The Account

She knew she really liked Michael Chadwick, the man with whom she had been involved for a year. He was a design artist of great flair, who had already won most of the prestigious prizes available for his work. He was bright and cheerful and witty. She liked him a lot. She just didn’t know if she wanted to marry him. He had already asked her twice.

She had many friends and was much in demand socially, but she did need a man in her life. Someone to wake up with, to touch during the dark hours, to watch shaving in the morning, to share breakfast with. Someone to talk to. Particularly at a time like this.

The re-emergence of Guido Moscato into her life had shocked her. She had known for only a month that he was coming. The Sultan of Malacca, who owned the hotel, had kept the news quiet until negotiations were complete. During those four weeks she had been plagued by indecision. Should she stay or should she go? And, if she walked out on her contract, should she give the Sultan, whom she liked, her reasons?

Sixteen years earlier, when she had staggered up from the Italian lakeside, bruised and battered, almost unable to see, she had vowed that one day she would settle the score with Moscato. Picked up by two English tourists, she had been taken to the small hospital at Bellagio where a doctor operated to save her right eye. Ten days later she had flown to London. Over the years the hatred she had developed for the man who had raped her had gradually abated. The idea that she might one day see him again had never occurred to her.

Now here he was, the new Managing Director of the Burlington. All her loathing for the man had come back. And, to her surprise, her resolve to somehow get even.

At the hotel only Emma Carswell knew what Moscato had done to her. Emma had become a friend and confidante as well as an efficient colleague. When Julia had arrived at the Burlington six years earlier she had been utterly dismayed at the sight of the secretary she had inherited from the previous Publicity Director. A large, raw-boned woman in her mid-fifties with grey hair and a rock-like jaw, Emma Carswell looked formidable indeed. But within a month she had proved invaluable. She did everything – kept Julia’s appointment book, dealt with the mail, told white lies on the telephone when necessary, remembered birthdays, made endless cups of tea and quietly handled all the innumerable office tasks that bored Julia to distraction. Over the years they had developed a deep affection for each other and it was to Emma that Julia had confided her fears when she learned of Moscato’s appointment.

Emma had been outraged. ‘You poor dear,’ she said, hugging Julia. ‘What a contemptible bastard. Why didn’t you report it?’

‘It was different then,’ Julia said. ‘Attitudes have changed a lot, thank God. Anyway, I doubt the Italian police would have taken the word of an English visitor against that of a respected hotelier. I just wanted to get out of there; to forget about it.’

‘You think he knows you’re here?’

Julia was sure. From the day he signed the contract Moscato would have had a complete list of Burlington Hotel employees before him. Discovering that Julia Lang was there apparently had not worried him. Perhaps he had reasoned he could get rid of her easily enough. A publicity director, however good, did not rate highly in the scheme of things. He would not know that she had a contract guaranteed by the Sultan himself with whom she had a warm and friendly relationship.

She loved the hotel and had made it her life. But her work would bring her into contact with Moscato on an almost daily basis. Could she stomach that? Should she?

Finishing her wine she got into bed. The sheets were cold through the satin of her nightdress. Rosie, her cleaning lady, had changed them that day. Shivering a little she curled up, trying to keep warm. Just before she fell asleep she thought about Robert Brand.

Chapter 6

Every Wednesday for almost twenty years Paul Eberhardt had lunched with his lawyer, Maître Claude Bertrand, at the Club des Terrasses, the private Geneva club belonging to the Groupement.

Over their favourite dish, friture de perchettes – fried fillets of small lake perch – and with a bottle of wine between them, they would bring each other up to date with events. Eberhardt considered Bertrand his best friend as well as his trusted lawyer. On this occasion, he decided, it would be prudent to bring up the subject of di Marco.

‘I am concerned about him,’ he said. ‘He’s disappeared. He has not been at the bank this week.’

‘He may be ill. You’ve called his home?’

‘Of course. He’s gone.’

Bertrand frowned. ‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know. He called me last Friday night, late. Something about a family emergency …’

‘I didn’t know he had a family.’

‘A sister. In Zurich. I’ve called there. She hasn’t seen him in months.’

‘How very odd.’

‘Do you think I should report it to the police?’

