Their small frames doubled under the weight, the two children were dragging a body, using all their strength, and trying to roll it over the edge of the roof. The rain had left pools, which were now blood red, as were the awful marks where they had hauled their burden across the roof. The children seemed wounded; their blond hair was matted with blood, their night-clothes were drenched.
‘Dear God, what’s happened?’ she whispered.
The boy spun round. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, continuing to heave the body closer to the edge of the villa roof.
‘No one will do anything,’ added the girl, helping her brother. ‘We’re only children.’
The nanny knew without even seeing his face that the body was their father’s. ‘Just like they did nothing about Mama.’ The little girl strained as she pushed at the dead weight. As the body rolled over the side on to the ground with a dull thud, both children smiled, as if congratulating each other, then turned to face their nanny.
‘Nanny, will you help us bury him?’ they asked in unison.
Chapter one
William Benedict was fifty-three, and regarded himself ‘well preserved’. He had never been a vain man, but recently his creeping paunch and loss of hair had started to play on his mind. It was the latter that he really hated. His blond hair had always made him look younger than he was and although you could never have described him as handsome, his boyishness had given him a certain attraction. Even the press nicknamed him ‘Boy Wonder’. But his youthful looks had gone.
Standing just under six feet tall, William stared down at the scales: despite hiring a personal fitness trainer he had not lost a single ounce. Why waste time and money on press-ups and weights for nothing? And the pills, at least thirty different vitamin and mineral supplements, irritated him too — they seemed to stick in his chest for half the morning.
William muttered with annoyance as he inspected his face in the mirror. He struck a pose, sucking in his cheeks and raising an eyebrow. He was all right, really. His pale blue eyes were as bright as they ever were — his mother always said they were his best feature. They had a permanently alert quality that could be unnerving, particularly when they darkened in anger. He glared at himself: he was beginning to feel as if someone else had sneaked into his body and blown it up. He drew his lips back to inspect his teeth, which had come courtesy of one of the best dentists in Los Angeles. He had smoked cigars all his life but his second wife had been particular about teeth and had made sure that his never bore the tell-tale stains.
Clothes were a different matter: he dressed for comfort rather than style. He had always been told what was fashionable, and both his ex-wives had sent him to the tailor in an attempt to improve his sartorial sense. He had wardrobes full of tailored shirts, suits and handmade shoes — even his tracksuits were made by Armani. Everything looked fine on the hangers in the wardrobe, but once it was on William it gave the impression of sloppiness. The truth was, he had never really been interested in clothes. He felt he didn’t need to be. William was a man to be envied. Few could match his fortune. He had recently floated his computer company and made a five-hundred-million-pound profit, and he had numerous other interests in property and industry.
His new project was politics. He had never been a political animal, but had voted Labour throughout both his marriages simply because it infuriated his in-laws. Now he had switched his allegiance, more or less on a whim, to the Conservative Party due to Andrew Maynard. He had heard the tall, pallid Maynard speak at some tedious charity function and the hairs on the back of his neck had stood up. It was almost as if something about the man reminded William of himself — not physically, more because, to all intents and purposes, he was an outsider. He made a note to watch the young man’s progress. When he found himself in Brighton during the 1997 Tory Party conference and noticed that Maynard was to speak, he surprised himself by going to hear him.
As just another hopeful politician attempting to gain notice, Maynard might easily have been overlooked that week. But to everyone’s surprise, though not to William’s, he swept the entire conference hall to its feet for a standing ovation. The young man mesmerized his listeners.
The third time William saw Maynard was at a fund-raising dinner at the Grosvenor Hotel. Having decided to back the Conservative Party, William had made generous donations to Party funds, which had warranted an invitation. Once again the young man enthralled him, this time as a guest at the same table. Maynard, William noticed, drank little and hardly touched his food. It was not until coffee was served that William had the opportunity to talk to him. Maynard seemed shy, explaining that he held out little hope of gaining a seat at the election, but added that he fully intended to give the opposition a good run for its money.
Over the following weeks William continued, albeit half-heartedly, to monitor the young politician’s career as the pre-election fever grew. However, Maynard lost, by a narrow margin, as the Labour Party swept to victory. His loyal supporters commiserated with him at a breakfast they had organized. They didn’t stay long, and Maynard shook their hands as they departed, maintaining that he would fight on, and that next time he would win.
At the end only William remained with him in the restaurant. He lit a cigar, feeling depression hanging in the air. Maynard loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. He picked up a lipstick-rimmed champagne glass and downed the remains. Until now they had hardly spoken more than a few words to each other, although Maynard had written William an appreciative letter thanking him for his financial backing.
Maynard turned to him now with a doleful expression. ‘It was close. I’m sorry... you’ve donated so much. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your support.’
‘Why don’t you let me take you home?’ William offered and ushered him to his car.
Maynard sat, head bowed, beside William in his Rolls Royce. They turned into Ladbroke Grove off Notting Hill Gate, and headed towards Maynard’s small terraced house.
William cleared his throat. ‘I donated to your campaign even though I didn’t think you were ready. You were always an outside bet, but I don’t regret it or worry about losing my money. It may still bring opportunities, so let’s just put it down to experience.’
Maynard was clenching and unclenching his fists. He muttered that the new Prime Minister was young too, then turned to William. The weeks of day-and-night canvassing had taken their toll, and Maynard was thinner than ever. With his tie askew, and his unflattering black-rimmed spectacles he seemed like a fragile petulant boy. But when he spoke, his voice was cold with controlled anger. ‘I appreciate your generosity, but I am sad that my political aspirations are not the reason you have supported me. It makes me wonder what strings you might have tried to pull for your own gain if this rank outsider you bet on had won!’
The chauffeur stopped outside Maynard’s house, but before he could get out to open the door, it had been slammed shut.
Maynard opened his front door and just managed to close it behind him before the adrenaline that had been keeping him going for days evaporated. He leaned against the wall then slipped down it to the floor. He had not just failed to win his parliamentary seat but, without the continued donations from billionaire William Benedict, he had also lost future assurance of financial backing. With his rude remark, he knew he had made a foolish tactical error.