Whiteout - Ken Follett [152]
Toni stared at the prisoner. She was young and attractive. She had been ready to commit suicide. Toni wondered why.
Odette took the perfume bottle from her and dropped it into an evidence bag. “Diablerie,” she said. “French word. Do you know what it means?”
The woman shook her head.
“The work of the devil.” Odette turned to the detective. “Put her in handcuffs and take her away.”
CHRISTMAS DAY, A YEAR LATER
5:50 P.M.
TONI came out of the bathroom naked and walked across the hotel room to answer the phone.
From the bed, Stanley said, “My God, you look good.”
She grinned at her husband. He was wearing a blue toweling bathrobe that was too small for him, and it showed his long, muscular legs. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, and she picked up the phone. It was her mother. “Happy Christmas,” Toni said.
“Your old boyfriend is on the television,” Mother said.
“What’s he doing, singing carols in the police choir?”
“He’s being interviewed by that Carl Osborne. He’s telling how he caught those terrorists last Christmas.”
“He caught them?” Toni was momentarily indignant, then she thought, What the hell. “Well, he needs the publicity—he’s after a promotion. How’s my sister?”
“She’s just getting the supper ready.”
Toni looked at her watch. On this Caribbean island it was a few minutes before six o’clock in the evening. For Mother, in England, it was coming up to ten o’clock at night. But meals were always late at Bella’s. “What did she give you for Christmas?”
“We’re going to get something in the January sales, it’s cheaper.”
“Did you like my present?” Toni had given Mother a cashmere cardigan in salmon pink.
“Lovely, thank you, dear.”
“Is Osborne okay?” Mother had taken the puppy to live with her, and he was now full-grown, a big shaggy black-and-white dog with hair that covered his eyes.
“He’s behaving very well and hasn’t had any accidents since yesterday.”
“And the grandchildren?”
“Running around breaking their presents. I must go now, the Queen’s on the telly.”
“Bye, Mother. Thank you for calling.”
Stanley said, “I don’t suppose there’s time for a bit of, you know, before dinner.”
She pretended to be shocked. “We just had a bit of you know!”
“That was hours ago! But if you’re tired . . . I realize that when a woman gets to a certain age—”
“A certain age?” She leaped onto the bed and knelt astride him. “A certain age?” She picked up the pillow and beat him with it.
He laughed helplessly and begged for mercy, and she relented and kissed him.
She had expected Stanley to be fairly good in bed, but it had come as a surprise to her that he was such a pistol. She would never forget their first holiday together. In a suite at the Ritz in Paris, he had blindfolded her and tied her hands to the headboard. As she lay there, naked and helpless, he had stroked her lips with a feather, then with a silver teaspoon, then with a strawberry. She had never before concentrated so intensely on her bodily sensations. He caressed her breasts with a silk handkerchief, with a cashmere scarf, and with leather gloves. She had felt as if she were floating in the sea, rocked gently by waves of pleasure. He kissed the backs of her knees, the insides of her thighs, the soft undersides of her upper arms, and her throat. He did everything slowly and lingeringly, until she was bursting with desire. He touched her nipples with ice cubes, and put warm oil inside her. He carried on until she begged him to enter her, then he made her wait a little longer. Afterward, she had said, “I didn’t know this, but all my life I’ve wanted a man to do that.”
“I know,” he had said.
Now he was in a playful mood. “Come on, just a quickie,” he said. “I’ll let you be on top.”
“Oh, all right.” She sighed, pretending to feel put-upon, as she adjusted her position over him. “The things a girl has to do, nowadays—”
There was a knock at the door.
Stanley called out: “Who is it?”
“Olga. Toni was going to lend me a necklace.”
Toni could see that Stanley