Bertrand reached for another roll. ‘I should wait until the end of the week. You don’t want to look foolish, Paul. He’s probably just taken a few days off.’

‘Without telling me?’

‘Old men do strange things.’ Bertrand chuckled. ‘Perhaps he’s gone off with some woman?’

‘Be serious, Claude. He’s seventy-nine years old.’

‘What of it? You’re seventy-seven and still quite vigorous.’ Bertrand smiled slyly. ‘How are things at Madame Valdoni’s, by the way?’

Eberhardt glanced around the club. ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’

Bertrand poured them both another glass of wine. ‘Take my advice. Wait until Friday.’

‘If you think so,’ Eberhardt said.

Around 8 a.m. on a chill Monday morning, a small boy throwing stones at what he took to be a log floating in Lake Geneva was horrified to discover that it was a man’s body. When the police arrived from nearby Montreux they found sodden cards on the corpse identifying him as Georges di Marco, Vice President of the Banque Eberhardt in Geneva.

Contacted by the police, Paul Eberhardt drove immediately to the morgue at Montreux to identify the banker whose body lay on a gurney between two other cadavers. Eberhardt appeared stricken at the sight and for a moment it was thought he might break down. After a brandy in the police lieutenant’s office he recovered. Could he think of any reason why di Marco should have drowned himself, he was asked. He could not. Di Marco had been due to retire shortly and was looking forward to it. When last seen at the bank he had been in good spirits.

‘We were great friends,’ Eberhardt added. ‘He was with me almost from the beginning. I cannot imagine what drove him to do this terrible thing.’

The lieutenant nodded understandingly. You could never know, he reassured Eberhardt, what went on in people’s minds.

At the funeral in Geneva two days later, attended by both Eberhardt and Claude Bertrand, there was only one relative of di Marco’s present among the mourners – his distraught elderly sister. Eberhardt, his arm around her frail shoulders, told her he had arranged for her to stay on for a few days at the Richemond Hotel. All the bills were to go to him.

Chapter 7

Julia had just finished work on the hotel’s weekly newsletter when Emma buzzed her.

‘There’s a Jill Bannister on the line,’ she said. ‘Says she’s Robert Brand’s personal assistant. That’s a secretary who earns more money than I do.’

Surprised, Julia hesitated before replying. ‘Put her through.’

‘Miss Lang?’ Jill Bannister’s voice was English upper class but friendly. ‘Mr Brand was wondering if you were free at lunchtime today?’

Julia felt a small rush of anticipation. ‘I could possibly be.’

‘Good. Can you meet him at the Delevingne Gallery in Duke Street, St James’s? Say around noon?’

‘I could make it by 12.30,’ Julia said.

‘That will be fine.’

Julia hung up. She was puzzled. Was he inviting her to an art show or lunch? For a moment she toyed with the fantasy that he wanted to buy the Burlington and was seeking her advice. She knew the first thing she would tell him: get rid of Guido Moscato.

She got up and went to the mirror and inspected herself. Not bad, she decided, glad she had opted that morning for her plum-coloured Escada jacket with the big gilt buttons and a black skirt. With her black boots it was an attractive outfit.

She went back to her desk and buzzed Emma. ‘I’m going to look at some art with Robert Brand,’ she said. ‘Impressed?’

Emma chuckled. ‘I’m trying not to be,’ she said. ‘But yes, I am. Very.’

The Delevingne Gallery was halfway down Duke Street next to a wine bar. When Julia arrived Brand was standing in front of an ornately framed painting of Venice’s Grand Canal, talking to a young man in a dark business suit. He broke off as she came through the door, greeting her quite formally. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘here you are. Miss Lang, this is Nigel Burley.’

The young man extended a limp hand.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Brand demanded, nodding towards the painting.

‘Stunning,’ Julia said. ‘Canaletto – right?’

‘So Mr Burley believes,’ Brand said.

Julia peered more closely at the canvas. ‘It’s not signed.’

Burley cleared his throat. ‘Many of his works are not.’

Julia studied the painting again.

‘There’s been a lot of interest,’ the dealer said. ‘It’s a beautiful work.’

‘But not Canaletto, I think,’ Brand said. ‘More likely one of his imitators.’

‘Imitators?’ Julia said. ‘How many did he have?’

