Wicked Beauty [Paperback]

Tim and Rachel Hendon are riding high on an ideal marriage and growing political success. Tim is already in the Cabinet, and as they celebrate yet another election victory, they have no idea that they are on the eve of a nightmare that is going to totally devastate their lives.

After a high-profile murder, Katherine Sumner has disappeared. Is she the killer? Or will the information she has on top government officials make hers the next body to turn up on the coroner's table?

Certain that Katherine is alive and in hiding, acclaimed reporter Laurie Forbes joins forces with Rachel Hendon to search out the truth behind one of the World's most secretive and dangerous organisations.

Forbidden love, uncontrolled passion and the ultimate exploitation of power. Wicked Beauty proves there is a crime worse than murder...

Tim and Rachel Hendon are riding high on an ideal marriage and growing political success. They have no idea that they are on the eve of a nightmare that is going to totally devastate their lives.

After a high-profile murder, Tim's campaign manager Katherine Sumner has disappeared. Is she the killer? Or will the information she has on top government officials make hers the next body to turn up on the coroner's table?

Certain that Katherine is alive and in hiding, acclaimed reporter Laurie Forbes joins forces with Rachel Hendon to search out the truth behind one of the world's most secretive and dangerous organisations...

Praise for Susan Lewis

'Mystery and romance par excellence' Sun

'Expertly written to brew an atmosphere of foreboding ... an irresistible blend of intrigue and passion, and the consequences of secrets and betrayal' Woman

'One of the best around' Independent on Sunday

Fiction

Jubilation exploded skywards. Champagne corks flew along with multi-coloured streamers, as confetti showered the triumphant faces like kaleidoscopic rain. Shouts of congratulations and laughter made up the chorus behind an orchestra of clapping hands and party hooters, while cameras flashed and rolled as news reporters shouted into microphones and mobile phones. Like everyone else, they were electrified by the elation as they transmitted this widely anticipated victory to the nation. No last-minute upsets here, no surprises either, but the joy was as great as if the charismatic Tim Hendon had been a rank outsider.

Rachel Hendon's smile was ecstatic. The press loved her and followed her every move almost as closely as her husband's. Some said it was thanks to her that her husband enjoyed the kind of popularity most politicians only ever dreamed about, for it was widely known that she consulted frequently with his team of advisers, and kept his image as polished as any icon's. But the famous Hendon gravitas and intellect were as much his own as the famous mass of blond, wavy hair and casual Armani chic. Not many political couples were so photographed or written about as the Hendons, and since his appointment to the Cabinet, eighteen months ago, their profile had attained an almost celebrity-style status, while their credibility remained a source of head-thumping frustration for those who were out to destroy it.

Rachel's slight, impeccably dressed figure moved through the crowd like a beacon of light. All eyes followed, everyone wanted a piece of her, for they all knew what a powerhouse she was, how ready her wit and generous her laughter. Being around her, her husband had once said, was as intoxicating as happiness. Her lustrous brown eyes shone with gratitude and friendship as she grasped the outstretched hands warmly, and thanked and hugged those who'd worked tirelessly alongside her and Tim during these past hectic weeks. And now tonight, the Government, their party, was back in power. No Opposition bench for Tim Hendon. His seat would once again be beside the Prime Minister, as a member of the Cabinet - maybe even as the youngest, and possibly most controversial, deputy leader in the party's history. Such an elevation for the thirty-eight-year-old Hendon would, it was claimed by some, only happen over certain dead bodies, but Tim's supporters weren't too concerned about that. Politics was a divisive and dangerous business, with dirty tricks, jealousy and rabid ambition forming the major opponents in the game.

Rachel was nearing the door. Poppers and blowers continued to explode and trumpet with the laughter. Those who needed to express their joy were still circling her, elbowing their way through the crowd to clutch her hands or embrace her. No one noticed the children's drawings and poetry pinned to the walls, or the gold and silver stars that gleamed around them. The everyday purpose of this school hall meant little tonight.

Across the room she could see Tim being interviewed by John Wakeham, a reporter she knew well. After John would come Janet Crispin, then Steve Chalmers, then . . . The list was endless, and she didn't want to think about it now. She wanted only to slip away quietly, with Tim, so that they could indulge in a celebration of their own.

But that couldn't happen tonight.

'Rachel! Tell us how you're feeling right now?'

'You must be thrilled!'

'How certain were you of victory?'

'It was a landslide.'

'Have you spoken to the PM?'

Scores of reporters, well-wishers, party members. Was there anyone here she didn't know? A few maybe, but not many. She felt profoundly moved by their loyalty; and blessed by their friendship. It was no hardship to give them the soundbites they needed, or to return their embraces with as much affection as they offered. She did it willingly, joyously, and not a little emotionally.

