric Kramer, the Baron’s lawyer.

The elegant Baron said only a few words and left his lawyer to do most of the talking. Kramer explained that the Baron’s family had to be a hundred per cent certain that, if they did agree to the sale, their name would not be connected to any of the factory’s future products. He gave a blow-by-blow account of the Baron’s ancestral history, emphasized how well connected the family still was, and declared that a transaction would be withdrawn at any whisper of scandal. He wanted a confidentiality agreement signed to ensure that any dealings would never be made public.

William was pretty sure that the Baron’s Board of Directors had not been asked to approve the deal, so that when the business was sold to William it would be too late for anyone to do anything about it. He guessed that the Baron, for all his family connections, was hurting for cash.

‘How much?’ he asked softly, and both men leaned forward as if afraid to be overheard.

William shook his head. ‘Gentlemen, that is a preposterous asking price,’ he said, and withdrew from his own briefcase a detailed document about the property: its location, its present dilapidated condition. It emphasized that William was buying the shell of the old factory to tear down and rebuild; his major interest in the purchase was its location. He wished to turn it into a computer works, offering four hundred jobs, and bringing a team of experts to train the employees to his standards. He showed them a brochure about a similar factory up and running in Paris. As they glanced over it he signalled for the bill.

The deal was concluded quickly. William would arrange a banker’s draft to pay a percentage of the fourteen million dollars he had agreed — exactly half the amount they had asked for. They would receive this as soon as all the documents were signed and the surveyors had completed their inspections.

Throughout the entire transaction the Baron had remained aloof, treating William with contempt. It was as if this business deal was beneath him. Perhaps it was no wonder that — if the rumours were well founded — he had got himself into dire financial difficulty.

William had to wait only a moment outside for his Rolls — Arthur was heading towards him immediately. The Baron walked out of the hotel accompanied by a rather well-preserved blonde woman. He introduced his wife frostily, and the Baroness smiled vacantly in William’s direction as the doorman hailed a passing taxi. The taxi drew up at the same time as William’s gleaming car, but he was already speaking into his mobile so they had no further interaction. Not that William desired any: his mind was already on his next appointment with his bankers.

After lunch Andrew Maynard joined him for coffee. He seemed relaxed and confident, his face slightly flushed, although this was noticeable only to William, who knew him well enough to realize that Maynard was drinking more than usual. But the warning bells still did not ring and William was merely pleased to see his protégé looking almost handsome: he’d been away in France and the suntan suited him, and he had started taking more interest in his clothes. Maynard was wearing a slim gold watch and the lining of his expensive new suit was of a dark emerald green satin.

The conversation turned to the predilection of the British press for public hounding, and to the most powerful man in British journalism, the newspaper magnate Humphrey Matlock. Matlock’s powerful control of virtually every newspaper in the UK made him a formidable opponent. Although William didn’t know him, he admired Matlock’s tenacious strength of mind. Maynard, however, believed that no single individual should be allowed such control of the national media. William pointed out that as long as Matlock was on their side they had no reason to try to stop him.

‘We’ll never know exactly which side he’s on. And now that everyone is afraid to get on the wrong side of him, whichever party they belong to, he’s unstoppable,’ Maynard insisted.

‘I don’t understand why you suddenly feel the need to attack him. As I recall, he’s never done anything but enhance your image,’ William replied, then stood up to leave — he had a three-thirty appointment.

The next morning at five fifty-five William had had his morning shower and was throwing on his clothes. He caught sight of the documents he’d been reading in bed the night before, and his heart leaped with pleasure. He owned numerous sumptuous homes around the world, all run by a permanent staff and ready for occupancy at any time of the year. But his latest purchase was the jewel in his crown. He was looking forward to showing it off to Maynard. He wouldn’t approve, of course: he maintained that one home was enough for anyone. William had bought a small island in the British Virgin Islands. In the sixties it had enjoyed brief fame as a jet-set getaway, and appeared in all the top magazines as one of the most exclusive playgrounds in the world. But in the intervening years the owner had grown infirm and his money had gone on health care rather than upkeep. Now the island was in a state of total disrepair.

William had spectacular plans to make his paradise rise from the ashes like a phoenix. He had bought it at a good price because the refurbishment costs would be astronomical. He invited a select group of designers to tender for the renovations, and took great delight in poring over their Toytown models. It was a huge job and, judging from the way the companies fell over themselves to produce their designs, a desirable one. Maynard would be appalled at the fact that no expense would be spared to make William’s dream come true.

It was six thirty and William went downstairs for breakfast. As he sat at the table and shook open that day’s Times, he smiled to himself. He was where he had always dreamed he would be, right at the top of the world, and he had, as he constantly reminded himself, got there solely by his own hard work. He read the social column: ‘Not So Idle Rich’ was the headline. William Benedict already had a knighthood they said, how long would it be, at this rate, before he moved into the Upper House? William raised an eyebrow. He’d like that. He’d like to sit in the House of Lords, perhaps become one of the government’s advisers... and maybe, with the help and guidance of Andrew Maynard, it was within his grasp.