‘Many.’ Brand stood back from the painting. ‘He was widely imitated both in Venice and during his stay here. He was in Britain for almost ten years, you know, painting country houses, London views. People like Michael Marieschi, Antonio Visentini, Antonio Joli – their work often passes under Canaletto’s name. I fancy this is Marieschi.’

‘How do people know?’ Julia was intrigued.

‘They don’t,’ Brand said. ‘Unless they are well informed.’ He turned to Nigel Burley, who was impassively fingering the carnation in his buttonhole. ‘How much are you asking?’

‘Two million.’

‘Pounds?’

‘Yes.’

‘A lot of money.’

‘Worth it, we feel.’

‘Bring it down a little,’ Brand said. ‘I might be interested. Though I doubt it’s Canaletto.’

‘I’ll have to talk to Mr Delevingne,’ the young man said. ‘He’s in France at the moment.’

‘Do that,’ Brand said. He took a card from his wallet. ‘You can reach me at the Burlington for the next few days. After that at my New York office.’

‘I’ll let you know by Friday,’ Burley said, accompanying them to the door.

Brand and Julia walked slowly up the street, stopping now and again to look at paintings in other galleries before turning into Jermyn Street.

‘I trust you’re hungry?’ Brand asked. ‘Best fish in London right here.’ Without waiting for a reply he took her arm and steered her through the door of one of London’s most expensive restaurants. The staff seemed to know him. The manager made a great deal of fuss, ushering them to a booth in one corner. As soon as the menus were brought, Brand put on spectacles. They seemed, if anything, to enhance his attractiveness. They ordered – grilled sole for Brand; fried plaice for Julia, with chablis to accompany the meal.

Brand sat forward, his hands together. ‘You like that Canaletto?’

‘But you said –’

‘It’s a Canaletto all right. Does no harm to throw people like Delevingne off balance, though. They think they know everything.’

Julia laughed. ‘Shame on you.’

Brand laughed too.

‘That other artist…’

‘Marieschi? He’s real enough. Imitated Canaletto a lot. But Canaletto was a superb draughtsman. His work stands out from the others.’

‘You seem to know a lot about him?’

‘I bought my first Canaletto when I was thirty. Began reading up on him –’ He broke off. ‘This is a private conversation, you understand.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s just … well, I realize you deal with the press a lot.’

‘Only in matters relating to the hotel.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t concern yourself.’

‘Good. I won’t.’

Brand seemed to relax when the waiter brought the wine. He sampled it and nodded. The waiter filled their glasses and departed. Brand shrugged. ‘The truth is I don’t like talking about my collection. Even if you love art, which I do, there’s no way you can say: I have a Renoir, a Picasso and a Gauguin, without sounding crass.’

Julia nodded.

‘I have one Rembrandt. I think it’s genuine. One of my friends swears it’s a Fabritius.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘One of Rembrandt’s pupils. Rembrandt sometimes signed his students’ paintings to get a better price for them.’

‘Then you can’t tell?’

‘It’s difficult. The Rembrandt Research Group, subsidized by the Dutch Government, examined ninety of his works and claimed that half were not genuine. Which means a lot of galleries are out millions of dollars.’

Julia, who had never spent more than £100 on a painting in her life and considered that extravagant, shook her head. ‘So there are no real experts?’

‘No.’

The fish arrived. Brand turned to her. ‘When was your mother born?’

‘In 1920.’

‘Then your grandmother was probably born before the turn of the century. Do you realize if she’d had a little money to spend how many great artists were alive at that time? Cézanne, Monet, Renoir. Utrillo was still alive in the 1950s. Of course people here weren’t even aware of avant-garde French paintings until about 1910. Until then English taste rarely went further than paintings of Highland stags.’

‘I should have had a wealthy grandmother,’ Julia said.

Brand busied himself dissecting his fish. ‘They’re still alive, your parents?’

‘They were killed in an air crash six years ago.’

‘Ah.’ She waited for the usual solicitous remark. He didn’t make it. ‘You’re not a Londoner?’

‘I was born in Birmingham.’

‘I’ve been there,’ Brand said.

‘It used to be a fine old Victorian town,’ Julia said. ‘Then the planners went to work. Now it’s a mess.’