Katherine Sumner was with Tim now, taking part in one of the interviews. His arm was loosely round her shoulders as they both leaned in to the mike and shouted over the din. As campaign manager Katherine had done an excellent job. It had been Rachel's decision to bring her in, even though Tim hadn't thought it necessary, considering the safeness of the seat he was standing for. But Rachel wasn't leaving anything to chance. Her husband's enemies could be lethal and Katherine's reputation, on her own side of the Atlantic, had been right up there with Stephanopoulos and Carvel, before she'd left the States - and politics - to start a new life in Europe. This would be her last campaign, only agreed to as a favour to Rachel, whose powers of persuasion were as irresistible as her frankness, Katherine had declared, and as admirable as her belief in her husband. So Katherine's new life had been put on hold until after the election, when she intended to embark upon a journey that was!
still a secret to most.

From the corner of her eye Rachel watched Katherine step back to allow Tim the limelight, in much the same way as Rachel often did herself. Katherine's stylish blonde hair and perfectly formed features reflected her inner poise as effectively as the cameras captured her beauty. There was nothing in her manner now to suggest the anger she'd shown earlier, when she and Tim had appeared, from the distance Rachel had been at, to be arguing quite violently. Rachel still had no idea what it had been about, she'd had no chance yet to ask, but whatever it was, they seemed to have made up now. Indeed, at the moment the results had been announced it was to Katherine Tim had turned first; after Rachel, of course. Rachel wanted to be over there with Tim now, but working the room was expected of her in a way it wasn't of Katherine.

Then Katherine was coming towards her, face glowing with delight, arms outstretched for yet another embrace. There was so much noise around them that probably no one else heard as Katherine said,

'This is as much your triumph as anyone's, Rachel. You've been an inspiration to us all. I really want to thank you for talking me into it.'

'It's for me to thank you,' Rachel replied, returning the pressure of her hands.

Katherine's expression was softened by affection as she gazed down into Rachel's face. Her height almost made her ungainly next to Rachel's petite femininity, yet Rachel felt diminished by it. And there was a radiance to her blondeness that seemed to dazzle Rachel's duskiness into uneasy submission. 'You're very special,' Katherine said, her words issuing sincerity. 'You and Tim both. I'm really going to miss you.'

'We'll miss you too,' Rachel assured her. It wasn't a lie, but nor was it meant in quite the way Katherine presumably thought.

'I hope we stay in touch,' Katherine said, and after pulling Rachel into another embrace, she turned back into the crowd.

For a moment Rachel watched her, tall and slender, confident almost to the point of arrogance, graceful almost to the point of regal. In many ways she was a shining ambassador for her nation, generous of heart and spirit, lively of wit and dedicated to her cause, which, for the past three months, had been the re-election of Tim Hendon. There was no doubt she had captivated them all with her zeal, as well as her willingness to adapt to their ways. She had, in fact, very quickly become an integral part of the team, which was certainly going to feel incomplete once she'd gone, but Rachel wouldn't be sorry to see her go.

She was very close to the door now, so close that it was possible to reach out and touch it. She was still smiling. No one would know that behind her mask of laughter and delight was an exhaustion she could barely support. It was making her dizzy, almost nauseous. How long had it been since they'd slept for more than three hours at a stretch? At thirty-four she should have the energy to withstand the pressure and lack of sleep. During her time as a news producer it had been almost a way of life.

Catching Tim's eye, she mirrored the raise of his eyebrows and felt the warmth of their connection reviving her. It was one of the ways they spoke, when words weren't possible. Katherine, she noticed, was talking to a reporter from CNN. The rest of the core team, sporting their colourful rosettes and 'Vote Hendon' T-shirts, had spread out through the hall, filling paper cups with champagne and happily donning the Union Jack hats and garlands that were being passed round the room.

The door was right there. She could feel its pull as though it were the persistent undertow of a tide, telling her that no matter how hard she swam now it was going to carry her away. She turned her back on it, only to find her hand moving up behind her, and her palm filling with the cooling brass of the handle.

'They're calling you the ultimate wife,' someone shouted.

'The power behind the throne.'

'She's our very own Helen of Troy,' another voice piped up, and everyone laughed, though Rachel wondered which Helen? the Iliad's or the Odyssey's. Either way she could never claim such beauty.

Across the room a commotion was breaking out around the temporary bank of TV screens. Everyone turned to see what it was, then began surging forward. Rachel's hand tightened on the doorknob. Quickly she turned, stepped back and seconds later she was walking swiftly along a dimly lit corridor, the noise receding behind her like a waning storm.

She took the back way out, letting the doors swing creakily behind her. There seemed to be no one around. The night air was clear and cool. She inhaled deeply, one hand on her heart as though to steady its rapid beats. Then suddenly she was bent double, throwing up in a gutter.

