Not Without Reason

By Roy Jenner

The dramatic disappearance and subsequent death of socialite and art critic William Bond Walshe when his pleasure cruiser The Owl was wrecked off the Devon coast was neither an accident, nor a random  killing. It was a premeditated and precise act of murder planned by much sought after criminal Glenys Hasting. Glenys had fled New Zealand with hundreds of millions of NZ dollars accrued by a syndicate of criminals who themselves were unable to avoid the law before paying the ultimate price for their horrific deeds. Glenys ran free and with INTERPOL still seeking her after five years she settled in Torquay England under a new identity. There the weakness of the flesh introduced her to high flying Billy Walshe who excelled in filling her sexual needs, but in doing so he revealed to her a dark side to his character that when exposed by her through media associates shocked the world. Glenys was ready to repay her debt to society and a night of hi-jinks on the high seas aboard Billy's luxury cruiser provided the opportunity she required to execute her daring scheme. She constantly told her peers she was not a bad girl, but her new mission in life was one to make Billy Walshe pay for the injustices and obscenities inflicted on her family in her youth by his peers; and pay he did.  Satisfied with the results of her actions Glenys's complacency led to a chink in her armour which when exploited by top CIB detective Abe Griffin had her blazing a trail of retreat through the West End of London and the Home Counties. With Detective Abe hard in pursuit she continued to switch identities and struggle with personal afflictions to which she accepted there was no remedy. At peace with herself once more and with Billy held to account for his sins Glenys was able to concentrate on the altruistic facet of her nature.  Her final act was to dispose of the many millions of dollars available to her to deserving causes. It was no easy task to give away money anonymously. As her race against time became her final one she returned to her homeland of New Zealand where she made one final effort to prove to the law that indeed, she was not a bad girl. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lawrence Davidson
• Release date: Jun 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781719869331

Roy Jenner

Roy Jenner is the author of fourteen novels such as this one. Each reflects his experiences as he travelled the world from his homeland of London England to eventually settle in the Antipodes and make Auckland New Zealand his home.  Each page of each book is flavoured with the knowledge and understanding of life’s experiences gleaned along the way. Three years service with Her Majesty’s armed forces prepared him for life away from the docklands of London’s East End, where he was born, to taste the arid and vital atmosphere of Egypt and its controversial Suez Canal Zone where he served two years on active service. Forty years in the meat industry were superseded by twenty years of equal success in the real estate sales.   He was thrilled in later years to become involved with the magic of Nashville and Memphis Tennessee and venture into the challenges of the Australian Outback, being always pleased to return  to the security of his home in New Zealand. A strong family man he has four sons, eight grandsons, three granddaughters and now five great grand children. He continues to write for your pleasure.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Motive: a fact, or circumstance that induces an individual to act in a certain way for personal satisfaction, or gain.  Motive! A reason to kill.  Genevieve Hughes had a motive; a motive to stay alive. Dying was never on her agenda.  As the world’s richest fugitive Genevieve faced a decision that would have an immediate effect on her future. Within excess of two hundred and fifty million dollars safely cosseted in Swiss bank accounts her main problem in recent months had been boredom. Filthy rich bitch, she classed herself, who at forty two years of age had reached a pinnacle in her life that was unsurpassable. The money she had and the property she owned earned money faster than she, or ten of her kind could spend it and it had taken but two of the five years since her outrageous acquisition to grow tired and almost bored with the position in which she found herself. She found it easy to recognise and easier to admit that the lifestyle she had adopted was obscene; wanting for nothing in an affluent environment where she discarded clothes, cars and most physical possessions as though they were snake skins, or the shells of cicadas.  She contemptuously included most members of the opposite sex in this category. All were there for her pleasure, to eventually become surplus to requirements and easily replaced without emotion, with little effort and with no thought of cost.

On this bright midsummer afternoon Genevieve was seated on the terrace of her coastal Devonshire cottage, cooling in the shade, waiting for her lover; waiting for Billy Walshe. She wore minimal clothing; a simple transparent blouse and short skirt with no underwear.  Billy liked it that way. She had never been a fan of underwear.  Today her day was well planned; planned to precision. He and she would be meeting for the last time. Poor Billy! Off with the old and on with the new was her attitude with most of the police and special services in Australasia and Interpol ever alert for a smell of her scent as she continued to celebrate the most outrageous scam of all time. Never would it be said you could never outfox the fox and today, as always, a satisfied smirk crossed her beautiful remodelled features as she thought of the skulk of Reynards she had left in New Zealand, arses bare with brushes scalped clean. They were hurting then and she knew they would be hurting now, five years after the event. Those who remained, remained behind bars. It would take more than the five years of capitulation to erase that pain.

