Hollywood loved Martin Lavender. Within four years of arriving he had mutated from unknown Eurotrash to Player status. He was this month’s Messiah. They lionised him as the hyper-hyphenate: actor-screenwriter-director-producer-businessman-instigator of public debate. Now he had a secret addition to his list of achievements – double murder.
“Kensington, Mr Lavender?” said his chauffeur.
Martin hesitated. For a moment he toyed with the idea of visiting the house in Loughborough Junction, but it wasn’t time yet. When Madeleine was dead he would visit the house.
“Kensington,” he said.
The driver eased the Rolls Royce into the flow of traffic – other motorists deferring to its majesty – and headed away from the airport towards the city.
Martin slipped a hand inside his jacket and squeezed the leather glasses case in the inside pocket. Everything was okay. They were still there. He did this at least a hundred times a day, but…
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