The Account

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 45 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 46 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 47 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 48 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 49 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)

Postscript (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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.

Chapter 1 (#ulink_1e813e37-4a01-526a-9eb4-ddb856d8f6ce)

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.

Finishing his drink he paid his bill and left. Outside, he stood for a moment protected by an awning, breathing in the chill late afternoon air. The smell of the lake was quite strong; tangy and pervasive. As he hurried to his car he stepped in a pool of rainwater, soaking one of his highly polished shoes. Damn! Could nothing go right this day? He held the shoe out of the car window, upside down, shaking it.

Just past the town of Nyon, Eberhardt turned up a private road that wound its way through several acres of woodland and pasture. Faded signs warning against trespassing stood alongside the road. Eberhardt knew the road well. It was the landscape of his other self, not the severe banking mandarin of Geneva but the private pleasure-seeking sensualist. At the end of the road was a large, wrought-iron gate. And, beyond, a half-moon shaped driveway fronting a two-storey mansion. The house, which had once belonged to a wealthy Swiss industrialist, had been bought by Italian-born Madame Valdoni twenty years earlier and turned into a maison de plaisir catering to an exclusive clientele of men from Geneva and Lausanne who were prepared to pay 500 Swiss francs for the services of any one of half a dozen spectacular-looking girls.

Eberhardt’s friend, the lawyer Maître Claude Bertrand, the only man in whom he ever confided, had often suggested that the banker take a permanent mistress. But the sense of illicit, furtive adventure stimulated Eberhardt’s libido in a way he knew a regular woman could not.

Anyway, he had lived alone since the death of his wife, Hilde, ten years before, and now had no intention of sharing his life with anyone. Coupled with this was the fact that Geneva banking circles, prim and censorious, would frown on any such liaison.

As he drove through the gates Eberhardt was relieved to note that there were no other cars outside the house. Highly secretive by nature, he preferred to keep these visits private and always used an alias.

Holding the can of film beneath his jacket he hastened towards the front door, which was opened almost immediately by a maid.

‘Good evening, Dr Weber,’ she said. ‘I will tell Madame you are here.’ A moment later she returned with a woman in her mid-fifties, elegantly and expensively dressed in black.

‘My dear doctor.’ Madame Valdoni proffered her hand. ‘What a pleasure.’ She turned to the maid. ‘A drink for Doctor Weber.’ She glanced at Eberhardt. ‘The usual?’

Eberhardt nodded. He pointed to his shoe. ‘Look at that. Soaked. This damn rain. Perhaps you could dry it?’