She felt better afterwards, though her vision was blurred by tears. She should go back inside, but knew she wouldn't, because already she was walking to her car. Tim would understand. He'd call on the mobile soon, wondering where she was, why she'd left. If she told him the truth she knew that the celebrations would come abruptly to an end. He'd want to be with her, she knew that, because given the choice, he always did.

Normally it was a half-hour drive from the school hall, at the heart of their North London constituency, to their town house in Hampstead - at two in the morning it took less than ten minutes. As she passed through the familiar Victorian terraced streets she wondered about the people behind the curtained windows. How many had stayed up to watch the election? What percentage had actually gone out to vote? Scenes such as the one she'd just left were being repeated all round the country. She envisaged them like a starry night sky, random bursts of light and merriment surrounded by a slumbering mass of indifference and darkness.

Not until she was standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the answerphone's flashing green light, did she allow herself to start thinking again. For hours, days, weeks, she, Rachel, the private individual, had been switched off, packed away, put on ice, in order to give full stage to her public persona. Platitudes, homilies, promises and rhetoric had buzzed around her brain and out through her mouth in a ceaseless flow of loyalty and confidence. All that neural commotion. All that persuasive hot air. And now, at last, she could be quiet, take time to think and plan; to deal with the issues that, of necessity, were pushed aside by the perfect publicity machine.

She wondered if she was going to be sick again. Her stomach felt unanchored; and so did her mind. Both were spinning in a turmoil of confusion that even the stillness of her body and withdrawal from the fray didn't seem to be quelling. She was breathing too fast, and the sweat on her skin was turning chill. She knew, without looking in the mirror, that her normally olive-toned face would be pale and anguished. Her short, mahogany hair, that had triggered a small craze with its Meg Ryan-ish layers, felt limp to the touch, and she was finding it hard to see. Tiredness was making her emotional. More than anything she wanted to talk to Tim.

She started as the telephone rang. Then hearing her sister's voice on the speaker she snatched up the receiver.

'Anna, I'm here,' she gasped. How wonderful it was to have Anna back in her life after a silly year-long rift. How on earth had she let it go on so long?

'Rachel?' Anna cried. 'I was expecting to leave a mes-

sage . . . '

'I came home. What are you doing up at this hour?'

'We watched the results, of course. I was just calling to . . . The hell with that. Why aren't you with Tim?'

'I didn't feel too good. I needed some air.'

Anna was immediately concerned. 'Are you OK now?' she demanded, in the bossy way that Rachel had once resented and now loved again.

'I think so.' Rachel's hand was trembling as she pushed it through her hair. 'Things aren't . . . Katherine was there - obviously. I don't know what's going on, Anna, but something is.'

Anna didn't answer right away, though Rachel knew, because they'd had this conversation at least a dozen times in the last few weeks, that she wasn't leaping to the obvious conclusion. 'Have you mentioned anything to Tim?' Anna finally said.

'No.' Rachel's mind was so tormented that it was hard not to drag Anna into yet another analysis of the mysterious phone calls he'd been receiving, both here and at the office; or of his recent edginess that was so much more noticeable in a man who was known for his easy, relaxed manner, especially when stressed. And though she couldn't exactly accuse him of becoming secretive, there was something he wasn't sharing with her, she was convinced of it, and she wasn't sure whether she was more upset by the thought of him holding back, or by the fear of what it might be.

'Are you going to?' Anna prompted.

Rachel could feel herself stiffening. 'I'll have to, now the election's over,' she answered, dread welling up inside her, for there was nothing worse than asking questions you didn't want to hear the answers to.

There was a beat before Anna said, 'I'm sure he's not sleeping with her . . . '

'No.'

Anna paused again. 'I take it you haven't told him about the baby yet?'

Rachel's head fell forward to rest against one of the glass-fronted cabinets. To be encumbered with a pregnancy now, at least in the physical sense, was truly the last thing she wanted, when she needed her energy and a calm, rational mind. Yet somewhere, just beyond her reach, she adored the total happiness and completeness that came with knowing she was going to be a mother, that she was carrying Tim's child . . . Nothing could be more important than that.

'He wants that baby more than anything,' Anna reminded her.

'He's very ambitious,' Rachel responded.

'So are you. The baby won't change that.'

'But something's going to change,' Rachel replied. 'I feel it so strongly. Maybe the feeling will go when Katherine does.'

Anna sighed. 'You're tired. You need to get some sleep. Everything always looks bleak at this time in the morning.'

Rachel's eyes closed as tears threatened to spill out of them. 'You're right,' she finally managed. 'Everything'll be all right once we get away on holiday.'

'When do you go?'

'In three days.'

'The Virgin Islands,' Anna murmured dreamily. 'What I wouldn't give.'

A tightness in Rachel's throat stopped her from answering, for the very thought of just her and Tim being remote from the rest of the world, and together in a way that these past weeks hadn't allowed, made her so weak with longing that she could scarcely remember when she'd felt such a need for him. 'The villa's quite big, there's plenty of room,' she finally managed. 'Why don't you bring the girls for the half-term week?'