Andrew Maynard’s cleaner, Mrs Skipper, always arrived promptly at six a.m. She would tidy the house, prepare breakfast and cook an evening meal he could heat when he wanted it. Andrew Maynard was meticulous about his domestic routines. He did not like her to be there all day, or to stay overnight. He hated to work in his study with the sound of vacuuming, or the smell of cooking lingering in the air. By nine he had jogged, showered and breakfasted and had given Mrs Skipper a list of shopping, laundry or dry-cleaning collections. By ten his secretary was installed, the coffee percolating and the newspapers neatly laid out, and Maynard was ready for work, as immaculate and fresh as his small terraced house. Maynard had chosen the house because of its location and politically correct lack of ostentation. William had offered to buy him a larger property, but he had refused point-blank.

Mrs Skipper had been working for Maynard for the past five years. She knew as little about his private life now as she had when she started, and what she did know she had gleaned from the newspapers: when he took her on, she had signed a confidentiality agreement. He had explained that in his profession it was imperative he could trust those closest to him. As far as she knew, Maynard was a man of unimpeachable character, a young man on the threshold of a glittering political career, which even she could see was about to soar.

That morning Mrs Skipper picked up the single bottle of skimmed milk left by the milkman and, frowning, noticed that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. She let herself into number twelve. Mr Maynard was always up by this time so that she could make his bed and collect the dirty laundry. She went into the kitchen, which was as she had left it the evening before. This, too, was unusual: he always put his dirty supper dishes into the sink ready for her to rinse and load into the dishwasher. As she put the milk into the fridge, she noticed that the evening meal she had prepared yesterday was still in its tin-foil-covered dish. Mrs Skipper began to unbutton her coat, looking around for the note that was left each day on the kitchen table.

There was no note. She hung up her coat and fetched her apron, then walked back down the narrow hallway towards the stairs. She looked up, listening, wondering if her employer was upstairs in the bathroom — perhaps something had made him late for his morning jog and he was still out. Maybe he was ill. ‘Mr Maynard?’ she called tentatively.

The house was eerily silent — she was used to hearing the radio or television news when she came in. She began to mount the stairs, pausing midway to call his name again, but there was no reply.

His bedroom was dark and the bed had not been slept in. The bathroom door was closed, and a suit, shirt and underwear were laid neatly across the bed. She went back out into the hall and tapped on his study door. It swung open, revealing the tidy desk, a stack of memos and mail lined up by the bank of telephones. She pulled the cord to open the curtains and, in the light, looked at the desk for some kind of sign. A yellow Post-it had been stuck to his blotter with a phone number. His address book was open and another sticker on the open page bore the same number and, underlined, an odd message: ‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom.’

More worried by the minute, Mrs Skipper returned to the kitchen. Now she noticed that the back door was ajar. She opened it wide and looked out into the garden, which was empty. Mrs Skipper closed the door and locked it. It was then that she felt the drip of water from the ceiling above. She looked up and listened. Maynard’s bathroom was directly above the kitchen.

Mrs Skipper went upstairs again and listened at the closed bathroom door. Now she could hear water running softly and, looking down saw the creeping stain growing darker as it seeped into the carpet and edged into the bedroom. She turned the bathroom door handle. It was not locked, and she pushed it open and froze in shock at the sight of Maynard’s body, partly submerged, and his hands, floating, with deep gashes at the wrists from which blood still trailed.

‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom,’ the yellow note had said, each word heavily underlined. Mrs Skipper moved back into the office, reached for the phone and dialled.

The telephone’s shrill ring woke William from his reverie. He waited a beat, hoping his housekeeper would pick it up, but eventually got up and answered it himself. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

It was an hysterical woman, babbling incomprehensibly.

‘Who is this?’ he said coldly. It was William’s personal phone. Only a handful of people had the number; this woman must have misdialled. Then William heard Maynard’s name. He tried to slow the woman down. ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying,’ he said, and told her to take a deep breath.

‘He’s dead, sir. Please come.’

‘Has there been an accident?’ William asked. The phone felt clammy in his hand. When he realized what she was telling him, his heart lurched. ‘Listen to me! Do nothing until I get there, do you understand? Wait until I see you. Do not call anyone until I get there.’

His heart was still thudding as he drove from his four-storey house in The Boltons towards Ladbroke Grove.

When he saw Maynard, he became icy calm. Mrs Skipper was sitting at the kitchen table below. He could hear her sobbing. She had refused to accompany him up the stairs, so William was forced to confront the grotesque sight of Andrew Maynard’s body alone. His first reaction was of stunned horror, as if the scene before him was some sick theatrical set-up. Nothing he knew about Maynard had prepared him for this. He didn’t touch the body, but looked down into the open eyes, the dark hair floating around the head, and reached forward to turn off the taps. Maynard’s blood had stained the water a soft shell pink. The cuts in his wrists were deep and blood had sprayed down the bathroom tiles. Beside the bath was an empty gin bottle, and an overturned crystal glass with a slice of lemon still resting at the bottom.

