Goddess of Death Read Online Free PDF

notorious daughter.
    The dinner itself was, naturally, sumptuous. Equally inevitably, the after-dinner speeches were unctuous, boring and scattered with laboured jokes that were funny only to their reciters. Alan Stacey gave the main speech of the evening: confident , spoken without notes, making eye contact with all in turn in his immediate vicinity, dwelling on Karen herself only twice, albeit with a glint of appreciation. He spoke, naturally enough, of the benefits the oil exploration deals would bring to the North-east and he congratulated his staff and those of the Kovlinski entourage on their perspicacity and hard work. He pledged government support to the venture, and emphasized his own personal support for the scheme, subtly suggesting that he had been the prime mover behind the whole operation. The black-haired young woman at his side gazed up at him with something approaching adoration. But if Arnold had expected Stanislaus Kovlinski to speak, as host, he was surprised to find that it didn’t happen. A senior civil servant rose to thank the host, but there was no verbal response from the oil magnate. There was a slight scowl on the man’s face, a hint of displeasure in the curve of his mouth.
    After dinner, drinks were served in the library and the whole weary business of socializing started over once again. The evening was warm; the room crowded and, as alcohol and the resultant bonhomie increased, so did the temperature. The tall French windows at the end of the library were thrown open to permit the passage of cooler air, but Arnold seemed to be alone in seeking its refreshment. With a half-full brandy glass in his hand he sidled along the wall towards the windows, making the occasional small talk to anyone who stood briefly in his way, butcareful not to get trapped, and when he finally reached the windows he took the opportunity to step outside. He found himself on a broad flagged terrace that ran the length of the house.
    The night was bright. There was little light pollution in spite of the shaded lamps glittering in the gardens; the stars were high, a half-moon throwing a pale light onto the terrace. Glass in hand, Arnold sauntered along the terrace, away from the lights and the chattering noise, inane conversation and tinkling glass until he was some thirty feet away from the windows. He stood with one hand on the balustrade, gazing out over the darkened gardens to the thick mass of trees that bordered the property and the silvered hills beyond.
    He let his thoughts drift: the invitation from Carmela Cacciatore, the prospect of a few days in the South of France, an escape from the drudgery of his office. Then, after a little while he became aware of the smell of a cigar. He turned his head and noticed the glow of its tip.
    Arnold moved forward slightly and from the corner of his eye eventually made out the dark figure of a man standing against the wall of the house, but he did not turn his head and made no attempt to acknowledge the man’s existence. It seemed they were both there to escape, and he had no desire to disturb the individual’s chosen solitude.
    Several minutes passed before the man behind him stirred, and moved away from the wall. The voice was deep, heavily accented, the tone guttural. ‘I think you are Mr Landon.’
    Arnold turned, surprised. As the man with the cigar came forward, slightly hunched, the light from the window illuminated his features. It was his host, Stanislaus Kovlinski. The cigar end glowed briefly as Kovlinski drew upon it; in the glow Arnold could make out the flinty glint of Kovlinski’s eyes, the pock-marked left cheek, and the thin, determined line of his lips. The oil magnate stood a little aside from Arnold and looked outover his possessions. ‘It seems you enjoy occasions such as these as little as I do.’
    Arnold smiled. He recalled how Kovlinski had managed to extricate himself from the room during the cocktail party. Clearly he believed in doing his duty