Billy had been right for her. He had filled a special need at the right time; a most useful person who was well respected as the best in his profession. She and he had met with her in special need of his services and her generous one on one relationship with him had served its purpose.  For Genevieve the chase was always on. She was always watchful and never complacent. Always looking in the rear mirror and always ahead. A lesson well learned for her was never to relax; never weaken to complacency. Her attention to detail dictated no middle men; no whistle blowers and no one with a hint of the changes made regularly to her character. Thus no close friends and no causal relationships.  With no rest for the wicked the challenge was always there as she worked her way up the long chain of informants that led her to the doorstep of Billy Walshe the celebrated artist and engraver, the philandering who moved discreetly in the shadows of London’s Underworld. More publicly he was a tutor at the royal college of arts with two recognised oils hung in the National Gallery.

Multiple pictures of the queen had endorsed their power and proved to be persuasive to a selection of doubtful characters when seeking her introduction to Billy Walshe, counterfeiter of renown among his peers, whose expertise defied the heaviest scrutiny. It never fails. Money talks, but once the introduction had been made money became secondary to the sexually driven Billy  as he immediately succumbed to Genevieve’s scintillating charm, her ravishing beauty and her god like figure. He became determined. Genevieve was one trinket he had to add to his collection. That suited Genevieve. He played into her hands. Billy was someone she had to have; for a while. She had even returned to her natural blonde locks to please him.

Genevieve loved where she lived. Journey’s End Cottage had been the caption on the real estate agent’s board and the moment she sighted it she had wanted it for her own, even before stepping onto the property. Situated thirty metres above the high water mark and being one of three properties in its secluded location it had presented itself as the ideal solution to her quest for a base in England. She had been over eager to own it and more than happy to pay the thirty thousand pounds above recognised market value to get her company name on the title. As a home it offered everything, but a lavish spend on her part placed an expensive cherry on the cake with added security, fencing and electric gates that transformed a cute little waterfront residence into a fortress. As such she always knew this Shangri La at Journey’s End Torbay was never intended to be that for her. To her surprise she was forced to recognise a prospect of her journey ending in the near future and today the time had come to move on.  Apart from her personal circumstances which recently had changed her life completely, it was clear to her that change was on the way and at forty plus years of age Genevieve had felt her journey had hardly begun.

Society, the media, the local body, anyone with a mouth called it Global Warming. Call it what you will but the last storm at sea that had raged onto the mainland had come in February at the time of the full moon.  Genevieve had been out of the country at the time. On her return she had found the King Tide and the vicious winter had claimed more than the Queen’s Chain in a ferocious act of nature that swept over the foreshore and laid claim to the terrace of her sweet cottage and everything on it. The small jetty and boathouse that serviced the property were gone, having been devoured by the receding waters. The media stated that in places the coastline was being reduced as headlands collapsed to endanger homes; being one time the media could be believed.

At 4pm Genevieve drained her wine glass, left the terrace and entered the house. She was ready and the clock was ticking down.  She was still doing the numbers in her head.  ‘I will be with you in three hours,’ Billy said on the phone two hours back. Good timing.  High tide was at 8.47. The September nights were closing in and dusk would be around 8pm; all part of her plan. With around an hour to spare she decided more wine would be acceptable and she removed the cap from another bottle and poured before lounging on her bed to consider again the prospects of the next few hours.  Billy had planned this long dirty weekend without being aware she was the one doing the planning, leading him up her silvery thread to her silken web. By the bedroom door stood her small weekend case containing everything she needed and didn’t need for a few days of passion on Billy’s twelve metre launch. She had packed this bag discriminately. Underwear, not for Billy’s benefit, several changes of clothes and many personal items to make sure identification in the case of emergency was ensured.  The most important item from her perspective was her Gucci handbag containing driver licence, credit cards, bank cards and in particular her passport.

