The End Of Richard Mandy

Richard Mandy was not a very nice person. True, at 32, he was an extremely good-looking man who still, for the time being, had time on his side. He was educated, with a degree under his Gucci belt, and exceptionally well-travelled. But these were really his only redeeming features, and in fact his appearance was not at all what nature originally intended.

He had had rhinoplasty twice to straighten his distinctly aquiline nose, dermabrasion on his cheeks and forehead to remove the ghostly pocks and scars of teenage acne, cosmetic whitening and surgical straightening of his slightly snaggle teeth, and his startlingly blue eyes were actually tinted contact lenses. He still suffered regular, torturous 6-hour stints at 'Rocky's A Better You' gym and frequent tanning bed sessions to keep his toned body firm and hard and golden-brown.

Richard justified the money spent on attaining and keeping his spectacular good looks by telling himself (and his part-time friends) that it was necessary to his occupation that he looked nothing less than perfect at all times. Ostensibly, he was a model but he wasn't currently - or often, for that matter - on any Agency's books. The money he spent never came directly from his pocket so, he reasoned, why worry? Indeed, if Richard didn't look as good as he did, his occupation would probably be very different. God forbid, he would think with a shudder, and a shake of his magnificent and subtly-streaked blonde head, he might actually have had to work to keep himself in the manner to which he was not only accustomed to, but entitled.

You see, Richard was a professional user; a liar, cheat and heartbreaker. He would set his sights on a woman, carefully selected, research her, and discover her habits; where she ate, where she shopped, the kind of baubles she preferred from Tiffany and Cartier. Then he would meet her, charm her, seduce her, bed her and once she was in over her head, take her money and use her for what she could provide. And then after a few weeks, or a couple of months, he would leave her. No note, no phone call, no guilt. No problem. He would be on the next plane out of whichever country he happened to be in, on his way to Paris or Milan or Monte Carlo, ready for his next conquest.

Of course, the women never complained, never pressed charges or made a scene, even when he took their jewellery and credit cards and expensive iPhones and booked expensive treatments and flights for himself using their names. How could they? Most were married anyway, and the money and trinkets Richard liberated were just chump change to their high-flying therapist/lawyer/plastic surgeon husbands.

And so it went on. The perfect lifestyle of partying, shopping, screwing models and film starlets and businesswomen, both physically and figuratively, without discrimination. 

Now Richard was back in London, after 5 years on the continent. His last conquest was more than 6 weeks ago. Funds were running decidedly low and he was wild to try the new Brozilian Butt-Lift surgery that all the circuit playboys were raving about. He needed a fresh source of income; someone pliable and naive, rich and well-connected. Preferably good looking this time, and the right side of 40. That old Austrian baroness had had pots of money, but Christ she was a raddled old hag! Her tits had been like two empty gym socks with a tennis ball stuffed in each toe. Her skin reminded him of an aging and travel-worn Birkin leather handbag his mother once had. He had often struggled to maintain his erection on the rare occasions she had demanded intimacy. Sex with her had been like thrusting into a 2-day-old hummous flatbread and he was not wild to repeat that experience any time soon.

So Richard did what he knew best. He partied.

He settled on a fancy dress Hallowe'en ball. People (of the female persuasion, all he cared about anyway) lost their inhibitions when they could hide behind a mask or costume. They were a lot more willing to spend their money, flirt whilst their menfolk talked shop with their cronies and spill the latest gossip about whose husband had the biggest bonus, who was sleeping with whom and who had recently just bought a chi-chi little holiday home in Devon, really just a cottage, darling, but SO sweet. To make money, you have to spend it, so Richard poured a large chunk of his hard-earned cash into the party. The food, drink and decor had to be just so. He wanted to impress, to show his new woman (or women; he felt capable of managing more than one) a good time, prove his prime catch credentials. 

He had invited more than a hundred guests to the bash, and to each the option to bring a plus one of their own. These people were the crème de la crème of London society's elite and so nothing less than the grand ballroom at the Savoy would do. The invitations alone had cost him a small fortune, printed as they were in blood-red ink on creamy, heavy gauge card with his painstakingly fabricated family crest in the top left corner. The finest chefs had carefully created an utterly decadent menu and the decorations he had so agonised over would impress even the most jaded eye.