'Robert's schedule won't allow,' Anna answered. 'And I have to be here for him.'

'Of course,' Rachel responded, wondering, not for the first time, how much of Robert's success, as a playwright and director, was actually down to Anna, since she was even more ambitious for Robert than Rachel was for Tim.

After saying good-night and promising to call in the morning, she put the phone down, unplugged it and walked upstairs to the master bedroom. The earlier detritus of hastily taken showers and wardrobe changes had been magicked away by the redoubtable Lucy, who'd been with them for the past two years as personal assistant to Rachel, and occasional housekeeper to them both. Normally the latter duties were carried out by Winnie, who came every morning, but since Lucy lived in the basement flat and worked in the office next to the kitchen, she had become, in a respectful yet almost familial way, such an integral part of their lives that no real boundaries existed any more.

'God bless you, Lucy Ryall,' Rachel murmured, sinking into the plush indigo and mauve pillows that had been plumped and perfectly arranged on the big, four-poster bed. Gazing up at the diaphanous folds that drifted between the tops of the posts like waves in a friendly ocean, she could feel guilt starting to burden her, but there was just no energy left in her to go back. Maybe she should call to let Tim know she was all right, but she didn't really want to talk to Gordon or Dennis, his personal aides - or to Katherine, who'd be sure to have taken charge of his phone. However, she should turn on her own phone so he could get through if he tried.

Dragging herself up from the bed again, she rummaged in her bag for her personal mobile, and had barely switched it on when it rang.

'Darling? Where are you?' he said. 'This is the third time I've called. Are you all right?'

She could hear the noise going on around him, and was easily able to picture him, turned away from the crowd, blocking one ear in order to hear her. People would be tapping his shoulders or tugging his arms, but she knew the polite yet firm way he had of making them wait. Quite suddenly her heart was so full that her words came out with a sob. 'I'm fine,' she laughed. 'I just had to get some air, and then I was so tired . . . I'm sorry. I should have told you.'

'It doesn't matter, as long as you're all right. Everyone's been asking where you are.'

'I'm sorry,' she said again. 'I'm at home.'

'Do you want me to come?'

To think he'd leave the celebrations now, at their height, just because she might need him, caused her heart to swell with the full strength of their love. 'Yes, of course I do,' she whispered, 'but you can't.'

'They can get drunk without me.'

She smiled. 'No. Stay there. I just need to sleep.'

There was a pause before he said, 'Are you sure you're all right?'

'Yes, I'm sure. Are you?'

'We won,' he reminded her.

Knowing that the question had been too subtle to elicit any other kind of response she said, 'Have you heard from Andrew?'

'Yes, about ten minutes ago. There's going to be a Cabinet reshuffle.'

The elation in his voice filled her heart with relief, for it was the call he'd been waiting for, a few words to reassure him that his portfolio was going to change. He'd never been comfortable in Defence, it wasn't his area of expertise or passion. Nor, with his business and economics background and total lack of military experience, had he ever been welcome. In fact, he'd been sorely resented, to the point that almost every day saw another flare-up as his efforts to drag the Ministry into the twenty-first century and to introduce some much-needed transparency to their murky and shadowy dealings, were fought on every front. Thank God it now looked as though that was going to pass to someone better suited to the task. 'Did he say what's next?' she asked.

'No. But we're meeting on Saturday.'

Knowing he had high hopes of the Foreign Office, or even the deputy leadership, she said, 'You've served your time, he'll give you what you want now.'

'I think so,' he agreed.

Wishing she was with him, so she could put her arms around him, she pressed the phone in tighter to her ear as she said, 'I love you, Tim Hendon.'

'Not as much as I love you, Rachel Hendon,' he murmured.

She smiled, and was still smiling when a few minutes later she slid between the sheets and fell almost instantly asleep.

Franz Koehler came awake without a start as the phone next to his bed rang with an early morning wake-up call. Though it was only four-thirty, he was almost instantly alert as he reached for his glasses, then threw back the covers. He was a tall, upright man, with tight, wiry grey hair, a disciplined manner, and sternly handsome features. His pale green eyes, distorted by the thick lenses of his glasses, seemed to bulge to the full roundness of the frames, giving the impression that they could see a great deal more than many would want him to.

He was in a sumptuous, old-English-style suite at London's Dorchester Hotel, where he'd spent just one night and was now making an early start back to Zurich. Before going into the bathroom he turned on the TV to check the markets in Tokyo and Hong Kong. No financial news yet, just more about the landslide election. He knew already that Tim Hendon had won, and since he had no interest in anyone else, he went off to shower.

By five he was downstairs settling his bill as Rudy, one of his personal aides, was pulling up outside in a Daimler. Sliding into the passenger seat as a doorman dropped his bag in the boot, Koehler turned on the radio. More about the election.

