Death by Indulgence Read online

  Death by Indulgence

  A B Morgan

  Copyright © 2020 by A B Morgan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is dedicated to Barbara who handed me a till receipt. I can’t recall how much the bill came to, but at the top were the words “Table No. 88” and from that moment a story was conceived.

  Thank you for the challenge.

  ‘Hit me with your rhythm stick, two fat persons,

  click, click, click.’

  Ian Dury and the Blockheads 1978

  Contents

  1. The Search Begins

  2. Six months previously

  3. The following day

  4. The Search

  5. Four weeks before Harry’s disappearance

  6. November

  7. Four weeks before Harry’s disappearance

  8. The Search

  9. Wednesday 6th December

  10. That same evening

  11. From across the room …

  12. The Search

  13. The morning after dinner at Buxham’s

  14. The Second Weekend of December

  15. The Search

  16. The week before Christmas

  17. The Wednesday Before Christmas

  18. All fine

  19. The Search

  20. The Wednesday After Christmas

  21. That Same Evening

  22. Later That Evening

  23. The Search

  24. The Thursday after Christmas

  25. Moments later

  26. The Wednesday after Christmas

  27. The Search

  28. Four days before Harry’s disappearance

  29. The day before Harry disappeared

  30. The Search

  31. Past midnight, the day of Harry’s disappearance

  32. The Search

  33. The day Harry disappears

  34. Disappearing Harry

  35. The Search

  36. The Search

  37. Harry is no more

  38. The Carver residence

  39. The Search

  40. How Ella lost her job

  41. Ella

  42. The Search

  43. Tuesday 6th February

  44. Later that evening

  45. The early hours of the following day

  46. Buxham’s Club, that evening

  47. Earlier that Wednesday

  48. The Apology

  With Thanks

  About the Author

  Some Suggested Book Club Questions

  1

  The Search Begins

  January 25th

  Konrad sat at the kitchen table scraping the last morsel from half a grapefruit as he pored over his tablet, checking his Twitter feed. The chatter coming from the radio was giving an update on local news, distracting him.

  ‘… And finally, police say their investigations into the severed human thumb, found by local bin men during their rounds on the fourth of January, have stalled. No one has come forward seeking medical treatment and a search of the police database has failed to identify who the print may belong to. Little is known about the thumb other than it is from a male, most likely Caucasian.’

  There was a rustle from the newspaper his wife was holding as she stood up and trotted round the sturdy pine table to show him a short article.

  ‘Look, Kon, it says here that Harry Drysdale has gone missing.’ She dropped the relevant pages on top of his iPad, obscuring his view and angling for his attention.

  ‘What, our Harry Drysdale? Immaculate Harry?’

  ‘Yes. See.’ She pointed out the photograph to the left of the article on page two of the Daily Albion. ‘He was due to be leading for the defence in a murder case starting today but hasn’t been seen since the Thursday after New Year.’

  ‘Did he fall down a crevasse?’

  ‘Not according to this. He didn’t even make the flight to go on his skiing trip and failed to meet up with his lawyer friends in Chamonix for their annual New Year hangover cure.’

  Konrad returned to staring glumly at the bowl of pith and grapefruit skin. ‘He looked perfectly alright the last time we saw him.’

  ‘I know,’ Lorna said. ‘But this isn’t like Harry.’

  The tone of her voice made Konrad pick up the article to read for himself.

  2

  Six months previously

  Ella hadn’t seen Val for years. Her face was one from the past, a hazy memory from a part of her life that she would rather forget. However, whether it was by fate or coincidence, Valerie Royal re-entered her world one summer night; the evening she lost her job at the Old Music Hall Bingo Club.

  Ella pressed the button and watched the numbers come up on the screen in front of her. All she was required to do was to chant them out loud, clearly and with enthusiasm.

  Three years of bingo calling, albeit part-time, was taking its toll and signs of her frustrations were beginning to emerge, no matter how hard she tried to hold herself in check. Under-achievement was eating away at her. On that particular Saturday her ability to put on a show of perky, cheerful, sales patter was being sorely tested, and she finally caved in to her compulsion to entertain.

  Ella often breached the club’s regulations. Nothing illegal. Insignificant rules, like for example the one about staff uniform. It was drab, so she brightened it up to match her fifties rockabilly hairstyle and reddest of red lipstick. Anything to make her feel alive, and not to conform.

  That night, like any other, she was supposed to call the numbers, just the numbers. However, it was repetitive and mind numbing. With her resistance absenting itself, Ella went rogue. She used the vintage bingo calls of yesteryear, and the older players, judging by the gusto with which they joined in the fun, loved it.

  ‘Garden gate,’ she called.

  ‘Number eight!’ the crowd called back.