Passport, credit cards and driver licence had dictated the need for a person of  Billy Walshe’s ilk in Genevieve’s life and he hadn’t disappointed her and had  exceeded expectation in the three months they had been together. As planned he alone was aware of her circumstances and change of identity. He was the main participant. He knew who she was; who she was then, who she was now and who she had been for the last three months of pantomime and pretence. Thanks to his expertise he also had a good knowledge of whom she intended to be in this next phase of her life. In moments of weakness and at the height of passion Genevieve almost regretted what was about to happen to Billy. She was in admiration of his workmanship, but that to one side she saw him only as another finely tuned instrument necessary to enable her to aspire to these great heights. That was his good side far outweighed by his bad. Other than that he was surplus to requirements; apart from excelling in bedroom gymnastics. It had taken a while for her to become associated with the true Billy Walshe with two sides to his character. One was dark. The other was the deepest pitch black, which was despicable. There lay the reason for her wanting out and why today would be the last day of the rest of Billy’s life.

Her first meeting with Billy Walshe had been circled with caution and apprehension as each assessed the incredibility of the other.  In his impressive private rooms in  Regents Park she had pulled no punches when revealing the reason for her presence, backed up impressively by a wad of English currency to the value of fifty thousand pounds which she blatantly emptied onto the deep pile of his Axminster.

‘I know who you are and what you do, my dear Mr Walshe, so do it for me,’ she proclaimed. ‘There is a down payment.  Fifty thousand pounds. I need five passports in new names and driver licences and documentation to support them. What I am saying is I need a new identity and am prepared to pay well for it. Don’t bullshit me. I know you can do it and I know you do it.’ Finding her stunningly beautiful and exploding with confidence he found it hard to believe what was happening.

‘How did you get here? Who told you about me?’

‘No names is always the deal with me and get it out of your head now, I am not the law. I make my own law. No matter who you are, Mr Right Honourable William Walshe you have left a trail and those who told are those who know. It has taken three weeks for me to get to you. Don’t waste your time down that track.’

Genevieve had watched the man melt before her. With a flash of thigh and more than a hint of cleavage the distraction was premeditated and the seed was sewn allowing time to play its part; as did sex. Genevieve loved sex and when the moment was right it mattered little to her with whom, as long as they could perform. Most men were club members when the hunger was there and the  hunger was always there for Billy when an exciting female such as the lady behind the pile of bank notes was concerned. Each had what the other wanted and it took a reasonable amount of time and inquiry for one to convince the other performance on each side was guaranteed. The money that spoke for itself was most convincing, but it became secondary when the moment came for settlement. Billy declared £50,000.00 was sufficient sum to cover the cost of the transaction, but he made it clear from the start there would be a consideration of fringe benefits to keep things tidy.

It was three days before show time when a performance in the bedroom left both parties gasping, satisfied and impressed. It took a further six weeks for Genevieve to accept personal delivery of five passports with driver licences and birth certificates fully supportive. The documents represented a thorough presentation and were way beyond Genevieve’s expectations, as Billy explained between his second and third orgasm for that particular mating session.

‘You have to know,’ he explained with each thrust of his libido, ‘these passports are not forgeries. Not even copies. They are the genuine document issued by application to the relative embassies; hence the extended time to acquire. The fact that the birth certificates upon which the passports were issued are counterfeit is the weak link, but you will find that I have signed your new names as well as you would have in relevant places. Make sure you practise them yourself. All five bear the embassies’ seals of approval and will stand thorough examination at any level. When you travel you will travel under the name on the passport of your choice with complete confidence. Who you are at any other time will be your decision.’

Lying on her bed in Journey’s End  Genevieve almost dozed and jolted back to consciousness as she waited for the signal that would announce Billy’s arrival. Again she considered the suitcase by the door. It was the second one she had packed this week. It was for the boat, but surplus to requirements unlike the one she had packed earlier and stored in the boot of her rental car which at this time was parked in the secure guest car park of the Osborne Hotel Torquay. This was her operative case containing all material things she needed in this world. What do you need when you have millions in the bank? Anything she had around her could be replaced and more to the point had been replaced over recent times, but the documentation was her life line. Four days earlier she had booked an executive suite online at the Osborne under her new French identity of  Gisselle Piaf; one week booked and paid for in full. The following day she had presented herself at the hotel reception and in her best French tainted English had taken possession of her room key, but did not enter the suite. There was no need. Genevieve was fluent in French as she was in three other languages. She gave instructions that at all times the Do Not Disturb instruction on her door should be strongly applied.  Having parked her vehicle securely she returned to Journey’s End courtesy of an apathetic taxi driver who found it difficult to deal with the poor English of the gullible French tourist in brimming hat and grotesque sunglasses. He was pleased, however, to drop her two hundred yards from her cottage and accept her generous tip.