Rudy eased the car away from the kerb and U-turned out into Park Lane. Thanks to the early hour there was almost no traffic; the rising sun was casting a warm, fiery glow over the park. They were in plenty of time to make the flight so Koehler didn't object to Rudy's leisurely pace as they clockwised round Hyde Park corner and headed down towards Knightsbridge. He wouldn't be sorry to leave London; he'd never enjoyed doing business with the Brits, they were too secretive, devious almost to the point of downright dishonest, and yesterday had proved no exception.

After finally getting an update on the financial news he turned off the radio and they travelled on in silence.

'So,' he said, as they passed the Royal Barracks and drove on towards Kensington, 'what interesting sobriquet have you chosen for our friend from the art world today?' His voice was smooth, cultured, and subtly accented.

Rudy's cheerful face broke into a grin. 'Vincent,' he answered. 'As in Van Gogh.'

A gleam of humour glowed in Koehler's eyes, then vanished again. 'Are we picking him up, or is he meeting us at the airfield?'

'He's meeting us there.'

Koehler's owlish gaze moved to the passing town houses and exclusive garden squares. A minute or two later his mobile phone rang.

'Yes,' he said into it.

He listened, said nothing, then flipped the phone closed.

He didn't speak again, only looked out of the window as they approached the street where Katherine Sumner's rented flat was located. He'd seen her on the news with Tim Hendon last night, celebrating Hendon's victory. Not the hardest election battle she'd ever fought, by any means, but it was certainly going to be her last. She'd been quite decided about that, even before going into it, and the phone call he'd just received had told him that she now had absolutely no choice but to remain true to her word: there would be no going back after this, not for her, not for any of them - and for one uncharacteristic moment he wanted to laugh, for the sheer pleasure it was going to give him to watch the smug and superior British Establishment reel in the wake of the scandal that was about to break, was for him, supremely better than sex.

'Mrs Hendon. Mrs Hendon. It's time to wake up.'

Rachel's eyelids flickered.

'There's someone here to see you.'

Rachel frowned as the voice penetrated through to a part of her brain that grudgingly received it. 'Lucy?' she mumbled.

'There's a cup of tea here,' Lucy responded, in her soft Australian tones. 'Winnie brought one earlier, but you let it go cold.'

'What time is it?' Rachel said, putting a hand out to block the streaming sunlight as Lucy dragged open the curtains. 'Has Tim gone already?'

'It's ten past eleven,' Lucy answered, her homely features blanked by the sun. 'There are two men downstairs. They want to see you.'

Rachel yawned, and forced herself to sit up. 'My God, how could I have slept so long?' she groaned, checking the clock. Then registering Lucy's words she said, 'What men?' But before Lucy could answer, her stomach churned so horribly that all she could do was make a dash for the bathroom with barely enough time to close the door behind her.

'What men?' she repeated, a few minutes later, dabbing her mouth with a towel as she came back. She looked at the bed, and felt suddenly uneasy, for it was plain that only her side had been slept in. 'Where's Tim?' she said, expecting to hear that he'd slept in the spare room so as not to disturb her.

'I don't know,' Lucy responded, folding back the duvet to air the sheets. 'The visitors are in the conservatory. Winnie's making coffee.'

Rachel's eyes were on her mobile, as last night's victory, her suspicions and exhaustion regrouped at the front of her mind. 'Who are they?' she demanded, her unease starting to grow. Nothing was quite making sense. Then her heart turned over in fear. 'Oh my God, has there been an accident?' she cried.

Lucy stopped plumping the pillows. 'I don't think so. Why do you say that?' she responded, her young eyes showing as much concern as bewilderment.

Rachel didn't know, but something felt wrong. Not that Tim hadn't come home, because he might have stayed with Gordon or Dennis, but that he hadn't called to say so. Then she remembered he'd almost certainly have had a lot to drink, so was probably still sleeping it off.

'I'll leave you to get dressed,' Lucy said. 'I'll be in the office if you need me.'

The instant the door closed behind her Rachel snatched up her mobile. Its display showed nothing - no messages, voice or text. Her heart twisted with another jolt of unease, as quickly she dialled his number.

A recorded voice told her his mobile was out of range.

She clicked off, aware of a rising panic. But it was OK. Out of range could mean out of power. But where the hell was he? Maybe she should try Gordon or Dennis, but if they didn't know where he was . . . Frantically she looked round the room. Katherine was the one she should be trying and she knew it, but she was afraid to. Forcing herself to dial the number, she returned the phone to her ear and listened. Five rings, then an announcement to say that Katherine's mobile was out of range too. Next she tried Katherine's Kensington apartment. On the third ring a male voice, not Tim's, answered.

'Hello, is Katherine there?' she asked.

