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.
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.
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