At 4.45 it was getting near to show time. Billy would be near. Billy who adored her. Genevieve was ready and the time was nigh for her to discard her most recent identity when Genevieve Hughes as such would become no more. As had Glenys Hastings, her birth name, Grace Hampshire and the many other aliases adopted by her since leaving New Zealand.  A rose by any other name?  Change the names, but Genevieve would never change the natural traits and instincts that were the true Genevieve no matter what. She spared a thought once more for her new identities locked in a case in the car park of the Osborne Torquay. She had yet to decide. Who would she be after today? It occurred to her she had consumed sufficient  wine to make it inadvisable to make such a decision at that moment. It might well be that she would continue as Giselle Piaf,  born of a French mother and an English father at 27 Rue de Cheval - Marseille on 5th May 1972.  Maybe not. Her European heritage leaned her towards Doris Castleton born of British parents 11th June 1972 at 14 Deacons Lane  Crayford - Kent.  More appealing to her, as the alcohol relaxed her mood was Joni Michelson born of American mother and English father at 1437 Hank Snow Highway Nashville -Tennessee - 30 June 1972. Closer to home was her fresh New Zealand identity locked away in leather and plastic with the others in the boot of her rental Audi. Belinda Bassett born 1st January 1972 of  third generation European parents at 43 Peach Parade -  Remuera - Auckland. Her favourite since receiving these forged documents was Rosa Moreno del Auténtico, born 25 January 1972 - 101 Espirutu Santo - Sevilla – Spain - of Spanish mother Irish father. Her giggles, as she considered having five birthdays each year, six when counting her true self, were aborted by the sound of her security alarm announcing a visitor. Billy was at the main gate. Show time! She pushed the admittance button and prepared herself for act one.  Poor Billy.

Chapter 2

It was a sound that always stirred her for the thrill to come; the heavy wide wheel tyres of Billy’s Mercedes crunching to a silent halt on the loose gravel of the driveway of Journey’s End. Today would possibly be different once the action started, but a modicum of love play along the way was definitely on the cards to pave the way one for the final deed. Lay back and enjoy it, Billy.

It was 4.55. Billy stood framed in the doorway to the terrace with the sun behind him. Genevieve took a breath. Yes, he was a spunk! A bastard, but a spunk. His 45th birthday had taken a week for them to celebrate this past month. Much of that time had been between the sheets in a resort in the Greek Islands and it was on that occasion she had decided she had enjoyed enough of him and it was time for him to go. That Mediterranean holiday had changed her life dramatically. What she learned in those few erotic days alone with him had decided what was about to happen in the contrasting waters of the English Channel.  Black Widow that she was she would relish one final mating session before sinking her fangs into him and disposing of him completely; eliminating the one threat to her existence. And there he stood, vibrant, pulsing, ready to go and completely unsuspecting. He looked the complete package in matching blue denim slacks and shirt with chocolates and champagne balanced on one arm and a massive bouquet of summer blooms on the other.

‘What took you so long? I couldn’t wait to see you,’ she whispered in his ear as he collapsed on the bed next to her and then on top of her, smothering her in kisses. ‘It’s been a whole week.’

‘Don’t I know that?’ he said. ‘A whole week with me celibate and I love you, I love you, I love you.’ His passion and adoration overflowed.

‘And ready to explode by the feel of things,’ she laughed, pushing discretely away. ‘I suggest you save it until we are on the water when I can give you full value for money.’

Not deterred, he persisted and they became involved in a half hour of frantic love play during which Billy demonstrated that waiting wasn’t an option. With the job done she left him expired on the duvet while she busied herself in the kitchen, talking to him from two rooms away.