'I'm afraid not,' he answered. 'Who's speaking, please?'

'It's uh . . . Just a friend. I'll call back.' Before he could say any more she rang off.

So what conclusions was she going to torment herself with now, she wondered angrily. No Tim and no Katherine. Did that mean they were together somewhere, sharing out the spoils of whatever corrupt enterprise they were engaged in? Was she seriously going to put herself through that on the morning after his election victory, when his future couldn't be more dazzling, or his need for scandal less vital? When she believed totally in his love, and had just heard another man altogether answer Katherine Sumner's phone, no doubt because Katherine herself had popped out for bagels? So maybe the most sensible idea right now would be to pull herself together, slip into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and go downstairs to find out what her visitors wanted.

Twenty minutes later she walked into the conservatory where the two men were sitting amongst the plants, either side of a small mosaic-topped table, apparently absorbing the garden's early summertime colours. 'I'm sorry to have kept you,' she said, her voice sounding perfectly natural as she tried to gauge from their appearance who they might be. 'Did we have an appointment?'

'Mrs Hendon.' The taller and bulkier of the two stretched out a hand as he got to his feet. 'William Haynes. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this.'

She shook his hand, feeling the warmth of it enclose the iciness of hers.

'George Flynn,' the other man told her.

She took the hand Flynn was offering, and met his sober grey eyes with a cautious stare. A sixth sense was telling her who they were, and she was now prepared to give anything not to have stepped into this glass prism, where the many shards of light were like a maniacal display of her inner fears.

'We're from the 17 Division,' Haynes informed her. 'We have a few questions we'd like to ask you.'

A buzzing started in her ears: 17 was the Specialist Operations division assigned to Westminster. But now? The morning after an election win? His enemies really knew how to play their hand.

'Shall we sit down?' Haynes suggested. He was indicating a chair, as though he were the host.

Obediently she perched on the edge of it, then her anxiety doubled as Flynn went to close the kitchen door before coming to sit down too. Obviously, whatever they had to say wasn't for Winnie's ears, which wasn't so surprising, it was just . . . unnerving.

Haynes folded his hands on the table and waited for her to look at him. 'When did you last see, or speak to your husband?' he asked in a neutral tone.

Rachel's heart jolted. 'Why?' she countered, trying not to run with the thoughts that were already terrifying her half out of her wits. 'Where is he? What's happened?'

'Please, just answer the question.'

She stared at him hard, wanting to refuse, but knowing she couldn't. 'I spoke to him on the phone, at about two-thirty this morning,' she said.

'And where were you at the time?'

'I was here. Tim was still at the celebrations.'

'How do you know that?'

'I could hear them going on in the background.' Her eyes darted between the two men. 'Please tell me what this is about,' she said, politely but firmly. 'Why are you . . . ?'

'You say you were here at two-thirty,' Haynes interrupted. 'Did you go out at all after?'

'No!' she cried, shocked by the question.

His tone became almost apologetic as he said, 'We're just trying to get things straight, make sure we know where you were.'

She blinked, and felt her heartbeat jar against another onrush of dread. 'I was here,' she said shakily. 'Now obviously there's a reason for these questions, so please tell me what it is.'

She was staring at them with harsh, yet fearful eyes, waiting for one of them to speak, but for the moment neither did. She tried hard to muster some calm, to find a way of dealing with this that was less defensive and antagonistic, because it wasn't helping. She couldn't think why she was behaving this way, for she had nothing to hide, but she was terrified that Tim did.

'Where's my husband?' she demanded. 'Do you know where he is?'

Haynes's gaze wavered towards Flynn, but came back before reaching him. 'Mrs Hendon,' he said quietly, 'is there a member of your family you can call? Someone who lives nearby?'

Rachel's heart stopped beating. She knew very well why that question was asked, and she wanted this to end now, before anyone said any more.

'Perhaps we can make the call for you,' Flynn offered.

'What's happened!' she suddenly shouted. 'Where is he? Just tell me where he is.'

Haynes's face had turned a shade paler. 'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Hendon,' he said, 'but your husband is . . . dead.'

The breath left her body as shock struck her a staggering blow. But no, she hadn't heard right. She couldn't have. Her hands went up, as though to protect her from any more, but the words were there in her head and she couldn't get them out again. She stared at Haynes. She tried to speak but no sound came out. Then it was as though her brain stopped functioning as it should. It was slow, tangential and so full of horror that it was impossible to think. 'What are you talking about?' she finally managed. 'Was there an accident?' Before anyone could answer she continued. 'He's just won an election. Last night. You must have seen it on the news.'

Haynes's regret was apparent as he looked at her.

She looked back, then suddenly she was pressing her hands to her head. 'He can't be dead!' she cried. 'It's just not possible. Don't you know who he is?' She spun away from Haynes as he tried to reach her. 'I'm telling you, he's not dead,' she shouted, backing into the plants. 'He's not dead.'

