The Account
Julia Laing is a winner – beautiful, vivacious, publicity director of London’s top hotel. Robert Brand is charismatic, handsome – with his vast fortune he can work magic. Together they make a golden couple, the world at their feet.Together they can almost forget Robert’s unhappy marriage to Grace, a union bound by secrets a generation old … until, suddenly, Julia’s world is shattered by tragedy, and she begins to realise that her perfect life with Robert may have been built on a lie…Determined to uncover the facts, Julia hires private detective Guy Ravenel to track down the truth. his plan is daring and dangerous, but not even he can foresee the horrors they will uncover, or the ruthlessness of Julia’s enemies…
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RODERICK MANN
THE ACCOUNT
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
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London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1994
Copyright © Roderick Mann 1994
Roderick Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780006478850
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008235420
Version: 2016-11-21
For Anastasia
Contents
From the Daily Mail
SOCIETY WOMAN MURDERED
The body of Jane Summerwood, 27, of Connaught Square, London, was discovered by an early morning jogger yesterday in a clump of bushes in Hyde Park.
Police described the condition of the body as appalling. ‘She had been brutally beaten,’ a spokesman said. ‘It was the work of a maniac.’
Miss Summerwood, daughter of Colonel James Summerwood of East Grinstead, was well known in London social circles and was an accomplished horsewoman. She is known to have been in the company of American billionaire Robert Brand, and was a frequent guest on his yacht in Monte Carlo. Mr Brand, now in America, could not be reached for comment yesterday but his secretary described him as ‘devastated’. Police inquiries continue.
It was raining hard. Driving along the Quai du Mont-Blanc in his black Renault, Paul Eberhardt glanced idly towards Lake Geneva, sheathed now in a fine mist that rendered the mountains beyond barely visible.
The man sometimes called the most astute banker in Europe was deeply depressed. Usually on Thursdays his spirits rose. This was the evening he set aside his worries and drove along the lakeside to spend an hour at the house of Madame Valdoni.
Relaxing. Taking his pleasure. Watching the film that now lay on the seat beside him.
But events that afternoon had dampened his enthusiasm for the evening to come. First there was the memo from his partner, Georges di Marco, demanding a meeting. Eberhardt knew what di Marco wanted to talk about; what he had been threatening for weeks now. It could no longer be postponed. Then, to make matters worse, Robert Brand had arrived unexpectedly at the bank. Eberhardt’s relationship with the American billionaire had always been polite. They were, after all, locked in a tight financial embrace that could not easily be broken. But the meeting that afternoon had been unpleasant. Brand, in a bad mood, had queried everything and had barely been civil. Eberhardt, who had always prided himself that he could handle the American, was now not so sure.
He swore and braked hard as a woman, her view hidden by an umbrella, stepped out suddenly to cross the street. He must pay attention. This was just the sort of day when accidents occurred.
Leaving the city he adjusted the speed of the windscreen wipers and switched on the heater to demist the glass. There were few other vehicles about. That suited him fine. The drive along the Lausanne road normally took him forty-five minutes. Today it would be quicker.
An impatient horn behind him interrupted his thoughts. Pulling over he saw he was near the lakeside hotel where he occasionally dined. He drove into the car park and switched off the engine. A drink, he decided, would make him feel better; would calm his nerves. Otherwise the seductive ministrations of Madame Valdoni’s girl would be wasted.
The bar of the hotel was quiet. Relieved, he perched himself on a stool and ordered a double Scotch. The warmth of the drink in his throat made him feel better. Glancing around he caught an unwelcome glimpse of himself in a wall mirror. How pale he looked; how old. Yet he was still an aristocratic-looking man, tall and distinguished in a formal way. Anyone seeing him sitting there nursing his drink would have found it hard to guess his profession. A diplomat perhaps. Or a doctor. He was not an easy man to place on looks alone.
