Death by Indulgence Page 14

  Marcus had never developed a close relationship with either of Lydia’s parents. They were nice enough people but rather dull and predictable. He didn’t want to be there and he most certainly didn’t envisage having to indulge in polite conversation with them on a Wednesday. Earlier in the evening Marcus had suffered the indignity of sampling Roger Limberg’s homemade tasteless beer as they stood in the workshop outside, whilst Roger regaled him with the virtues of owning a classic car. Marcus had no interest whatsoever in engines or indeed in any vehicle. As far as he was concerned they were merely a means of transport or an investment. He tried to nod in the right places and make appreciative noises, but his thoughts kept wandering. On three occasions after dinner he heard notification of messages arriving on his mobile phone and instinctively knew that Harry was playing with him.

  In the privacy of the en suite bathroom, with the door firmly locked, and Lydia lying curled up in a ball on the bed, Marcus checked his messages. There was one photo from ‘Mr D’ - as his contact list recorded him - of Ella, in her uniform stepping through a doorway holding a jug of water. The door was held open by a smiling Harry Drysdale.

  ‘You lucky bastard,’ he whispered. Then realising that someone else in that room must have been taking the photograph, he scrolled to the next message. ‘Please don’t let it be Leonora.’

  Despite his desperation at missing his weekly indulgences at Buxham’s with Harry, the evening had panned out unexpectedly well for Marcus. Lydia had complained of indigestion, had vomited, and moaned in discomfort. His decision not to warn Lydia about the potential significance of these symptoms would have far-reaching consequences. However, Lydia’s betrayal was his overriding current problem, and his answer to that problem would be to do nothing for now. Timing would be everything.

  To avoid a catastrophic miscalculation, he determined to weigh up the options once more. Running through the checklist in his head, as he cleaned his teeth, he grinned at the prospect of such a simple solution.

  ‘I think the change in routine has upset my digestion,’ his wife had said earlier that evening as they sat at the dinner table. Her parents had questioned why she kept rubbing her hand to her chest, just below her neckline. ‘It feels like heartburn.’

  ‘Perhaps a glass of milk would help,’ her mother offered. ‘Other than that I think I have some milk of magnesia somewhere in the medicine cupboard.’

  ‘Do they still sell that old stuff?’ Lydia queried, pushing her hands one on top of the other just below her sternum as she looked to Marcus for advice.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. It’s likely to be rich food and the alcohol. As your mother said, drink plenty of milk. It should help to counteract the acid.’

  ‘It did when I was pregnant.’

  ‘There you are then…’ He had smiled pleasantly, although given Lydia’s level of suffering he strongly suspected that there was an issue with her gastric band.

  From the conversation at the dinner table it had become blatantly obvious that neither of Lydia’s parents had the slightest clue that their daughter had resorted to weight loss surgery and Marcus had puzzled over exactly what lies Lydia had told them to cover up her extreme decision. He did the dutiful thing and checked on his wife when she disappeared to the bathroom to vomit, and he confronted her.

  ‘Lydia, when you were in Tenby with your mother and the girls, after you had your surgery, what did you tell them?’

  As the retching subsided, Lydia raised her head from the rim of the toilet bowl to reply. ‘She thinks it was a gynae op for a uterine polyp. That’s what I told everyone. That’s what I told you too. Remember?’

  He thought back with only a tinge of remorse as he recalled that he hadn’t pretended to be sympathetic. Instead he had been irritated by her lack of interest in sex and her endless excuses as to why she didn’t want to eat properly. Things between them were never the same after that.

  Slipping into the bed beside Lydia he continued his play-acting. ‘How’s the pain now?’

  ‘Much improved since I took those tablets mum found, but I feel shaky as if I’ve got the flu. I hope the girls don’t catch it.’ Marcus reached across and laid the back of one hand against Lydia’s forehead, she was hot. ‘No, you’re fine. No sign of a temperature. Listen, if you’re not feeling too good then we could perhaps go home. I could look after you there and the girls could stay here with your parents. That way they won’t catch your germs. What do you think?’