'We should call someone from your family,' Haynes insisted. 'If you could give us the number . . . '

'I'll get it from the housekeeper,' Flynn said quietly, and left the conservatory to go back inside.

Rachel's eyes moved from nothing to nothing. Her head was pounding hard, but it was as though it was happening to somebody else. Haynes came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. She looked at him strangely, then allowed him to lead her back to the chair.

'I'm very sorry,' he told her earnestly.

Her pale, dry lips opened, then hung loosely apart as in her mind's eye she saw Tim through the crowd last night, his eyebrows raised in that small, familiar gesture they shared to convey their love when it couldn't be spoken. That was the last time she'd seen him. She closed her eyes as a terrible emotion wrenched at her soul. Please God no, that couldn't be the last time she'd ever see him.

'Mrs Hendon?'

Her vision half focused on Haynes. 'How?' she said. 'Was it the car? He shouldn't have been driving . . . '

'It wasn't the car.'

She looked away, then back at him, and wanted to beg him to say he was lying. That he'd come here about something else entirely, and she was misunderstanding . . .

'Your husband was . . . shot,' he said, awkwardly. 'In the head.'

Rachel sat very still, unable to move. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. She had to make herself wake up . . .

Haynes was speaking again. She watched his lips, but it was a moment before she registered what he was saying.

'. . . so we need to be clear about where you were between two-thirty and six o'clock this morning,' he said.

'Why?' Her voice was like the dry clatter of a stone falling to the ground. Then realizing why, her head started to swim. 'You think I . . .' She couldn't say the word, she just couldn't.

He had the grace to look embarrassed. 'I'm afraid I have to ask,' he said.

She looked out at the garden and felt a dreadful numbness spreading through her like a fog. There were a hundred questions she should be asking, dimly she knew that, but she couldn't think what they were. He was dead! Someone had killed the man she loved more than her own life. 'I was here,' she said, her voice croaking with the strain of holding back. 'I left the party around two and came straight here. I don't have an alibi.'

'Why did you leave so early?'

Her eyes were wide and staring again as she thought about the baby. Then she was picturing how Tim's face would look when she told him he was going to be a father. His laughter and tenderness, his shouts of joy and pride . . . It all felt so suddenly real that it might actually have happened. Then from a place that seemed strangely remote from their surroundings, she could hear a sound like an animal wailing. Her shoulders were shuddering, and great racking sobs started to choke her.

'It's all right, Mrs Hendon,' Haynes assured her, putting a hand out to steady her. 'You don't have to do this now.'

Behind her Flynn opened the door, then closed it again quietly. 'Your sister's on her way,' he told her.

Haynes was passing her a handkerchief. 'Can we get you something?' he offered. 'Water? Maybe something a little stronger?'

'The housekeeper's making some tea,' Flynn told him.

'We're going to the Virgin Islands on Sunday,' Rachel said drying her eyes. She gazed out at the weeping ash that bowed over the small, flagstone patio. She must remember to fill up the birdbath, and reset the sprinklers to water the beds every day before they left. 'We've rented a villa. We want to be private.' She didn't know what she was saying. All she knew was that the world was trying to trick her because it still looked the same, even though it was another place now, one she didn't want to be in, ever.

'Where does the sister have to come from?' she heard Haynes saying quietly to Flynn.

'Primrose Hill. She shouldn't be long.'

'You don't have to wait,' Rachel told them.

Neither man attempted to move. After a while she became aware of some kind of commotion going on elsewhere in the house, but only later did she learn from Lucy that it was officers from the Anti-Terrorist Branch, searching Tim's study and removing most of the contents. It was just a precaution, they'd insisted, but it had to be taken.

Winnie bustled in with a tray of tea. 'I make toast as well,' she told them tersely. 'Mrs Tim have no breakfast. She hungry.' Whether she had any idea why Haynes and Flynn were there Rachel didn't know, but the strain in her sallow cheeks showed that she was aware something wasn't right. As she set the tray down the smell of the toast wrenched so hard at Rachel's stomach that she only just made it to a flowerpot in time.

After taking the water and towel Winnie fetched from the kitchen, she watched the portly old woman leave again, then turned her gaze back to Haynes.

'Sorry,' she said, exhaustion cracking her voice.

'It'll be the shock,' he told her.

She nodded and sat down. She didn't know what else to do.

Haynes spooned sugar into her tea then passed the cup. 'It might help,' he said.

She took it but didn't drink. 'Where is he?' she said. 'I have to see him.'

'Of course. As soon as the coroner's finished.'

Coroner! Oh please God, please, this wasn't happening. 'You said he was shot,' she said.

Haynes nodded.

'Where? How?'

'In the head,' Haynes repeated.

