Читать книгу The Account - Roderick Mann - Страница 17

There was one person, Julia felt sure, who could tell her about Robert Brand, who now intrigued her greatly. What was his story? Bobby Koenig would know, but he had now checked out of the hotel. That left Lisa Faraday.

Since working with her during her brief stint as a model when she first arrived in London, Julia had remained close friends with Lisa. A bubbly and attractive redhead in her early forties, she was a former small-time actress who had hoped for a film career in the long ago days when it seemed Britain might actually have a film industry of its own. She had tried various jobs after that, including working as a secretary at an embassy in Bryanston Square and serving as a receptionist for a specialist in Harley Street. None of the jobs lasted. Lisa had one great trouble: she could not resist men. She slept with both the ambassador and the specialist. She had a list of former lovers that astonished Julia.

Her name began cropping up in divorce cases. Then she was offered a trip to Syria by a businessman she met at Regine’s in Paris. He took her first to Damascus, then all over the Middle East, ending up in Cairo. There she was introduced to one of the young Saudi princes. Within a week she had moved in with him and left the businessman. Six months later she was pregnant.

As a result of the romance she was faintly notorious and decidedly newsworthy. She was also the recipient of a pension from the Prince, which allowed her to live, if not in luxury, at least in comfort in a five-room apartment in St John’s Wood. And to educate the child of the liaison, a dark-eyed four-year-old named Deena.

Julia liked Lisa, for she was good-hearted and excellent company. And, despite everything, undefeated. And it was to Lisa that she brought up Brand’s name when they met for lunch at a restaurant round the corner from the hotel.

‘Brand?’ Lisa echoed, stopping with her fork halfway to her mouth. ‘Robert Brand? You actually met him?’

‘At the hotel. The cocktail party.’

‘He was there? Incredible. What’s he like? All those stories …’

‘What stories?’

‘You can’t have forgotten. Jane Summerwood. The woman in the park …’

Julia frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It was in all the papers. She was beaten to death …’

‘So?’

‘You’re unbelievable,’ Lisa said. ‘Brand was her lover. She was three months pregnant.’

‘What?’ Julia stared at her.

‘He was supposed to be getting a divorce. It was a big scandal.’

Julia sat back, stunned. ‘How could I have missed that?’

‘It was last year. Perhaps you were away,’ Lisa said. ‘They never found out who did it. Brand was in New York at the time. There were rumours he had a heart attack afterwards.’

Julia, shaken by what she had just learned, was silent for a moment. Poor devil, she thought. What a ghastly thing to have happened. But it was curious. He had talked about his wife as though they had an amicable, if not close, relationship. Yet only a year ago he had been planning to leave her and marry this Jane Summerwood.

Lisa pushed aside her plate. ‘Be honest. What did you think of him?’

Julia told her about the visit to the gallery, the subsequent lunch and their evening at the theatre.

Lisa’s eyes widened. ‘Perhaps he’s interested in you? Jesus, Julia, be careful. He’s not your league at all. The Brand Corporation. Oil, ships, hotels, munitions. You know they’ve got an office in Grosvenor Square?’

‘He told me.’

‘A big place. I went to a party there once.’

‘I don’t even know if I’ll see him again,’ Julia said.

‘Do you want to?’

‘He’s very good for morale. He wants me to join one of his hotels in New York.’

‘That might be fun. But what about Michael?’

‘He’s been offered a job in Australia.’

‘Is he going to take it?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Encourage him. You two aren’t going anywhere.’

‘I know it. The trouble is he doesn’t.’

Lisa finished her coffee. ‘Did Brand tell you he was still married?’

‘Of course.’

‘Her name’s Grace. They’ve got this huge house in Acapulco. I’ve seen pictures of it in Travel and Leisure. They say it cost $30 million. Can you imagine?’

‘No,’ Julia said. ‘I can’t.’

They parted outside the hotel.

‘You be careful,’ Lisa said, looking concerned.

Julia nodded, her mind in a whirl. So Robert Brand had been going to marry another woman. She had been killed. It had been in all the newspapers. Had he assumed she did not know? Was that why he had taken a house in Regent’s Park? To be with this woman?

She walked back to the executive corridor deep in thought.

When Julia arrived back at her office she found Emma had placed a copy of Trends on her desk, a page marked with a paperclip.