And now the evening of the ball had finally arrived. Richard stood back to admire the fruits of his labour. The ballroom was a fantasy of dramatic crimson and gold - a triumph of wealth over taste. There was an enormous banquet table groaning under the weight of the delicious food that the hotel chefs had prepared to explicit specifications. There were wild truffles and venison, Scottish smoked salmon and foie gras, pates and terrines of every conceivable flavour and delicate little hors d'ouevres heaped with glistening Beluga and sliced quails eggs. Waiters in penguin suits darted here and there, flicking imaginary specks of dust from the crystal flutes and minutely straightening the heavy linen napkins. 

The scene was set. The DJ and hired musicians were already installed and tuning their equipment. The first guests would, he realised with a thrill of excitement, be already handing over the keys to their Jags and Rolls and vulgar low-slung sports cars to the valets waiting attentively. 

Richard admired himself in one of the huge, gilt-framed mirrors that adorned the ballroom walls, whistling a little tune to himself as he turned this way and that. He looked his usual perfect self, even in his Hallowe'en get up of a beautifully cut, deep-crimson velvet suit with devil horns and a clip-on tail that drew the eye to his rock-solid derriere. His nails were dipped in black polish and he wore a large gold signet on his pinkie. In his breast pocket was a beautiful silver paper knife, the end of the slightly blunt blade ornately wrought into a crucifix, a nice little touch, if he did say so himself. A talking point. He smoothed back his thick hair, and flashed a satisfied smile at his reflection, newly bleached teeth gleaming whitely in the flickering glow of two hundred taper candles. 

Right on cue, the doors burst open and his guests began to flood in, beautiful men and women in costumes, some subtle and understated, some garish and overtly sexual. And rich. Every one of them. Richard clapped his hands together and gave his most radiant smile.

His latest beau was in this room somewhere, just waiting for him to find her. Waiting to be charmed, seduced and taken for every penny. He was ready to network, discreetly priming the women with honeyed compliments and, if suitable, the little gilt-edged cards with his personal phone number. He laughed out loud in sheer delight. Tonight was his night. Tonight he was going to hit the jackpot! 

********************

Two hours later and poor Richard was ready to throw in the towel. He was exhausted. His velvet suit felt limp and too tight, and he himself was damp with perspiration. He had tirelessly networked the whole room, pressing the flesh and delivering his well-polished compliments, but still he had not found an even remotely suitable woman to work his magic on. They were all too happily married, too poor or too oblivious. Time was running out, it was past 9 and there was the inevitable drift to the edges of the room as his guests, drunk, overfed and saturated with opulence, began to flag. He needed to find someone, before it was too late. It was getting to the stage where he might just have to consider the obscene hag, 60 at least, resplendent in a leather catsuit that barely held in place her generously proportioned body. From the size of the diamond on her left hand - easily the size of a bird's egg - he knew she came from money. Although she was well-spoken and amusing, he could tell from the way she had coquettishly fluttered her lashes and squeezed against him with a horrifically girlish little laugh, patting his velvet-clad buttocks with a gnarled hand, that she was more than interested in his pretty-boy good looks. 

He glanced around the room, almost frantically, eyes roving over women of all shapes, sizes and positions on the social ladder. A passing waiter bearing a silver platter of champagne flutes raised an eyebrow in his direction, and Richard conceded, taking two. He downed the first and returned the empty glass to the surprised waiter, immediately dismissing him with a wave of his now-empty hand. Carrying his remaining drink, he leant against an ornately-garlanded pillar to sip it more slowly. 

And then he saw her.

She was sitting casually at the bar that curved gracefully along the back wall, one long leg crossed carelessly over the other, hair black as a raven's wing cascading over her shoulders in a luxurious silken sheath. 

She had on a tiny slip of a dress, deep red like his own suit, which drew the eye to an impressive cleavage, and emphasised a handspan waist. She wore no mask nor costume effect, save for a long and satin-lined velvet cape, which even as he watched, she shrugged off and tossed over a stool next to her. 

Richard moved closer, eyeing his prey like a lion watching the antelope at a watering hole: his next meal ticket. His professional's eye saw everything and missed nothing, like a lover's tender caress. The diamond chips glittering at her lobes and fingers, the delicate filigree of the very expensive necklace that graced her perfect décolletage. On her slender left wrist was an unusual bracelet; an Ouroboros wrought in gold, with red rubies for eyes. She had a small clutch bag, maybe Hermes or Balenciaga, and as he watched, she opened it to fish for a little compact, and he saw it was stuffed with notes and the unmistakeable burnished gold of a JPMorgan Chase Reserve card that made Richard's heart sing. He rubbed his hands with glee. This was going to be too easy!