It wasn't what she'd meant, and she flinched, almost as though she'd been shot too. She stared at him, her eyes glittering with tears. The image in her mind was so devastating she doubted she could handle any more. 'Where did it happen?' she asked.

She turned round as the doorbell rang, so missed the glance Haynes threw at Flynn.

She could hear voices in the hall, then the door opened and Anna was there, her face almost as white as Rachel's.

As they embraced, Anna's husband, Robert Maxton, introduced himself to Haynes and Flynn. He was a slight, wiry man with large brown eyes, receding hair, and a manner that exuded enough confidence for Haynes and Flynn to appear relieved to have another man on the scene.

'When did it happen?' Robert asked.

'We think some time around five or six this morning,' Haynes answered.

'Do you know who? Or why?'

Haynes glanced at Rachel. 'Not yet,' he answered.

'Where did it happen?' Robert said.

'At a flat in Kensington.'

Hearing Rachel groan, Robert put a hand on her arm. 'Katherine's?' Rachel said.

Haynes's expression showed sympathy for her distress. 'If you mean Katherine Sumner, then yes, it was a flat she was renting,' he confirmed.

Robert looked at him. 'And what about Katherine?' he asked. 'Where is she?'

Haynes shook his head. I'm afraid we don't know. Her clothes are still there, but her personal effects, wallet, passport . . .' Again he shook his head. 'I'm afraid she's disappeared.'

Rachel pressed her hands in tighter to her face. 'Oh God, Anna, I can't stand this,' she sobbed. 'I just can't stand it.'

'It's all right,' Anna shushed, pulling her back. She turned to Haynes, her dark eyes showing confusion. 'You are looking for her, I take it,' she said.

'Of course,' he replied.

'What about witnesses? Did anyone see or hear anything?'

'It's still very early in the investigation,' Haynes reminded her. Then somewhat cryptically added, 'At this stage we're ruling nothing out.'

Anna was about to speak again when someone rang the doorbell. A moment later Winnie could be heard shouting over a chorus of other voices.

'I would imagine,' Haynes said, glancing at his watch, 'that the press has got hold of it. We kept it back as long as we could.'

'I should go and help her,' Flynn said.

After he'd gone, Haynes turned to Rachel. 'We can take you away from here,' he told her. 'We have places where the press won't find you. Your sister and her family can come too.'

Rachel hardly heard what he was saying.

The door opened and Lucy came in. Her small face looked pinched and uncertain, the redness of her eyes showed she'd been crying. She handed the phone to Rachel saying something that Rachel wasn't quite hearing. Then understanding, Rachel put the phone to her ear.

She listened dutifully to the voice at the other end, and gave the answers that seemed to be required, though not much of what was being said managed to penetrate her mind, except she was dimly aware that maybe she should feel heartened to learn that their leader had such confidence in Tim's integrity as a politician, if not as a husband. Later she would feel intense anger at the assumption of an affair, and of the careful manipulation that seemed to be pushing her towards admitting it was no more than that. But for the moment, the fear and magnitude of what she was facing now was making it hard to feel anything, beyond the utter disbelief and devastation of the loss - or even to recognize the subtle warning that she was very probably about to be ostracized even by those her husband had considered friends.

When the call was over she handed the phone back to Lucy and turned to Haynes as he spoke her name. Was he really going to subject her to questioning now? She supposed he had to, and she could feel herself resisting. A voice of utter despair and denial was crying out inside her. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. He wanted to know about Tim's relationship with Katherine. What could she tell him? What did she really know?

Robert put an arm around her and she leaned gratefully against him. 'There was no relationship,' she heard herself say. 'At least not in the sense you mean it.'

Haynes said, 'Then in what sense?'

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink deeper into the comfort of Robert's reassuring presence. She so desperately didn't want to do this now. Why wouldn't Haynes just go away and never come back? Almost without thinking she began apologizing to Robert for making him come here when he had other much more pressing commitments elsewhere in London - a cast of actors, a crew, a schedule that come what may had to be met. As she spoke she was wishing she could plunge herself into the fiction of his world, lose herself in the fantasy rather than deal with the brutal reality of her own.

The door opened and Flynn put his head in. To Haynes he said, 'Bartle and his team are here.' Then to Robert, 'Can I have a word?'

After Robert had left with Flynn Rachel turned back to Haynes, who was still sitting at the table. 'Their relationship was purely professional,' she said.

'Then maybe you could tell me about that,' he said.

Going to the table, she sat down opposite him and clenched her hands in front of her. 'You think Katherine did it, don't you?' she said.

'Do you?' he countered, his eyes fixed unerringly on hers.

'Was anyone else at the flat?'

'Not that we know of, at this stage.'

Her eyes fell away.

'Do you know of any reason why Katherine Sumner might have done it?' he prompted.

She looked at him again. 'No,' she said. 'None whatsoever.'

Beside her Anna only blinked. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.