Brand picked up his wine glass and swirled the liquid around. He looked at her, his black eyes boring into hers. ‘Is it true what Bobby Koenig said? Are you one of the most eligible women in London?’

‘A slight exaggeration.’

‘But you’re not married?’

‘No.’

‘Involved, I’m sure?’

Uncomfortable at the questioning she hesitated before replying. ‘I am involved,’ she said, more sharply than she intended. She met his gaze challengingly. ‘What about you? Where is your wife, Mr Brand?’

‘Robert, please. My wife is in Mexico. We have a place there.’

‘She doesn’t travel with you?’

‘Rarely. She dislikes hotels. She prefers to stay in Acapulco.’

‘I’ve been invited to speak there. At a conference.’

‘You’ve never been?’

‘No.’

‘You must go. It’s quite spectacular.’

‘But you prefer New York?’

‘My company is headquartered in Manhattan. And I have a house there.’

‘Where do you keep your art? In Acapulco?’

‘Can’t keep valuable paintings there. Too much heat and humidity.’

‘It sounds as if you don’t see much of your wife?’

‘No,’ Brand said. He seemed relieved when the waiter came to take their plates.

Over coffee they talked about London.

‘I don’t really dislike it as much as I make out,’ Brand said. ‘I just like to provoke Bobby Koenig. He gets so mad at me.’ He chuckled. ‘Actually I think it’s a fine city.’

‘Does Bobby always take the bait?’

‘Swallows it whole,’ Brand smiled.

‘I love this city,’ Julia said, ‘always have.’

‘You live in town?’

‘Near Regent’s Park,’ she said. ‘One of those old mansion flats.’

‘I know the area,’ he said. ‘Last year I rented a house overlooking the park.’

‘Then you must know London well?’

‘Fairly well. I’m here a lot.’

‘Then I hope we’ll see you back at the Burlington.’

‘Have no doubts about that, Julia,’ Brand said.

She held his gaze for a moment, then glanced at her watch.

‘Ye gods,’ she said. ‘Look at the time. I’ve got to be getting back.’ She jumped to her feet.

‘That’s too bad,’ Brand said. ‘I was enjoying myself.’

‘So was I,’ Julia said. ‘And I learned a lot about Canaletto.’

He stood up. ‘I think I’ll stay for a second cup. Will you be all right?’

‘Of course.’

As she walked along Jermyn Street to look for a taxi Julia’s thoughts were jumbled. Clearly the conversation in the gallery had been designed to impress her. He was showing off. Though she had to admit that listening to a man contemplating buying a work of art for two million pounds was a lot more fascinating than seeing someone dithering over a twenty-pound sweater at Marks and Spencer.

But what was the point? Was he hoping to recruit her for one of his New York hotels? If so it was an odd way to go about it. If he was interested in her personally – and when a man wanted to know if you were involved he was usually asking: How about me? – then he was out of luck. She had no intention of getting involved with a married man, even an attractive one like Robert Brand. She had to admit he was charismatic. He positively exuded sex appeal. Dammit, she thought, why are those sort of men always married?

She looked at her watch again. It was a quarter past three. She was very late. She stood in the centre of St James’s Street on a traffic island, praying for a taxi.

It was 3.45 by the time Julia got back to the hotel. As she walked into her office a woman rose to greet her.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Lang. I’m Chantal Ricci.’

‘Yes?’ Julia was annoyed. Visitors were never allowed into her office without an appointment, but Emma was not at her desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

Dark-haired and quite astonishingly pretty, Chantal Ricci was wearing a fitted double-breasted blue jacket and straight navy skirt. She looked chic and elegant.

‘I just wanted to introduce myself.’ She had a very slight accent. ‘I’m starting work on the new magazine for the Burlington.’

‘What magazine?’

‘Mr Moscato didn’t tell you?’

‘I know nothing about it.’

‘I believe the final decision was only made this week. The Sultan is excited at the idea.’

‘Is he now?’ Julia tried to cover her irritation by glancing through the pile of messages on her desk.

‘I’m surprised we haven’t met before,’ Chantal said. ‘I was deputy editor of Trends for three years.’

‘What will you be doing on the magazine?’

‘Editing it.’ Chantal got to her feet. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I have an office here in the executive corridor.’

‘I didn’t know one was free.’