It was a full-length interview with Guido Moscato written by Chantal Ricci. The tone of the piece was adulatory. Moscato was called one of the world’s great hoteliers, ranking alongside Jean-Claude Irondelle of the Hôtel du Cap at Antibes and Kurt Wachtveitl of the Oriental in Bangkok.

‘When Signor Moscato arrived in London he realized that the British capital had no hotels of the first rank,’ she had written. Julia read this with growing astonishment.

The Savoy had become like an old woman who has had too many face lifts by mediocre surgeons; the Ritz a pale shadow of its elegant older sister in Paris. Signor Moscato took a look at them and knew that London was crying out for a first-class hotel.

This is incredible, Julia thought. The article continued.

Signor Moscato has entertained the Queen in the hotel’s magnificent restaurant. The rich and famous from all over the world can be spotted rubbing shoulders in the lobby or sitting over drinks at the bar. The staff is the envy of every hotelier in London. Their loyalty to him is unquestioned. He makes every one of them feel that it is his or her contribution that makes the hotel great …

And so it went on.

Julia reached for her buzzer. ‘Have you read this?’ she asked when Emma appeared.

‘Can’t you tell by my face?’ Emma replied. ‘I almost threw up.’

‘He must be crazy,’ Julia said. ‘So must she. When the newspapers find out she’s also working here they’ll have a field day at our expense. I can’t let those two get away with this sort of thing.’

Brandishing the magazine she stormed off to see Moscato.

‘Why wasn’t this cleared with me?’ she asked angrily, confronting him in his luxurious office.

Moscato looked up at her. ‘First, Miss Lang, I’d appreciate it if you would not take that tone with me. Secondly, there was no reason why you should know about it. Miss Ricci suggested the idea. I agreed. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Don’t you realize how ridiculous this makes us look?’ Julia snapped. ‘Some columnist is bound to discover this woman is employed here.’

Moscato sat back. ‘I am anxious to let people know what I am doing at the Burlington,’ he said. ‘You have suggested nothing –’

Julia gaped at him. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of weeks …’

‘Miss Ricci saw no need to wait.’

Julia stood quite still, trying to control her temper. ‘Signor Moscato, this is not going to work unless we get something straight right now. I am the Publicity Director for the Burlington. Stories about the hotel go through me. All of them. I take responsibility for them. And never would I have allowed this to go through. It’s rubbish.’

Moscato’s face flushed. ‘You are being impertinent, Miss Lang. I suggest –’

‘I am always open to suggestions,’ Julia said sharply. ‘But any more wonderful publicity ideas – such as this piece of self-promotion, or advertising the Queen’s visit here – will come to me for approval. I hope that’s understood. I have a contract with the Sultan and as long as he feels I am doing a good job for the hotel this is where I stay. Good afternoon.’

Sitting at her desk, still fuming over her clash with Moscato, Julia remembered Lisa’s remarks about Brand’s house in Mexico. She buzzed for Emma.

‘We keep Travel and Leisure, don’t we?’

‘Since they did that piece on us.’

‘Could you get me the file, please, Emma?’

‘Can I find something for you?’

‘I just want to flick through it.’

Julia glanced at a dozen copies of the glossy travel magazine before she found it. After Brand’s claim to abhor publicity she was surprised to find six whole pages devoted to Casa Shalimar, the opulent Brand house built on three levels above Acapulco Bay. There were fountains and waterfalls on every level and it was hard to see where the vast swimming pool ended and the sea began, so cleverly was the house designed.

This is truly paradise, ran the caption under one of the pictures, showing half a dozen guest suites, each with its own pool. There were no pictures of Brand, but several of Grace, one taken of her standing at the water’s edge, silhouetted against the sunset. She looked elegant and serene. Julia examined it closely. Grace was a tall, slim woman, deeply tanned, wearing a flowing white caftan. Julia looked at her for a long time before putting down the file.

Why am I doing this? she thought. None of this has anything to do with me.

‘Do you realize what you’re suggesting?’ Commissioner Bonnet glanced sharply at the investigator sitting on the other side of his cluttered desk.

‘I’ve thought about it a lot,’ Albert-Jean Cristiani said. ‘Di Marco’s suicide makes no sense.’

Bonnet grunted. ‘He was an old man. He had nothing to look forward to.’