The Account
‘What exactly would joining your team entail?’
‘You’d be doing just what you do now.’
‘Tim Perrin would have something to say about that.’
‘Julia,’ Brand sounded exasperated, ‘I own the damn hotel.’
‘I understand that. But I know Tim and I like him. I won’t be forced on him.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘If Tim wants me he must ask for me. It shouldn’t come from you.’
Brand looked at her hard. ‘But it was George Malacca who arranged your contract.’
‘That’s true. But it was Andrew Lattimer who hired me. The Sultan arranged my contract only because he wanted me to work for the Royal Malaysian in Kuala Lumpur, which he’d bought at the same time.’
‘You didn’t like the idea?’
‘Not just then.’
The music from the dance floor at the far end of the room was getting louder. Julia wondered if he would ask her to dance.
‘Will you think about it?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘You’d be such an asset,’ Brand said. ‘Bobby Koenig says you speak Italian. Was that from school?’
‘I spent six months in Italy when I was seventeen. My mother’s idea.’
‘Rome?’
‘With a family. Then I took a summer job at a hotel on Como.’
She noticed that some of the juice from her rack of lamb had spilled onto the tablecloth. Glancing at Brand’s still almost full plate she felt guilty that she had enjoyed her meal so much.
Brand held up his hand and ordered coffees. ‘I have to fly to Scotland tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Something’s come up. You know where Silicon Glen is?’
‘Somewhere near Edinburgh?’
‘Biggest concentration of electronic manufacturing plants in Europe. We have a factory there making microprocessors.’
The idea that this hugely wealthy man should actually be visiting one of his factories astonished her. Surely he had people to do that sort of thing? ‘Will you be there long?’
‘A few days.’
‘Do you need help at Heathrow? We have someone on duty …’
‘Thanks,’ Brand said. ‘I’m leaving from Luton. The plane’s there.’
Of course. He didn’t fly like other people. There would be no lining up for him, no search of hand baggage. He would drive straight out to his private plane, climb aboard and be airborne.
‘A real luxury,’ she said. ‘A private plane …’
Brand nodded. ‘It makes life easier when you move around a lot.’
‘You have a yacht too?’
He glanced at her, amused. ‘You’re interviewing me?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just interested. I don’t usually meet people with private planes and yachts.’
‘I’m sure that’s your choice,’ Brand said. ‘An attractive woman like you …’
The insinuation annoyed her. ‘Some women do use their looks to meet wealthy men,’ she said. ‘I’m not one of them.’
Brand leaned forward. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I put that badly.’ He laid his hand briefly on hers, then withdrew it. ‘May I call you when I return from Scotland?’
‘I won’t walk out on the Burlington.’
‘Don’t be too sure.’
He finished his wine and glanced towards the dance floor. ‘I have a mediocre sense of rhythm,’ he said, ‘but perhaps I can persuade you to take a whirl around the floor with me?’
Julia smiled. ‘I’d love to.’
He held her close, in the old-fashioned way, so that their bodies locked together and she could react to the slightest pressure from him. He was not a great dancer but he was more than competent. As they moved around the edge of the floor he executed a few elaborate dance steps that she did her best to follow.
‘Well,’ she said when they returned to the table, ‘that was something.’
‘A pitiful attempt to convince you I’m more lively than I look,’ he said.
‘You’re a much better dancer than you admit.’
‘But no Baryshnikov.’
‘Few men are.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘May I ask a personal question?’
‘Of course.’
‘What’s she like, your wife?’
‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘back to reality. Well, you’re probably right. Mustn’t get carried away.’ He paused, almost as if he had not been asked the question before and was unsure how to reply. ‘She’s very attractive,’ he said at last. ‘In my estimation, at least. She is not what you might call, well, affectionate, but perhaps that is my fault. She has not been entirely well for some time, unfortunately.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Remembering a friend’s claim that all married men, intent on seduction, had stories ready about their wives – how unkind they were, how lacking in understanding, how frigid – Julia was relieved that Brand, at least, did not fit the pattern.
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Thirty-five years. We met when I was just starting out. I was not a sophisticated young man. Grace was a photographer for National Geographic at that time, widely travelled. She had been down the Yangtze, gone overland to Lhasa in Tibet, driven through the Khyber Pass from Afghanistan to Pakistan. I had done nothing but spend money. It was she who gave me ambition.’
‘You have no children?’
‘We decided against it. We were both wrapped up in our careers. And, indeed, in each other. A mistake, perhaps.’
‘You said she spends most of her time in Acapulco?’
‘She likes it there. She has many friends.’
‘And you?’
‘There are a couple whose company I enjoy. One is a fisherman; the other a Polish sculptor, a great bear of a man: Voytek Konopka. He’s quite well known there. You’d like him, I sense. When is that conference in Acapulco? The one you’re invited to?’
‘The end of next month.’
‘I might arrange to be there. Show you around. What’s the organization called?’
‘The International Travel and Tourism Research Association.’
‘Let me see what I can do.’
‘I’m still not sure I can leave things here.’
‘I’ll pencil it in anyway.’
Taking a slim memo pad from his pocket he scribbled something on it and handed the note to Julia. ‘That’s Jill Bannister’s address and phone number. If you ever want to get in touch with me you can do it through her.’
‘She sounds very efficient, your Miss Bannister.’
‘She is. I’m lucky to have her.’
By the time they had finished their second cups of coffee it was after midnight, the club was crowded and the dance floor was packed. Brand called for the bill, signed it and, taking Julia’s arm, led her out to the waiting car.
As he dropped her off at her home he said, ‘I’ll tell Tim Perrin to expect you sometime soon.’
‘You can’t do that,’ she said, laughing.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Brand said. He closed the door and the car slid away down the street.
The phone was picked up on the third ring.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’
‘Well.’ Grace Brand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘We haven’t heard from you in a while.’
‘There was nothing new to report.’
Grace Brand paused. ‘And now?’
‘There’s a new face on the horizon. I think your friend may be about to stray again.’
‘Who is it this time?’
‘Her name is Julia Lang. She works at the Burlington Hotel.’
‘What is she – a maid?’ There was a sneer in Grace Brand’s voice.
‘She’s the hotel’s Publicity Director.’
‘He’s been seeing her?’
‘A couple of times. Lunch. The theatre.’
‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Keep me informed of developments.’
‘Of course.’
Chapter 11
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.’
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