Adam put a hand on Karin’s knee and turned to the policeman. ‘Officer, if both the police and the Crown Prosecution Service fail to have this man properly and fully prosecuted, I am prepared to go to the highest level to make it happen.’
Sergeant Danners allowed himself a small smile. He had little doubt this imposing businessman would actually be able to do what he said, but he stood his ground nevertheless.
‘I assure you, there will be a full investigation,’ he said evenly. ‘First of all we’ll go and check out this house on Pelham Grove, and in the meantime I can give you the number of a local support group aimed at people who have had similar experiences.’
Karin snorted. ‘Whatever.’
Sargeant Danners moved away and Karin curled her body into Adam’s. ‘I’ve heard about people like this. Erotomaniacs; they become fixated with someone, fantasize that they are in a relationship with them. They can spend years stalking them.’
Adam squeezed her arm and kissed the top of her head. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, honey.’
‘Will you stay?’ she asked softly, looking up into his eyes. ‘Or are you going back to your dinner with Claudia?’
‘I’m staying right here,’ he whispered.
She squeezed his fingers and smiled, but deep down she was frightened.
48
Sharif Kahlid was a man whose glory days were long behind him. At sixty-seven, his once handsome face was lined and the dark eyes which had sparkled in his youth had dulled and seemed to have shrunk back into his thin face. His small apartment, in a purpose-built block at the back of London’s Edgware Road was full of mementos from three decades of glamorous travel around the world: African carvings, a gold Buddha on the mantelpiece, a silk wall-hanging from the Forbidden City in Beijing. Now merely gathering dust, they were the only physical reminder of a glittering jet-setting lifestyle that had come to an abrupt end the second his employer had died. Sharif’s employer had been Adnan Hashemi, the well-known arms dealer. As Adnan’s private secretary for almost thirty years, Sharif had led a life of vicarious luxury; taking private jets from Gstaad to Palm Beach, Beirut to Antibes at the beck and call of his wealthy, powerful boss. But that life had ended four years ago with Hashemi’s heart attack and Sharif was still finding it hard to adjust to a humbler existence. His only luxury now was cooking for himself; buying a small amount of halal meat from the many Lebanese shops around Edgware Road, adding okra and star fruit and serving the curries to himself on vast white platters, pretending he was at a banquet in Marrakech, or a yacht party in St Tropez.
Sometimes, when he’d had just enough arak, he could almost believe it was true. But, in the cold light of day, Sharif knew he was a has been, a spent force, the last sparkle of glamour tarnished away years ago. Until the day Molly Sinclair knocked on his door.
‘Forgive me for not being able to entertain properly,’ said Sharif, pouring a mint tea in a small amber glass and handing it to Molly. ‘Your visit has taken me a little by surprise.’
Molly took the glass from the little man and smiled. Yes, she was sure he was going to be just the man for the job.
Ever since the detox weekend, when Denise had drunkenly confessed that she had been Adnan Hashemi’s mistress, Molly had become obsessed with knowing the rest of the story. Yes, Denise had told Molly that she had introduced Donna Delemere to several of Adnan’s friends, but Molly had spent long enough on the international party circuit to know what friendship meant between young, pretty blondes and ageing arms dealers. The question was whether that friendship involved the exchange of money. Determined to find out, she had tracked down Hashemi’s private secretary, Sharif, having heard he was down on his luck and knowing that he might be willing to talk, if the price was right.
‘It’s been a long time, Sharif,’ smiled Molly. She hardly knew Sharif – their paths had crossed briefly at various nightclubs in the 1980s – but she knew a man like Sharif Kahlid would respond to flirtation and familiarity.
‘Indeed,’ he replied. His accent was clipped and precise; the product of an English public school education. ‘Although I am interested to know how you found me. I suspect our social diaries are rather different now. There is little need for me to travel in the circles I once did.’
‘Oh come, come,’ laughed Molly, ‘don’t be so modest. You were a player, Sharif. An important man. People like you don’t disappear without somebody knowing where you are.’ She touched his arm and his lip curled upwards.
He sat back in his worn leather chair, crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. ‘So, how can I help you, Molly?’ said Sharif. ‘I assume there is a purpose to this social call?’
Molly was glad to cut to the chase, feeling uncomfortable in this small flat stuffed full of weird ethnic trinkets. ‘Did you know a woman called Donna Jones about ten years ago?’
‘Perhaps. I was in the line of work where I met many, many beautiful women,’ he responded, raking his eyes appreciatively over Molly.
Molly reached into her handbag and produced a photograph of Donna and Evie from the christening. ‘The hair would have been blonde when you knew her,’ she said, handing him the picture.
He pursed his lips and cocked his head. ‘Possibly I recognize her,’ he said slowly, handing back the photograph. ‘What do you want to know?’
There was a defensive edge to his voice and his face was set in a challenging, defiant expression. Sharif had clearly done much more for his employer than booking hotel rooms. Wanting to make this as easy as possible, Molly picked up a leather folder from her feet and unzipped it slowly, opening enough for Kahlid to see it was full of twenty-pound notes.
‘A donation to the cause of your choice,’ she said, watching Kahlid’s eyes widen.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he said finally.
‘I’m acting for a friend,’ said Molly flatly. ‘A friend who needs to know about Donna’s past.’
‘Yes, I heard Donna married very well.’
‘She did. And that is why my friend wants no surprises about her.’
Sharif got up silently and went into the small kitchen to fill the kettle and put it on to boil, which he did with the elegance of a colonial butler.