‘I know I can't rely on you so I have everything we need for three nights away should we stay that long.’ They had planned three days cruising the southern coastline, maybe as far as Bournemouth, or the Solent. Where, was of little consequence. Both needed to get away. Genevieve’s plan was they would not go that far. As she spoke he appeared in the doorway, straightening his dress, tucking his shirt into his waistband, looking like the cat that had just got the cream. His expression suggested he had also caught the canary.  She gestured to the food hamper she’d had delivered from the local delicatessen that afternoon. It covered half the bench top. ‘It weighs a ton. When you get your strength back you can put it in the boot of my car. Enough there to feed an army; ham, chicken, lobster, oysters, pâté, you name it. I am just short of the champers. I hope you brought more than one.’

‘Four should do for starters,’ he said. ‘But there’s another half dozen on board.’ He paused as though in thought. ‘Why your car? What’s wrong with mine?’

‘Two things are wrong. One being it wouldn’t be wise to leave a hundred thousand quid’s worth of Mercedes sitting on the wharf for the weekend as a target for vandals. We’d be lucky if it’s still there when we got back. My little VW won’t attract attention and wouldn’t be missed anyway’

‘Probably good thinking, but I’ve done it before and it is thief proof.  What’s the second?’

‘The second is you are as pissed as a fart. I could smell it on you the minute you walked through the door. I’m surprised you made it from London without being picked up.’

Billy smarted like a school boy caught with his hand in his mother’s purse.

‘Just a little drink never hurt anyone. I’m alright to drive.’

‘Tell that to the judge.’

With Billy squeezed into the passenger seat and the food hamper taking up the rear she had mentally farewelled her Journey’s End for the last time with just a twinge of regret. She had added a couple of final touches to her Hansel and Gretel trail of disappearance by making appointments with dentist, doctor and hairdresser for the coming week and leaving the stick-on notices under fridge magnets in the kitchen. Prying eyes would see she expected to be back when they made it their business to investigate her absence. She still had to decide on a permanent destination when this day was over. It would be somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere. Maybe a cruise for six months. The new Cunard liner Queen Victoria was an inviting option.

The heat of the day was still on them when Genevieve drove onto the marina and parked on the jetty adjacent to where Billy’s luxury launch, the Owl, was moored in sight of the harbour master’s office.  The combination of his long drive from London, his excessive intake of alcohol and his sexual fulfilment had instilled a lulling affect upon Billy who easily dozed for many of the twenty minutes it had taken to drive to the marina. This suited Genevieve who used the quiet time to continue with her scheming for the coming climax in this chapter of her life, rehearsing in her mind each vital action that would play its part in setting her free, unencumbered. Jerked into wakefulness by the sound of an applied handbrake Billy took his time transferring baggage and hamper into the cabin of his launch.

On his return to the jetty he found Genevieve in light hearted conversation with Derek Gyler, duty security officer for the night watch. The transfer of a generous number of five pound notes from her wallet to his hip pocket ensured her parked VW would receive special attention for the three nights they were away. With Gyler she’d had previous experience. He was a Londoner, a bit of a character with a sense of humour and an eye for the opposite sex; a rugby front row forward who moonlighted as a security guard.  He was thirty five years old, tall, straight and built like a concrete bunker. His biceps were solid on arms as thick as tree branches with large hands that were as gentle as doves when he accepted the money. Her lips became moist as he blatantly stared at the roundness of her breasts as they moved under her gossamer blouse; and she ensured they moved freely for his eyes. She felt the hunger start and her mind race as those eyes lingered. At any other time his hands could replace his eyes, she thought, as she handed him the keys for the VW.

‘You might know of the right place to put it where it will be safe on my return,’ she said provocatively.

They had played this game before.

‘I know just where to put it,’ he replied with a smooth grin. ‘And be sure I will be waiting for you.’

‘I must apologise for Billy tonight. He’s had a little  too much to drink. I wouldn’t let him drive. He should sober up when we get aboard.’

‘He shouldn’t be thinking about skippering this thing if he’s boozed,’ said Gyler as Billy appeared. Billy had missed the dialogue, but recognised the body language and didn’t care anyway.

Once aboard he joked about it. "Are you trying to give the man a heart attack, or something? He couldn’t take his eyes off your body and the poor guy has got to work.’