  Lydia nodded. ‘Yes. That’s a good idea. I’d rather be ill in my own bed. We could ask my parents in the morning.’ She smiled at Marcus. ‘Thanks for being so discreet.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to spoil the relationship you have with your parents, I’m not a complete bastard.’

  He should have warned her that her pain could be coming from an infection, a band intolerance, or oesophageal dilation and that a rupture could be on the cards. But he didn’t tell her, and he failed to make any real reference to her gastric band being at the heart of her current pain and sickness. Not yet. When he did decide the time was right to reveal this, then Lydia would soon request, nay beg, for the band to be removed. Time would do the dirty work and Charles Broughton would be held accountable for insufficient monitoring of his patient.

  ‘Goodnight Lydia, sleep tight.’

  27

  The Search

  Friday 26th January

  Quinn slouched on the edge of Carla Lewis’s office desk.

  ‘You seem to know much more about the case than we do, Mr Neale, and I get the distinct feeling that you are taking the piss. Shall we start again?’

  ‘Keep up, DS Quinn, this isn’t difficult. Harry is missing and you have CCTV footage that suggests he left here on Thursday morning the fourth of January with his friend Marcus Carver, and despite your efforts to find him Harry hasn’t been seen since that day. The CCTV shows someone, presumed to be Harry, using the door pad, and this is recorded on the data for that security system. He is then seen at the railway station and you have made enquiries confirming him being sighted with Marcus Carver entering Carver’s residence together, not too much later that same morning. A taxi driver gave a positive if I’m not mistaken.’

  Quinn rubbed his hand over his stubbly chin. ‘Is that right, Sherlock? As it happens you are pretty much correct. All the members at this here club have their index finger and thumb prints on record and it was most definitely Harry Drysdale that released the gate that morning.’

  ‘Hmmm, I see.’

  There was a pause as Quinn, statue-like, sat motionless staring at Konrad’s face until he found his voice. ‘You are suggesting there may be another explanation?’

  ‘Yes. I am,’ Konrad said.

  Quinn leapt up from his seat and rushed to the door. Swivelling his head from left to right he spied a member of staff at the far end of a corridor and yelled a demand to see Carla Lewis immediately. Before she returned to face his questions, Quinn turned to Konrad once more for help. ‘What else do you have?’

  If Konrad divulged all the information he and Lorna had gleaned then his element of surprise, his full house, his golden egg of a scheme to save his career, could be lost to the judicial system. His only recourse was to feed Quinn with enough to avoid being accused of withholding vital evidence.

  ‘I have to assume, being an intelligent man, that you will be questioning Marcus Carver again. He must be at the centre of this, surely. I mean, his wife died that very day and you have to ask yourself what was he doing at Buxham’s if she was so ill?’

  ‘More to the bloody point, if he and Harry Drysdale were together at his house then we should be searching there, rather than here, don’t you think?’

  ‘Quite. And if Harry was seen leaving here and entering the Carver residence, then where is he now if he never made it to Chamonix to see his old friends?’

  ‘The airport records are clear. He never got on the plane.’

  Their double act was brought to a swift halt by the arrival of a fl
ustered Carla Lewis. ‘Nula said it was urgent. How can I help?’

  ‘I need copies of the fingerprints for Harry Drysdale and Marcus Carver from your security system. All of them please. Now. I need to email them through to forensics.’

  ‘Certainly. Anything else?’

  ‘Oh there will be a lot else, but this is all I need for the time being. If you would…’ He waved a hand towards the computer encouraging Carla to take up her seat in front of the screen. ‘Doctor Carver came alone on Wednesdays after the night of the third of January, did he? Please check carefully.’

  ‘He’s a mister Carver actually,’ Konrad interjected. ‘He’s a surgeon.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Quinn responded rather irked by Konrad’s manner.

  Carla answered the officer’s question. ‘Yes. He’s arrived alone for the last four weeks, sat at the same table with his usual guests. Mr Drysdale wasn’t due to join him. He was supposed to fly out for a skiing holiday and then he had a big court case that was due to start almost as soon as he was back. We weren’t expecting to see him until, well… the beginning of February at the earliest.’