Tossing a glance in the mirror, he straightened up and prepared to move in for the kill. The line of cocaine he had snorted earlier in the Savoy's gilded men's room had kicked in nicely and he made himself relax, ready to charm her and pander to her vanity.

But the cocaine and the champagne, maybe even the heady thrill of the evening itself, had addled his brain slightly.

As he gave that final glance in the polished glass, he didn't notice that, save for himself, the reflection of the bar and, in particular, the stool upon which his dream woman had perched like some exotic bird of paradise, was completely empty. The woman had no reflection. No reflection at all.

Richard sidled over, and planted himself on the stool next to this exquisite specimen. He ordered himself a large dry Martini and watched her discreetly as he sipped it. She was a delight, all perfect glowing skin, almond shaped eyes and the smell of cold, hard cash.

'So what did you come as?' he eventually asked, feeling only a little miffed that she had apparently not even noticed him. 'You were supposed to come in costume.' he said, plucking at his own devil's outfit. She raised a an eyebrow slightly, gaze lingering for a second on first his velvet suit and then the crucifix paperknife winking from his breast pocket before she returned his gaze levelly with liquid amber eyes. 

'This IS my costume' 

'Well, I'm not too sure what you are, apart from stunningly beautiful, but welcome! I'm Richard, and this...' he gestured expansively at the room behind them 'This is my little soiree. I'm sorry that I can't match your beautiful face with a name...?'

'Well, I have a little confession, Richard...I wasn't actually on the guest list. I'm afraid I'm a bona fide party crasher'

Richard goggled for a second, then burst into a genuine laugh. This exquisite creature had arrived like Manna from heaven, completely uninvited? After all his machinations, it seems Fate herself had intervened to provide for him. 

'Well, I promise not to have you turfed out on one condition.'

'Oh?' she said, recrossing her legs slowly so as to afford a glimpse of one long, lean and toned thigh, and the shadows that pooled invitingly at the top. 'And what would that be?

'That you allow me the pleasure of buying you a drink, and also your company whilst you enjoy it.'

She regarded for a second him through semi-closed eyes, her tongue minutely wetting her full red lips. 'That seems like a fair price to pay. Accepted.'

Richard snapped his fingers, summoning the hovering flunkey, who looked at him with obvious loathing.

'A drink for the lady. She'll have...?'

'A bloody Mary, light ice.'

'Well, you heard the lady. And I'll have another Martini. Jump to it, my man!'

The drink was soon in her hands, and Richard, keen to move things along, turned back to this exotic vision of loveliness.

'You still haven't told me your name.'

She took a careful sip of her cocktail before giving him her eyes. 'If I tell you that, I'd have to kill you.' 

A beat before he laughed, and then her face relaxed into a gracious smile. 'Can I call you Dick? You look like a Dick.' 

'You're teasing me!' He reproached her with a wry smile. He was, actually, slightly put out that, unbeknownst to her, she'd inadvertently used an old and much-hated schoolyard nickname. But he brightened instantly; you had to keep them sweet, make them think you were interested in what they had to say, and not just their bodies. Or, more importantly, money. She favoured him with a tiny smile and, emboldened, he moved proceedings along a more satisfactory path. 

'Say, have you had anything to eat? The blinis here are rather exceptional.'

She shook her head. 'There's nothing I like, I'm afraid. I'm...well, you could call me a very fussy eater.'

'I suppose you have to watch what you eat?' Richard probed sympathetically. 'I mean, you're a model or film star, of course?'

She actually threw back her head and laughed throatily.

'Oh dear me, no. Nothing as vulgar. Or interesting.' 

Unfazed, Richard downed his Martini and, head buzzing, moved in for the kill.

'Well, may I be as bold as to suggest dinner? It's early yet and I know a few places that would be happy to accommodate us. And' - here he leaned in close and continued in a husky whisper -' I'd love to get to know you better.' With bated breath, he awaited her response. This was a pivotal moment, here he would sink or swim.

Her eyes roved the room for a second, as though searching for someone but not finding them. She gave a small sigh, before turning her full attention to him.

'Well, its the best I'm going to manage tonight. Let me powder my nose and we'll leave. I don't suppose your guests will notice. Or care.'