  Scanning around the dozens of heads, Ella paused briefly to allow for any shouts signalling a winner before the next number was played.

  ‘Top of the shop.’

  ‘Ninety!’

  She caught sight of a group of twenty-somethings exchanging questioning and bewildered looks. ‘Come on now you youngsters at the front. If you don’t know the calls, then make friends with the nearest granny, buy her a drink and she’ll teach you. Remember, one lucky winner has already bagged themselves over sixty pounds for a horizontal line this evening, ladies and gentlemen. We have eighty pounds for two lines and a whopping two-hundred pounds sterling for a full house. It could be yours. Eyes down again.’ She pushed the button on the random number generator and two digits appeared.

  It had to be done.

  ‘A favourite of mine, anyway up, meal for two …’

  Only a handful of voices shouted the reply, ‘Sixty-nine!’ followed by gasps and giggles from the players sitting immediately in front of the caller’s desk. To their far left Ella spied a table with two players who couldn’t have looked more out of place if they’d tried. They were totally disengaged with each other and with the game. Lesbians, Ella guessed from their appearance. The more masculine of the two wore a black leather biker jacket over a black roll-neck sweater. She had badly bleached spikey hair and an angular face to match, pale and sour. Her pink-haired partner wore a floral print tea dress and silver Doc Marten boots which complemented her tattoos and facial piercings. The rather scrawny, spikey-haired woman was staring at Ella, in preference to her date.

  ‘All the whores … sorry, that should be all the fours.’ A littl
e ripple of pleasure coursed through Ella’s body as she witnessed the expressions of surprise on the faces of the players as they laughed at her apparent mistake.

  ‘Forty four!’

  ‘Dirty Gertie … number thirty.’ She’d filled in the blank, as even the most experienced players were unfamiliar with some of her more modern bingo lingo.

  ‘Jump and Jive.’

  ‘Thirty-five!’

  ‘Here!’ an elderly man shouted, waving his bingo card in the air.

  Standing at the electronic terminal, holding the microphone up to her mouth, Ella congratulated the man on his winnings while another staff member dealt with the process of making sure the claim was legitimate.

  ‘Well done, Derek. If you and Audrey drank less gin you’d have enough for that fortnight in Magaluf by now. He’s a lucky man. Wins every week don’t you, Derek?’ The grey-haired gentleman smiled and waved again. They plainly appreciated the humour, but as Ella’s portly manager approached from the back of the hall his wrinkled balding head and dark expression foretold of trouble coming directly her way. In an attempt to prevent him from tackling her about her unorthodox style and inappropriate dress, she hastily announced the next game.

  ‘On the green card, ladies and gentlemen, let’s have eyes down for that elusive big winner. If the magical, full house includes your superstar square, then your winnings will be doubled. It’s a Saturday special, ladies and gents. Make your dreams come true.’ She swung around extending her arm to encompass every corner of the room.

  The biker woman was still staring at her, but now she had risen from her seat and was clapping, a lopsided half-smile on her face. Only then did Ella realise who she was and why she would be staring so intently. Her astonishment resulted in a pause, during which her infuriated manager relieved her of the microphone and instructed her to take a break. He made a brief announcement to the customers using a nasal monotone, redolent of a nineteen seventies disco DJ.

  ‘Your next game starts in seven minutes. Seven minutes, ladies and gentlemen. Place your drink orders. I thank you.’

  He turned on Ella, piggy-eyed disgust evident on his moon face. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at? And what the heck are you wearing? You can’t wear red shoes, or that ghastly headscarf thing. You’ve been warned before about this sort of behaviour. We’ll be a laughingstock at the National Bingo Callers’ finals if this gets out. You’re suspended. Go home.’

  ‘I’m not. I quit. You can stick your poxy job.’

  When Ella emerged from the staff exit, she had her coat thrown over one arm, and a large handbag swinging from her shoulder. The reality of what her life had become landed with a psychological “flump” like an avalanche at her feet and she was muttering away, giving herself a stern talking to about being potentially homeless in the near future. She was stopped in her tracks by the woman in the biker jacket. It was Val.

  ‘You’ve pulled. Let’s get a drink,’ Val said gruffly, lighting a cigarette and walking next to Ella, matching her strides.

  ‘Where’s your friend?’

  ‘She’s staying. Blind date. Bad idea.’ Val shrugged.

  Even after nearly eight years had passed, Ella still had to set Val straight. ‘You haven’t pulled; I’m still not a lesbian, Val, so no funny business. Anyway, where did the rest of you go? I hardly recognised you.’ The last time they had seen each other Val had weighed in at an astounding twenty-six stone and had earned the nickname “Fat Val”.

  ‘Long story and not a pleasant one, I can assure you. Looks like you found what I lost,’ Val said, casting an eye over Ella and wafting her cigarette between two fingers as if conducting an orchestra in two-four time.