  Konrad looked on, deep in thought. He had already convinced himself that his own, more accurate, hypothesis was correct, and he was desperate to follow up his hunch.

  ‘I’ll wait outside for you, DS Quinn. I’ll be in reception.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Good idea. You shouldn’t be privy to this information.’ Quinn was distracted, watching intently as Carla Lewis retrieved vital data, he waved a dismissal.

  The lady at the reception desk couldn’t have been more helpful. Konrad shared a few snippets of relevant information; just enough to convince Nula that he had detailed knowledge and was seeking confirmation of the facts.

  ‘I was hoping to have a word with Ella the restaurant hostess.’

  ‘I’m sorry but she no longer works here.’

  ‘She didn’t last long then. That’s a shame. I liked her bubbly personality and my wife has expressed a wish to take up art lessons, so I wanted to chat to her about where she recommends. Has she gone far?’

  A stickler for maintaining the privacy of guests, the same standards did not seem to apply when it came to members of staff. Nula fell for the Konrad Neale double bluff as he continued. ‘I do apologise. How thoughtless of me to ask. Don’t worry yourself. I’m sure her old employer can furnish me with an address. I wouldn’t want to cause you a problem.’

  Nula grinned at him, somewhat star struck. ‘You don’t need to go to all that trouble, Mr Neale. I have her brother’s business card; I’ll give you his number. He’ll be glad to help.’

  ‘May I?’ Konrad asked, taking the card from Nula and absorbing the details he read there. ‘Mallory Fitzwilliam, data security analyst.’

  ‘Keep the card if you like. He’s been here a couple of times. Charming man. He collected her belongings for her.’

  ‘For her? Not with her?’

  ‘No. She left under rather difficult circumstances. I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.’

  28

  Four days before Harry’s disappearance

  The smell was unmistakable. Hollberry Hospital with its shiny floors and bustling corridors where everyone walked so slowly, was not a popular destination for Ella. She had bad memories of her visits to A&E there.

  She brushed past the frustrating dawdlers and made her way, according to the signs on the walls, towards the Albert Fawcett Surgical Ward on the third floor. The lift took too long to arrive and her impatience was spilling out in the form of foot tapping and muttered expletives. This drew a number of embarrassed responses from other hospital visitors who went out of their way to avoid eye contact with her. Unable to contain her irritation, she took the stairs instead, bounding up them two at a time.

  ‘Oh, no, how long have you been like this?’ Val enquired as she turned her head to see who her noisy visitor was. Ella sprung into the side room where Val was recuperating from surgery, and went to the bottom of the bed. She pulled out the folder containing Val’s records in the shape of food and fluid charts, vital signs records, and her drug chart.

  ‘Like what?’ Ella asked, quickly turning the pages of the red folder. ‘Oh would you look at this chart. How fascinating. Total urinary output for yesterday was—’

  ‘Do you mind you nosy cow? Put that down and come here where I can see you properly.’

  Ella did as she was told and stood like a petulant child, twiddling her thumbs and fidgeting. ‘What?’

  Val groaned as she moved onto her elbow to glance up and down at what Ella was wearing. She shook her head in despair. ‘Come on, kiddo. You know the bloody signs. How the hell have you let it get this bad?’

  ‘It’s not. Honestly, I just decided to brighten myself up a bit, like a tonic, putting two fingers up to the grey inclemency of the winter weather. My last-ditch effort to possess sunshine and flowers. I’m not over-excited, I’m not talking incessantly, I’m interruptible, I have little difficulty when it comes to insomnia, apart from the last few nights, I’m not eating that much more than is usual and—’

  ‘Stop! Stop right there,’ Val begged, trying in vain to sit upright. She fell back against the pillows of her hospital bed. ‘Listen to yourself. You’re talking at top speed in your posh voice and using la-di-dah vocabulary. You arrived here singing loudly and walking at the pace required of an Olympic event. On top of that you are wearing lime green trousers matched with an orange and black jumper. I need my fucking sunglasses,’ Val complained drawing a deep meaningful breath. ‘Taking a wild guess you have been on a spending spree on your way here.’ Val flicked her eyes towards three large shopping bags that Ella had abandoned by the wall.

