Death by Indulgence Read online

  Flapping around, pulling clothes from the pile on the bed, Ella eventually produced an oblong package and tore open the end to pull at the contents. It was a hair accessory for creating a bump, an accentuation of hair on top of the head.

  ‘Brilliant. So you’re arming yourself with a beehive hairdo.’

  ‘No, a much closer inspection is required, chérie. What you can’t see is a miniscule wireless camera and a microphone. I will be able to divest myself of all clothing and still film the activities of our two libidinous gentlemen. Aren’t I the most resourceful private investigator of the modern era?’

  ‘How much did that cost you?’

  ‘I’ll offset the cost against tax. This sophisticated little gadget has a micro SD card and pairs with my mobile phone, you know. Phones are allowed in accommodation so—’

  ‘So don’t you fucking-well fall asleep and let either of those two bastards get hold of your phone. If you do, you’re on your own. Get it?’

  ‘You have your alibi right here, of course,’ Ella said, curtseying in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll avail myself of some calming music, partake of another pill or two and prepare for Wednesday. Don’t fret, ma petite, it isn’t my intention to disappoint.’

  ‘Oh God. You’re using French.’

  ‘So I am. That’s worryingly indicative of tribulations on the horizon. Unnecessary utilisation of French affectations is in my red warning zone. I’ll take another lorazepam.’

  ‘French, and that poncey voice and flowery words, the bright colours, the confidence...’

  ‘I think the words on my relapse identification card are an overinflated sense of self. I think I’m normal.’

  ‘Normal?’

  29

  The day before Harry disappeared

  The medication was finally slowing her thought processes down, and it had been helpful to reduce stimulation by listening to calming classics, by practising yoga and engaging in mindful meditation. All these had mercifully taken the edge off her wildest emotions and she had even managed some sleep, albeit induced by heavy sedative effects from the necessary, though evil, drugs.

  Following her visit to the hospital there had been a series of dire warnings from Val, who had sent her text reminders. These were mostly about which pills to take and how often. Also, on the pretext of delivering a late Christmas gift from their fictitious parents, Mal had been sent to visit Ella at Buxham’s, on the Tuesday. He had been bemused by her insistence that she couldn’t go with him to the local café as usual.

  ‘Let’s just talk in your car. I can’t allow myself to slip. Peace, quiet, stillness, and loads of drugs are the things that will help most. If I can get a few hours’ sleep tonight, I may just avert a major crisis.’

  ‘Come on. It can’t be that bad, luv.’

  ‘Yes, Mal, it can. Ask Val. She was there the first time I left the stratosphere, and it’s not pleasant. Not for anyone, least of all me. The consequences are similar to those of a tsunami crashing through an idyllic beach paradise. I have to remain grounded to stand any chance of completing a restaurant service and then presenting myself as an irresistible additional dessert dish for Harry Drysdale and Marcus Carver. If anything else adds to the fire under my neurochemistry, then I’m pretty much done for and so is this whole charade. Val needs this to happen. She’s sicker than she’s letting on.’

  Mal let out a long lingering sigh. ‘I know.’ He looked across at Ella as she sat in the passenger seat of a midnight blue Maserati. She stared out of the windscreen, breathing steadily, eyes fixed on the bare branches of the tree in front of the bonnet.

  ‘What is it that ties you two so closely?’ he asked.

  ‘She saved my life.’ A fleeting twitch crossed Ella’s mouth as she recalled her first ever meeting with Val. ‘I hit the most appalling wall of reality when my first manic episode subsided. I was in a psychiatric unit under a section; I’d alienated my family, my friends and plenty of other people along the way. I can’t even remember half the things I did.’ Ella rolled her eyes. ‘To cap it off, I’d ruined my dreams of ever becoming a registered nurse, and I was lost. The depression, as a result of being confronted with this new and bleak world, was consuming me and no one, apart from Val, saw my despair. She adopted me as a pet project to keep her occupied, I think. Those places can be a hell hole of monotony.’

  Mal was thoughtful. ‘She told me she was in the nuthouse once. I just assumed she was making it up. To scare me like.’

  ‘No, she really was there. I would never have spoken to someone like her in any other circumstances. We were opposites in many ways. She was Fat Val, and I was Skinny Ella. She was brash, harsh and formidable; I was almost like a mouse once I was back to reality. It was only recently we discovered we had more in common than a trip to the asylum.’