‘I believe it belonged to the Director of Sales and Marketing.’

Julia frowned. ‘Bryan Penrose?’

‘He’s moved down the corridor. It’s more convenient, apparently.’

Julia stared at the young woman standing before her. Twenty-five, tops, she decided. Stunning-looking. Obviously very sure of herself. You didn’t need great talent or ability to produce a hotel magazine – many hotels, particularly those in Italy and Asia, had them – but you needed some. She felt vaguely upset. Producing a magazine for the Burlington would not necessarily have come under her aegis but she felt she should have been consulted.

‘How often is this magazine to be produced?’

‘Twice a year.’

‘That won’t keep you very busy.’

‘Mr Moscato has other things for me to do as well,’ she said. ‘He feels there are several areas where I can be of help.’

‘You’re Italian?’

‘Milanese.’

‘Chantal is not an Italian name?’

‘My mother was French; my father Italian.’

‘I see.’ You, Julia decided, are someone I must watch out for.

‘Well.’ Chantal flashed Julia a brilliant smile. She had a wide mouth; her teeth were regular and perfect. ‘It was nice meeting you.’

After she’d gone Emma came in with a cup of tea.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She was in your office when I got back. She said it would be all right.’

Julia nodded. ‘Her name’s Chantal Ricci. She’s going to bring out a magazine for us.’

‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Moscato’s, I suppose. I knew nothing about it.’

Emma put down the cup. ‘And how was the art show?’

‘Interesting.’

‘You should get out of the office more,’ Emma said meaningfully. ‘Puts a bit of colour in your cheeks.’

The nightmare recurred …

‘I would like you to consider staying on with us,’ Moscato said. ‘You’re the best receptionist we’ve ever had.’

‘But the other girl? I’m only a temporary replacement.’

‘We’ll find another spot for her.’

Julia had never felt happier. She loved Bellagio, the town on Lake Como where Franz Liszt had once spent a year, which had once played host to Stendhal and Mark Twain. And she loved the Palace Hotel. People there had been so kind she had now decided to make hotels her career. But she had promised her parents to go back to England after six months. And already she was a little homesick. Two weeks after their talk, when Moscato suggested dinner with his wife at Il Cielo on the lakeside, she was flattered and excited. Here was a sophisticated Italian hotel manager taking a personal interest in her. What luck!

That night she put on her prettiest dress and shoes. Flushed and excited she arrived at the restaurant early. Moscato was already there – alone. His wife, he explained, was not feeling well. The dinner was a great success, with Moscato being attentive and encouraging. Afterwards they walked back along the lakeside, admiring the full moon shimmering on the water.

At one point she stumbled and Moscato took her arm. And then it began. Turning, he kissed her so hard he bruised her lips. Startled, she pulled away. ‘Signor Moscato, please don’t.’

Then Moscato pushed her roughly to the ground, ripping off her dress, tearing at her pants. She screamed but the scream stifled in her throat and a great stab of pain consumed her body as he thrust into her. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please. No.’ She clawed at his face as he pounded into her but it was useless. The more she fought the more excited he became.

Then he began hitting her, slamming his right fist into her face, grunting like an animal as each blow went home. She felt blood in her eye and a tear in her cheek, and the taste of blood in her mouth.

Finally it was over and Moscato staggered to his feet. ‘You asked for it,’ he panted. ‘Leading me on like that. You asked for it.’ He stood looking down at her, breathing hard. ‘Go and clean yourself up,’ he said. With a final glance at her he turned and headed back towards the hotel leaving her lying there, bleeding and bruised, whimpering softly, almost senseless …

Chapter 8

Hunched over a cup of coffee, Albert-Jean Cristiani sat by the window of a small bar in the rue du Rhône watching passers-by as they walked along the fashionable Geneva shopping street. He was feeling despondent. It had been a difficult week so far. He had a deep-seated suspicion it was not going to get any better.

He sighed and raised his hand to order another cup. It was after 11 a.m. but he saw no point in hurrying. The investigation on which he was engaged was going nowhere. He might as well enjoy a few more minutes of people-watching. And contemplate his forthcoming retirement at the age of fifty-five. Just that week he had picked out a small office for himself on the corner of the Quai Wilson where he planned to set up as a private investigator.