  ‘It’s the sales,’ Ella said with an expansive waft of her hands. ‘There’s no benefit in wasting my day off. I have things to do.’ Continuing to tell Val about which shops she’d been to and the details of her purchases, Ella drew items one after the other from the bags on the floor and flung them onto the bed.

  ‘Has this been going on all weekend?’

  ‘What, shopping? No, I’ve been at work. I covered breakfast, lunch, and dinner service on Friday, Saturday and yesterday which of course was New Year’s Eve. It was most satisfactory. I’m really getting the hang of it now and I’ve been practising my surveillance skills to boot. I can tell the devious ones just by looking at them. Would you credit it, I caught a man red-handed with his mobile phone in the dining room, attempting to take a surreptitious photo of another guest. He was mightily put out because it was his brother’s birthday celebration, but rules is rules, as they say.’

  ‘Ella! For pity’s sake, shut the fuck up for five minutes and listen to me.’

  Ella stopped what she was doing and put both index fingers to her closed lips. Her gleaming eyes danced with excitement.

  ‘Answer me with a nod for yes or a shake for no, but don’t speak. Okay?’

  Ella nodded vigorously.

  ‘Have you, at any time in the last three weeks, forgotten to take your medication each night?’

  Shake.

  ‘Have you been sleeping less than seven hours on more than three consecutive nights?’ Val drilled her eyes into Ella’s. The fluorescently dressed girl standing in front of her, bursting with a need to speak, hopped from one leg to the other. Ella then held her hands out, palms upwards and jiggled her head to indicate how unsure she was.

  ‘Shit. That’s a definite maybe. Oh, God, Ella we are so close to stopping this guy. Don’t let me down now. Here’s the important question, be truthful. Have you been drinking more milk than usual, milkshakes?’

  The floodgates opened. ‘I have, and I’ve been having hot chocolate made with milk and a squirt of cream to top up. But honestly I don’t think I’m that high. Not really, when you think about it.’

  ‘Yes you are. You bloody-well are. You have to get this under control right now, do you understand? This very moment! There is no way I’m allowing you to screw this up. Get my bag.’


  A vexed Val poked a bony finger towards the locker at her left-hand side. Ella rushed to pull open the doors and drag the small black leather rucksack from within. Without pausing, she unceremoniously dumped it on top of the pile of clothes, makeup and hair accessories that she had strewn across Val’s bed.

  ‘You know what to do,’ Val said handing Ella two packets of tablets. ‘One of my lorazepam right now and then increase your dose to three times a day. Have you got enough back in the club? Including the ones in case of relapse?’

  Ella nodded.

  ‘The chlorpromazine, only take at night and make sure you take it with double your usual dose of quetiapine. Get this sorted by Wednesday or they’ll sack you before we get the chance to finish the job we came to do. You have to take incriminating photographs and then we can expose them for what they are.’

  Val watched intently as Ella took a one-milligram tablet of lorazepam and popped it into her mouth, taking a slurp of water from a tumbler she found on Val’s bedside cabinet.

  Lifting the glass to her lips Ella caught sight of Val’s bare arms. They were usually covered up, hiding her past. But in hospital with a cannula in the back of one hand and a blood pressure cuff attached to the other arm, her skin was on show. So were the crisscross raised lines of old scars that chequered the inside of her left forearm from wrist to elbow. An understanding look passed between the two women as Ella swallowed the last of the water and handed Val the tumbler.

  ‘I’m on the case. Truthfully,’ Ella assured. ‘These clothes… they’re for my ingenious plan. I’ll be irresistible. I’ll capture the required evidence on film. How can I do this? It’s simplicity itself. You’ve no need to worry. I bought this.’