Richard, seeing only a light at the end of the tunnel and not giving a stuff for his guests, only acknowledged that she had accepted his offer. He was, he realised, very drunk. But never mind. She obviously couldn't resist his charms. Richard, collecting her cloak for her and holding it as shrugged into it, was again struck by her beauty. For a wild second, he pictured a life with her; marriage, children, a home, maybe even a job for him - he had some talents, after all. The thought was gone before it was even fully formed, though; this was work, even it was very enjoyable. 

They stepped out into a frigid October evening, the moon hanging full and bloated in a greasy black sky. Richard, head reeling, beamed at his new companion as they stood together under the portico. 

'I thought we could dine at Le Gavroche? Pietr, the maitre 'd, is a very good aquaintance of mine, he'll be delighted to seat us at short notice.' Richard only slightly embellished the truth here, hoping Pietr, whom he had actually only met twice, would both remember him and be able to seat them. A large tip could be in order, but under the circumstances, this felt like an investment. He felt sure she would fall for him, like countless others before her, and no doubt, the ones to follow.

With a small smile, she inclined her head. 

'That would be delightful but I must insist on a caveat of my own; it will be difficult, I'm sure, for a gentleman of your standing, but I insist the settling of the bill be my responsibility. We'll call it a favour in return for graciously allowing me the privilege of remaining at your party, after I arrived so blatantly unannounced.'

Richard, heart singing, smiled widely. 'Well now, that is completely unnecessary of you, but it would be incredibly rude of me to argue against such a generous offer from a lady who so obviously knows her own mind. I accept.'

'Then shall we?' She inclined her head to a valet, who sprang to life and within a minute or two, a limo purred to a halt before them. 'My driver will take us.' Richard was ecstatic; he had really lucked out here. If he played his cards right, he could be dining out on this one for months and it wouldn't even be difficult.

Climbing into the plush interior, Richard sank into buttery-soft leather seats the colour of French vanilla. His companion leant over to the smoked glass partition and muttered something sotto voce to the driver, who was shrouded in shadow. The car slid smoothly away from the kerb and before they hit the Strand, a crystal glass of a deep amber liquid was pressed into Richard's hand. Sniffing gingerly, he detected layers of wood notes and peat and was impressed. He drank deeply, his eyes on the woman, who returned his gaze with a secret smile, and raised her own glass to his.

'What are we drinking to?' Richard asked.

'To us. I think we're both going to get exactly what we deserve tonight.' Her smile deepened and she drank the contents of her glass in a few dainty swallows. Richard, mesmerised, followed her lead, and almost immediately she had refilled his tumbler from a crystal decanter with a skull-shaped stopper. It had eyes of ruby-red and seemed to wink at him lewdly.

The next ten minutes passed in a bit of a blur for Richard. Whatever the amber liquid was, it was incredibly potent and his head was reeling. His fingertips and lips felt numb. Strangely, he didn't feel at all worried. In fact, he felt extremely relaxed and slumped comfortably into his seat, the dark mass of Hyde Park flashing by on his right (shouldn't it be on his left?) The woman seemed not to mind, and sat at her ease, watching him like a mildly interesting TV show. 

He must have dozed for a few minutes, maybe longer, because the next thing he was aware of was his companion shaking him awake, and none too gently. A cold breeze gusted in through his open door, and he gazed stupidly around for a few seconds, before she pulled him from the car. For her slim build, her grip was strong and firm, like velvet wrapped around iron. His legs seemed to have stopped working and his feet tangled together as he gave an involuntary giggle. She man-handled him out onto a dirt path and propped him against the car, before the darkness swallowed her up. This wasn't at all what he was expecting but he was suddenly having trouble remembering where they had been going anyway. He couldn't seem to remember much of anything, really. He peered around, trying to ascertain why it was so dark. He had enough wherewithal to feel alarmed, but not enough to know quite why. He had a fleeting thought that he should run, a ripple of gooseflesh slithering up his lightly-sweating spine and crawling around his testicles, but couldn't seem to collect his thoughts. He shook his head, the frigid air chasing away the sleepiness, at least.

The Limo suddenly lurched away from them, wheels spewing up gravel, tail lights rapidly receding into the dark before the car screeched to a halt a hundred yards down the rutted track. Richard, who had been leaning against its rear wing, had fallen gracelessly backwards, arms pinwheeling until he hit the ground with a sickening thud. His head rattled off the hard-packed dirt and the crucifix paperknife slid from his pocket with a clink onto gravel and dirt. He simply lay there, stunned, one elbow a stinging net of pain, velvet suit torn under the arms. He struggled to focus, until a figure materialised in the darkness, the moon etching a silhouette in silver. 