  ‘Yeah. I think I did. It’s the bloody medication.’

  ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’

  ‘No, really. You used to be a tiny waif, trying to be invisible. Now look at you, all curves and flowing auburn locks. You look fucking gorgeous.’

  They spent the rest of that evening imbibing copious amounts of alcohol and catching up with news of their lives.

  If Val hadn’t placed one of her business cards in Ella’s purse at the end of the evening, Ella’s life, although it could never have been very ordinary, may perhaps have been less tragic, but not for the reasons you might expect.

  3

  The following day

  Examining herself in the bathroom mirror the next morning, Ella’s shoulders drooped. ‘What a beautiful sight,’ she groaned with resentment as she lifted her breasts, one in each hand, before allowing them to fall and slap against her ribcage. Sticking a finger into her navel, she wiggled it making her rounded belly jiggle. She recalled Val’s admiration of her figure, although she couldn’t accept it as anything other than an old acquaintance trying to flatter her in sympathy. Either that or Val was making another admirable effort to lead her into homosexual temptation. Then she remembered the job offer.

  At first, she hadn’t known what to do about finding new employment and, during a fretful, sleepless night, had considered taking up regular waitressing again. Since her spectacular fall from normality seven years earlier, Ella had flitted from one job to another, bringing in money where she could to pay the rent on a ghastly bedsit. It wasn’t all bad. She discovered that agency work enabled her to explore possibilities although she took great care to avoid too many split shifts as they were dangerously destabilising.

  As far as mental stability was concerned, there had only been a hiccup or three in the last five years and it had to stay that way. Even the momentary lapse at the bingo club was nothing more than a ripple on a pond. She’d done so much worse than that, even before getting herself sectioned.

  Prior to landing her regular weekend stint as a bingo caller, she had often worked with a waitress called Ada for an outside catering company. They became firm friends. Ada and Ella covered several conference events together and enjoyed each other’s wry sense of humour and in particular Ella loved Ada’s northern take on life.

  ‘There’s no need to run,’ Ada had advised during her new friend’s first conference catering experience. ‘Carry plates t’ table, put ‘em down gently, smile at the buggers, then walk off and get some more plates. Not rocket science is it?’

  After Ada bravely confessed to having had difficulties with depression, Ella relaxed enough around her to share her own experiences and the two began to exchange strategies for staying on top of their mental health challenges.

  ‘I really have to watch out for my sleep pattern changing, so I’m regimented about exercise, relaxation and keeping to a routine,’ Ella told her.

  ‘What happens if you don’t?’

  ‘Nothing at first, I get a bit lively, but then all hell breaks loose. It hasn’t happened for a while. There’s no room for complacency. I learnt that the hard way with two disastrous relapses in the years just after my first mind-blowing, career-shattering, world-rocking meltdown.’

  ‘Don’t I know it … and we keep taking the bloody tablets, without fail, or else back off t’ funny farm we go.’

  Ada was open and endearing and, for Ella, acknowledgement of their newfound common ground was like finding another member of her special gang. Someone she didn’t need to shy away from through fear of being exposed as a nutcase.

  It had been Ada who dared Ella to accept the challenge of becoming an artist’s model.

  ‘You’d be ideal. I didn’t think I could do it either, but let me tell you summat, I started about three years ago and it completely restored my confidence. You see, my little chicken, because it’s art, it’s not tacky at all, in fact it’s very relaxing. You’d be amazed at how great you feel about your own body.’

  Refusing to be persuaded by Ada’s arguments, Ella pushed the suggestion to the back of her mind for some time. She continued to run herself ragged serving at tables to earn a few pounds, until she saw an advert in a local magazine several months later. Despite the fact that she’d never heard of such a s
pecialist option, she went along for an audition as a hand model. She didn’t get the job, but thanks to Ada’s encouragement and the small modelling company in Crewsthorpe who insisted she was perfect, Ella could add an intriguing skill to her résumé - life modelling.

  Once over the nerves of the first naked sitting, she enjoyed it immensely, and it was less physically demanding than waiting on tables.

  It suited her.

  She didn’t fit in with the nine-to-fivers, the office skinny-Sarahs or the retail customer service sycophants. Instead she took what modelling contracts she could, served on tables at the odd conference or corporate event and covered her basic bills with the income from the bingo club. Ella would never be rich but she could manage her needs and not have to conform to the requirements of a real career.

  Now, having lost the local bingo-calling job, finances would be dire. Ella considered her choices. To ward off the threat of eviction for non-payment of rent, she had toyed with the idea of offering her talents to the large bingo hall in Hollberry. But, in truth, the rumour mill about her unorthodox calling style would preclude her from other mainstream bingo franchises. Never mind an entry into the National Bingo Callers Competition!