William went to Maynard’s study, pocketed the note with his phone number on it, and looked around for Maynard’s diary, address book and any personal papers. He placed them in his own briefcase, and searched for a suicide note before returning to the bedroom. He found it partly hidden beneath the bathtub. It was sodden from the overflowing water and the ink was blurred, which made the few hastily scribbled lines hard to decipher, but William could see it was addressed to him.

William read and re-read it. It made little sense to him. What heartbreak, what longing had made Andrew take his own life? He felt numb and confused, as if he still could not believe what had happened. Eventually he called the police and sat waiting for their arrival, studying the note as it dried in his hands. Maynard’s death would create a media frenzy, and one part of his brain was already wondering who would be the best man to hire for damage control.

Five hours later William returned home. He had his own press office prepare a statement, but no matter what he said, Maynard’s death would cause one hell of a scandal. William poured himself a brandy, retired to his drawing room and started checking through the papers he had removed from Maynard’s study. He had made no mention of them to the police, but they had taken the suicide note. They had asked if it was Maynard’s handwriting, and William had nodded, but in reality it was so smudged it was hard to tell. The large bundle of personal letters he placed to one side as he flicked through the first leatherbound desk diary filled with appointments, then Maynard’s private diary.

He couldn’t believe he had been so blind, that he had failed to detect this other side of Maynard. It confused and angered him, yet he found the details of the man’s bizarre, hidden life strangely compelling: the neat, meticulous handwriting, the lists of names, lovers, descriptions of sexual practices and a detailed account of monies paid out for years on sexual gratification. One name, Justin Chalmers, featured more often than most. This man had accompanied Maynard on trips to Paris, Vienna, Jamaica and Morocco. Maynard’s bank statements recorded payments to Chalmers; large sums over several years. William wondered if he had been blackmailing Maynard. What else could account for the thousands of pounds Maynard had spent on him? What else could account for the lists of fictional companies, whose names he had used to redirect campaign funds to a bank account in France? The recipient was always J. Chalmers. Was Justin Chalmers the person Maynard ‘longed for’? Had Chalmers broken his heart?

It was lunchtime before William moved through to his office and checked the answerphone. There were twenty-four messages, but he felt disinclined to play them. It was imperative that he found Justin Chalmers. Of all the names in Maynard’s diary, this one had leaped out as the most dangerous. Slowly William punched in the number and waited. The phone rang three times, then an answerphone clicked on and a soft, drawling voice announced, ‘Hi, I’m afraid I am unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and the time and date you called and...’ there was a pause, followed by a laugh ‘...if you’re lucky I’ll get back to you.’

At two fifteen, William let in his damage-control expert, Myers Summers. ‘Well, this is a fucking mess all round, isn’t it? You know the world and its mother are trying to contact you, old boy?’ Summers shrugged off his coat.

‘I guessed as much, but I’m not speaking to anyone until we’ve sorted something out. Come and have a drink.’

‘Not for me, thanks, if we’re to concentrate on making sure you escape the flak.’ Summers sat down. ‘Right, let’s have it from the top, shall we?’

It was just after midnight when Summers left, by which time William was flushed with brandy — not drunk, but he had consumed more than usual.

Summers’s parting shot was that it was imperative to get the boyfriend, or whoever he was, tucked away and out of public grasp no matter the cost. Especially as, according to the diary, he would have been the last person to have been seen with Maynard. He might even have had an argument with him that had resulted in Maynard slashing his wrists.

‘I suppose he did slash them himself?’ Summers asked, as if it was just an afterthought.

‘How the hell would I know?’ snapped William.

‘Well, let’s hope he did. It’s murky enough as it is. If murder was mentioned, it would really whip up a frenzy. Is this Justin fella around at all?’

William shrugged. He obviously had been, and with Maynard on the night he died. But where was he now?

As the police did not have access to Maynard’s private diaries, William was confident that he could deal with Justin Chalmers. Money, he had learned over years of having it, always had the desired effect on a certain type of person. He had no doubt that Chalmers could be bribed. He was about to turn off the lights in his study when he checked the time. It was two thirty. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and dialled, leaning back against the desk, staring at his brown brogues. There was no immediate reply, and he was about to hang up when a sleepy voice answered, ‘Yes?’

‘I called and left a message earlier today,’ William said, then had to clear his throat as he was so nervous. ‘Is that Justin Chalmers?’

‘I believe so...’ came the reply, followed by a yawn.

‘I need to see you.’

‘Really? You want to come over now?’

‘No, in the morning, early. This is a most urgent matter, which concerns a mutual acquaintance. I cannot discuss it over the telephone.’

‘Mmm, well, come whenever you want, and...’ there was a pause, then what sounded like a giggle ‘...I can’t wait.’ The phone went dead. At no time had Chalmers even asked who was calling.

Exhausted, William went to bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He slept, untroubled by dreams, but his serenity was not to last long.