She stood there. 

She was gloriously naked, and for a nanosecond, Richard was flooded with a sort of sweet relief, a brief respite from the panicky feeling that caused his breath to hitch in his throat, that he had got this all confused by too much alcohol. But his sobering eyes showed him the truth. As she drew closer, and that gloating moon illuminated her, he finally understood his situation. 

She was naked, true, but she was...wrong. His uncomprehending brain couldn't find any other word to describe what his disbelieving eyes were witnessing.

She was not human.

Her body was horribly elongated, and sinewy, the lean legs and toned arms were mottled and ropey with taut muscles, her blotchy skin the colour of a week-old corpse. The pale, cold light lovingly highlighted every sunken hollow, each knob of bone, every inch of leathery flesh. Long fingers were topped with nails of jet, ragged and broken. Her hair, that was earlier so thick and luxurious, was now scant and stringy and swung around her face...and oh! Her face, dear friends! This is where Richard's sanity almost went rattling off the rails and plunged him, screaming, into the abyss. 

Her eyes were black pits of molten tar, cold and unreachable as a long-dead star. They bored into him, mere feet away, from hollowed sockets under a glowering, bony brow. Her nose was gone, two diagonal slits served as nostrils of a sort, and these were constantly flaring as though she could smell his fear, and liked it. Her mouth was just too big, stretching almost ear to bat-like ear, and filled with an assortment of yellowing teeth - fangs, a helpful voice in his head advised - the canines as long as his pinkie finger, and sharp. Greenish mucus pooled from mouth in ropey strings and a long, pointed and slimy tongue lolled obscenely. She prowled in front of him restlessly, before suddenly, she spoke to him, and strings of saliva pattered onto her withered and empty breasts and sunken ribcage.

'Hello again, Dick, did you like my costume?'

Richard tried to frantically backpedal away from her, his mind threatening to wrench completely from the moorings of his sanity at any second. He managed to scoot backwards once, twice, his left hand landing on something hard and nearly sharp. He gripped it reflexively. His body had barely began to execute this command, though, and she was on him, bounding cat-quick and hissing, snug on his chest, one hand clawing at his face to hold it in a death grip. Leaning in close, she extended one long, bony index finger, the nail on it was, unlike the others, long and intact and very, very sharp. She hooked it into his neck almost lovingly - tenderly - under his right ear. A gout of blood dribbled out thickly, the coppery tang, like the smell of old pennies, caused her to tense slightly, drawing in a shaking breath, the long tongue darting here and there in a frenzy, tasting his blood on the air. Richard was almost relieved that at least this would be quick. His mind was suddenly remarkably lucid and clear, and he was in no doubt what she was, and what this was. He knew he was going to die.

A million thoughts and even - dare we say it - regrets, passed through Richard's mind in a split second. He opened his mouth to cry out, to beg her no, but instead, to his surprise, found he screamed out something else instead.

'I...didn't invite you!' 

She hesitated, talon still in the soft meat of his throat. She drew back slightly, and if her face was even capable of it, looked mildly surprised. The nail withdrew further, until it rested just under the tender flesh. 

'What?' Her voice was a hoarse rasp, but he caught the tiniest note of interest and...amusement?

Richard, having given up rational thought at this point, decided to go with the flow of whatever survival instinct had kicked in. 

'You...you weren't invited to my...my party. You even said so. Your type...have to be invited in...don't they?'

Leaning back, feet planted firmly either side of him, she threw her misshapen head back and laughed, a howl that simultaneously sent his balls crawling into his body cavity and loosened his bowels. Her arms fell loosely to her sides until it was just her weight that was pinning him in place, like a butterfly bound for a collector's pin. She laughed and laughed up at that wretched moon. Galvanized, Richard tightened his grip on the letter-opener he had held loosely in his hand and hesitated for the merest second before he brought it suddenly, shockingly upwards, in an underhand motion. The muted silver described a beautiful arc through the cold October air until it connected lovingly, perfectly with the withered flesh of the creature's jutting jaw, piercing the muscle and tendon and narrowly missing its slimy tongue, the pitted blade scraping hideously against tooth and bone.