‘I was only being friendly. Big hands, big feet, big everything. He can place his rugby ball between my posts anytime he likes,’ said Genevieve and they laughed together.

‘But not tonight, eh,’ said Billy. ‘He will be waiting a long time waiting.’

Genevieve was pleased with the short encounter she’d had with Gyler. She had made a strong point giving him an indelible memory of her on this night for when the law arrived with their questions. Billy took his place in the wheelhouse and as Genevieve busied herself in the galley she felt the pulse of the inboard motors as he fired the craft ready for their voyage.  Derek slipped the moorings, doffed his cap and waved half heartedly as the launch moved offshore into the stream with the engines emitting a gentle purr hardly detectable on the mild summer evening.  The bridge clock said eighteen hundred hours. Less than three hours to high tide and around two hours remaining until dusk.

Genevieve took her time. At 6.45pm she stood back and admired the Last Supper  she had prepared for them both.  Billy was enjoying his time at the wheel having hugged the coast line as they headed east to nowhere in particular. The headland of Babacombe was taking shape about a mile away to the north and with Tucker Rock to the south within equal distance Genevieve was where she wanted to be. It was time to move. She lifted a plate of lobster tails from the table and squeezed in behind Billy in the wheelhouse. The space wasn’t cramped, but she made it so as she pushed her breasts into his back and dangled a large morsel of lobster flesh before his eyes.

‘You are neglecting me you horrible little man,’ she said. ‘It’s always the same. The moment you get aboard this marvellous toy of yours you lose interest in me and I’m getting hungry and as horny as hell.  Can’t you find somewhere to drop anchor so that we can play for a while? It will be dark in an hour and I have prepared something special for you.’

Shallow waters were not hard to find in the lee of Thatcher Rock and the anchor spilled out rhythmically before bedding into the ocean floor. Then it was party time at the top of the tide. Something special for him was also special for her as he took her on the floor of the main cabin without the thought of food.  In truth sex was the last activity in which she wanted to be involved at the moment. As far as she was concerned the last time could have been the last time with Billy, but sex was required now to relax and distract him so she was patient and went through the motions until his libido died

As the amber fluid continued to flow he revelled in the moment, gleeful, rampant, totally uncontrolled and completely unaware that of the two of them he was the only one drinking as he groped, mauled and ravished her beautiful body. With a lull in copulation they focused on the meal which for Genevieve was also part of her plan. She was preparing him. They sat opposite each other at the cabin table with the full spread of food between them; both naked with him growing drunker and more stupid with every goblet of champagne she ladled into him. The conversation was light, frivolous as they talked of their situation, their location and their prospect of continuing their journey; tonight, or tomorrow?  Genevieve knew they were going nowhere, but she listened as he gabbled on about Southampton, the Solent and the Isle of White. Dream on Billy. Suck up some more of that grape juice. There is no way you are sailing this thing anywhere tonight. We are exactly where I want to be. With a mouth filled with oysters straight from the shell he addressed her across the table in almost sober tones, elbows propped, hands gesticulating, as he made his point.

‘You know honey bunch, you have the most beautiful body. So firm, so muscular. How is it you are able to keep so trim?’

Genevieve writhed in genuine response as he reached across and smoothed a hand down her left side, depressing the flesh of her breast before tightly cupping it in a tight claw, hurting her.

‘You know how. I’ve told you more than once. I swim; every day.’ This was the truth. She loved to swim. ‘Not today though. But I swim most days.’

Billy withdrew his hand and reached for his empty glass which she filled.

‘I can’t swim a stroke,’ he muttered. ‘Not a stroke. If I went into the brine I’d go straight to the bottom. I’m scared shitless of the water.’

That’s encouraging, thought Genevieve, then aloud, ‘how can that be? You’ve got this bloody great boat. Why would you play with fire?

Billy was complacent. ‘This thing? Don’t worry. It’s unsinkable. Nothing can go wrong with it. It’s as safe as houses.’

‘Tell that to the skipper of the Titanic.’ Across the table Genevieve laughed and added, ‘I could teach you to swim. It’s easy. I swim every day and would miss it if I couldn’t.’

‘No way. You’ll never get me in the water.’

