The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [5]
She looked around for Douglas Hammer, caring husband and dashing dresser, tabloid darling, feeder of orphaned masses, five-time Oscar nominee and inveterate collector of fine cars. He was sitting in front of a large mirror surrounded by the hairdressers, ants on a biscuit crumb. A man was filming him with a tiny digital camera.
Hammer was very handsome, in his early forties, tanned and slimline, dark brown eyes and hair. He was also naked to the waist. All eyes were on Douglas’ reflection, none appeared to even hear the cries of the agonised Sandy Belle. Nor did they appear to notice Stevie.
The torture machine picked up even more speed, Sandy groaned louder, her body rolled and tossed like a cloth doll, her copper-coloured ponytail whipping the air in a fury.
Stevie stopped one of Sandy’s black-clad assistants. There were five that she could count.
‘Is Miss Belle alright? She doesn’t sound very well.’ Stevie approached the machine, intent on some kind of intervention.
‘What are you doing?’ cried one.
‘Don’t touch the gyroniser! It cost a quarter of a million pounds!’ pitched in another.
‘Sandy Belle has three of them,’ cried yet another. Stevie looked for the one who had spoken last.
What?
Finally Sandy Belle came to a stop, shiny-red in the face, but recovered enough to speak for herself, or rather, to allow others to speak for her.
‘This is Stevie Duveen, Sandy, from Risk Dangers.’
‘Sandy’s exercising. This is not really a great time.’
‘The gyroniser is the latest in cellulite treatment, originally developed by NASA scientists to prevent muscle wastage in astronauts. Fascinating.’
Stevie was surrounded. She fought panic like a gulp of bile in the back of her throat. There seemed to be an endless number of small round people dressed in black: headsets, tiny hands and feet, scurrying.
Like beetles, she thought. She drew a breath and looked Sandy Belle right in the eye.
‘Hello, Miss Belle. I am Stevie Duveen, the risk assessor for Hazard Limited. I am here to talk to you about your concerns for the safety of your family. Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’
One of the beetles began to protest but Sandy Belle silenced her with a wave of her hand.
‘It’s okay, Melanie.’ She turned to Stevie and smiled. ‘Call me Sandy. All my friends do.’
Another beetle scurried in. ‘Sandy, Kelli from Chloe is bringing you bags and shoes in half an hour. Your stylists are going to pick out something you love for the premier.’
Sandy’s eyes left Stevie’s and began to dart around.
‘Sandy,’ said Stevie sharply, re-focusing her attention, ignoring the beetles completely. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’
A few minutes later, perched on the apricot silk bedspread with the door firmly closed, Sandy Belle, wrapped in a robe, her eyes lowered, began to tell Stevie of her fears.
‘I’m terrified that Kennedy-Jack is going to be kidnapped. The thought keeps me from sleeping at night.’
‘It’s a terrifying thought for any mother,’ Stevie reassured her sympathetically. ‘Do you have any particular reasons to believe that Kennedy-Jack is in danger?’
Sandy turned her extraordinarily blue eyes on Stevie and blinked.
They filled with tears.
‘He’s the most famous baby on the planet. Everyone wants him.
The paparazzi, my fans, the talk shows, the magazines. It’s not right.’
‘Well, it’s true that the children of high-profile or celebrity parents are more likely to be a target because they are simply more visible to kidnappers.’ Stevie kept her voice gentle but business-like. It was her job to paint an accurate—but not alarmist—picture of the risks generally faced by people in Sandy Belle’s position.
‘Also the wealth of the parents is often advertised—trade publications, rich lists, gossip magazines—and this can tempt criminals. The