In technicolour slow motion, she fell to the side and backwards off him onto the dirt and stone, the knife sliding free of her but still firmly in his hand. She was screaming hoarsely, thrashing from side to side in her pain, and this time he didn't hesitate, his movements seemingly premeditated. On wooden legs he was over her in a second, and this time, it was his weight pinning her, his hand on her face as he brought the silver knife down again and again and again in a frenzy as she writhed and cried through her ruined mouth. Jagged nails scrabbled uselessly at his torn velvet sleeve, black blood pumping faster now from myriad wounds. 

The whole world shrank around Richard as he brought the letter-opener down one more time and this time he found it: the soft space between her ribs, the sweet resistance lasting only a second, and the knife pierced her unbeating, dead heart. Her scream then was utterly inhuman, a sound unlike any he had ever heard. Richard collapsed off her, arm numb and limp, the knife forgotten now in her chest but he needed both his hands to cover his ears as her scream rose to a crescendo and then she burst - exploded - into a column of flame, a Roman candle that shot ten feet into the air and his hands had to cover his eyes. He peered through slitted lids and fingers as she was enveloped by golden-white flames, a magnesium flare that burned so hot and so fiercely it couldn't sustain itself. Quickly it petered out until there was nothing but a vaguely human-shaped mound of ash that, even as he watched, collapsed upon itself.

The night was suddenly, shockingly silent and still, the last embers falling in a gentle cascade of red and gold. Then somewhere a dog barked and the soughing wind could be heard in trees shrouded in darkness. The sounds and smells of the night came rushing back in, like air into a vaccum.

Richard, weary as he'd ever been, stumbled to his feet, the puncture wound on his throat still dribbling blood but fast clotting on his cooling flesh. He was utterly sober, and utterly calm, although his brain kept stuttering over the events of the past few minutes again and again, a replay he felt sure he would see whenever he closed his eyes. 

The heap of thick, greasy ash that was all that remained of the woman - the creature - began to gently eddy in the stiffening breeze, something glinted, catching his eye with its ruddy glow. Leaning down, Richard sifted through the clotted remains and pulled free the ruby-eyed snake bracelet and one, then two diamond-chip earrings. He stared at them for a second, turning them this way and that in one shaking hand, before slipping them into his pocket. He then began to make his way along the pitted track but hesitated for a moment, turning back to survey the scene before him for one long, pensive minute before he gave a little shrug and, sinking his hands into the ruined pockets of his poor suit, he made his way down the path. 

Just a little along further along the way he stumbled over a long, winding sheet of black velvet - her cloak. He picked it up and shook it off before shrugging it over his shoulders. In the deep inside pocket he found the little clutch bag, made of black sequins. Tugging it free and flicking the clasp open, he pulled out a roll of banknotes bound with an Asprey sterling silver money clip and the JPMorgan Chase Reserve card. In the dim light, he could only just make out the name: Alicia Juro Grando. In the small bag was also a cell phone, a packet of Marlboros and a beautiful antique Dupont lighter. There were two cigarettes left, and he immediately lit one up, tossing the bag to one side without a second glance and pushing its contents back into the cloaks' deep folds.

Throwing his head back and exhaling a cloud of pungent smoke that was immediately tattered to shreds by the breeze, he noticed that the Limo was still idling a few yards down the path. He started towards it, cigarette bobbing gaily between his teeth, cloak flowing behind him on the frigid night air until he reached the car.

The rear passenger door silently sprang open and with only the briefest hesitation, he pulled the cloak around himself and continued on foot. He rather thought a taxi might be prudent under the conditions. His Patek Philippe watch was miraculously undamaged, except for a terrible scuff to the crystal face, and showed the time and he was stunned to realise it was only a little past ten forty-five PM. He thought that if he could find a signposted main road he might use the phone from the woman's bag to call a taxi, and why!...He could be back to civilisation... could even be back at his party for 11.30pm! Just in time to catch the old dear in the catsuit before the inevitable drift to the nightclubs and casinos, perhaps. She suddenly seemed very safe, and very precious. And rich. Very, very rich. The diamond earrings would fetch him a nice price tomorrow. He would buy himself a new suit. This was not the end of Richard Mandy, he thought. Quite, quite the contrary!

With a new spring to his step, Richard picked up the pace. By the time the Limo glided silently past on the last few yards of the potholed track before it turned into smooth, fresh Tarmac lit by bright white sodium lights, he was whistling.