‘It could happen and when it does remember a few things. Never panic, keep your head above water, control your breathing and move your arms steadily in the direction you want to go; and you are swimming.’

‘Don’t waste your breath on me. It will never happen.’

‘I thought that when I was a kid in New Zealand, but that soon changed when I joined a club.’ She checked herself, mentioning her homeland was a mistake and she quickly overrode the statement. ‘In recent years I have done Dover to Calais twice. No fancy times, but at least I have done it. I love swimming.’ This was the truth and an achievement of which she was proud.

Billy was impressed; astounded even. ‘That is amazing. And that would account for that smooth stomach and those beautiful strong thighs.’

Genevieve made a show of draining her empty glass and filled Billy’s. He was well pissed.

‘It would account for a lot of things,’ she said. She indicated the feast before them. ‘You be a good boy and eat your greens and you can have more of that body you like so much for dessert.’ She reached across the table and poured a half bottle of champagne over his head then turned the bottle on herself and drained it dry over her breasts. ‘And be quick because I am horny again.’ He became excited and jumped forward, grabbing at her, but she quietened him and shoved him back into his chair. ‘Eat your greens. You’ll perform better on a full stomach.’

He went quiet as he became engrossed in the half ham centre table. As she watched him carve her mind was miles away, thinking of the six times this week she had swum the distance between Thatcher Rock and the private beach access of the Osborne Hotel and back. It took around an hour each way depending on the tide and conditions. A pleasurable doddle, swimming was her one continual joy. She was at home in the water and swam as naturally as most people walked and ran.  She knew these waters well, being more than familiar with Thatcher Rock, Tucker Rock and the dozens of small sunken reefs below the tide in areas that were a danger and off limits to pleasure craft. With eating out of the way and the food hardly touched they came together again in their nakedness, but she was able to control him and grabbed his hand and propelled him towards the stern hatch.

‘It will be dark in less than an hour. Let’s go on deck. I want to perform for you beneath the stars. Grab a bottle and some glasses.’

She released his hand and disappeared through the hatchway. Genevieve knew there was less than an hour of daylight remaining and she nodded with assurance as the sun became obscured by a cloud bank to the west. The gentle swell that rocked the launch had attracted no other boaties to leave a peripheral ocean as their personal playground. The mainland to the north offered no opportunities for casual observers and deck chairs against the boat’s railing provided added privacy. Genevieve sprawled in a chair at the stern, legs splayed waiting for Billy to appear from below as he did almost instantly with a bottle of champagne in each hand.

‘The last two,’ he exclaimed. ‘We should have brought more.’

‘The last one,’ she echoed, running her hands down her bronzed body. ‘Come and get it.’  The black widow was ready now and time was running out. As her mate he was about to pay for his horrible antics and for all the things he had revealed to her of his disgusting activities in the Greek Islands and most places north. Genevieve had no illusions about the type of woman she was, but in her mind she wasn’t a bad girl. Clever? Yes. Over sexed? Most certainly, but she liked that, although always discriminate in her choice of partner. Using her body as one of her tools of trade she had amassed a fortune by the use of her own special aptitude. In New Zealand she had excelled by outfoxing the fox as she so aptly put it, but had never killed; although she had consorted with killers. As a result she classed herself as the world’s richest fugitive. Hence the new passports and hence Billy Walshe. That was another story that one day needed telling. Billy Walshe! Another of whom the world will be well rid. Poor Billy.

Following vigorous sexual activity and a half bottle of the best vintage, the Black Widow spider and her mate lay sprawled on the deck, Billy exhausted, she not as much so. Genevieve was ready to play her joker. The sun had freed itself of cloud, but was nestled on the horizon, about to turn the day into night. Billy lay on his back, akimbo, studying her body as she straddled him.

‘I think I have enjoyed as much of this as I can stand,’ he breathed, then jokingly chastised her as she poured the last dregs of a champagne bottle over her torso. ‘Hey, don’t waste it. We are low on stock.’

‘Are you calling this a waste?’ she said as she threw the bottle into the tide and massaged the golden fluid into her breasts. ‘You’ve never complained before.’  She reached for the remaining uncorked bottle and held it over her head. The fluid was running from her body as the setting sun reflected on its green and golden motif. Billy lay back in a helpless fashion and watched with a split second of surprise as