  Mal considered her words before speaking again. He modulated his voice, respecting her need for a tranquil approach. ‘Why not call it a day? If you’re risking a breakdown, shouldn’t you back off?’

  Ella didn’t hear the question, she was still reminiscing. ‘No one believes just how fat Val used to be, but when her weight became dangerously high, she had surgery to save her life. As a teenager she was bullied for being different - for being a Tomboy. She self-harmed and ate to make herself feel better because bigger meant stronger, less of a target. Her tough outer shell still hides the victim inside.’

  Mal nodded in affirmation. ‘Yeah, she’s a soft old thing, once you get past the thorny bitch act.’

  ‘She was unlucky…’ Ella’s thoughts faded.

  ‘Why knobble both men? I thought we were after Harry Drysdale?’ Mal asked.

  ‘Val is after both of them.’

  ‘Why? Why now?’

  ‘Marcus Carver got away with something years ago, thanks to his friend Harry Drysdale, and Val has been keeping an eye on him ever since. Why now? Me, I think. Marcus Carver is the other thing Val and I have in common.’ Ella looked across at Mal and gave him a watery smile. ‘Years ago, when I was a shy student nurse on placement with the bariatric service, he was the registrar to a surgeon by the name of Charles Broughton. Mr Broughton seemed like a decent enough man, but Marcus Carver was a slimy toad. Still is. Good looking, overconfident and arrogant. He cared little for any of the nursing staff apart from the senior theatre sister. Now I think back, she was on the large side. The sort that threatened to escape from her uniform if it was put under additional strain. Anyway, Marcus Carver thought he was beyond reproach until I reported him for… well take a guess, Mal.’

  ‘Touching up fat chicks?’

  ‘That’s one very politically incorrect way of saying it, yes.’ Ella sighed. ‘I saw the way he touched some of the obese female patients, pretending to examine them “just once more, to be thorough” he used to say. Naïve as I was, I could tell he was getting a kick out of his hands-on approach to patient care, it was excruciatingly inappropriate to witness. His sexual arousal was hard to miss.’

  Malik launched his eyes towards the roof of the car. ‘Nice’.

  ‘At first I wasn’t sure. There was something about his general unpleasant attitude that offended me deeply, it disgusted me and so, when I began to have doubts about his examinations, I made it my business to catch him out; to prove it. When I did, I blew the whistle and the investigation into my allegations against him was so stressful that it tipped me into my first horrendous life-changing manic episode. I was mad; so he was declared innocent. Not for the last time.’ Ella looked down at her lap.

  ‘That was back in 2010. So I know what he looks like, I know what he does. It now appears that he’s in cahoots with his lawyer who enjoys the same perversion and who defends him instead of protecting the public. It’s time to expose the truth, if I don’t cock it up.’

  Mal shook his head. ‘I can’t believe she never told me there were two targets.’

  The evening service had begun like any other, but the restaurant team knew it would be significantly busier than a us
ual Wednesday because of the special monthly Lensham and District Pudding Club meeting. Their Christmas invitation dinner had become a thing of legend, and Schubert had devised a dessert menu fit for a palace banquet, to delight the club members.

  Adding to the general mood of excitement at Buxham’s was news that television royalty had been invited as after-dinner speaker for the event. Ella had gasped when Carla Lewis informed her that Konrad Neale and his wife would be that year’s guests of honour.

  ‘I know. He’s even more handsome with that eye patch, isn’t he?’ Carla had said, wistfully tucking stray hairs behind one ear as she proceeded to reinforce the additional security requirements. ‘Be as subtle as you can. Treat him like any other guest, but be extra vigilant for over-enthusiastic members trying to bother him. The man is here to enjoy the evening just like anyone else.’

  It spread like a warm feeling, starting in the pit of her stomach. ‘Konrad Neale. I’ve watched every single one of his documentaries. He’s brilliant.’ The anticipation of talking to him, perhaps touching him, built rapidly as the thought of meeting such a famous personality rolled around in Ella’s head. These fantasy moments threatened to undo the hours of concentrated relapse prevention strategies that she had employed over the previous forty-eight hours.

  By the end of the evening, Schubert had resorted to swearing at her again because, according to him, she mismanaged the front of house service, rushing the kitchen brigade and creating unnecessary logjams of food orders.

  ‘Take your fucking batteries out woman. You have messed with my service all night. You have lost control and I won’t stand for another night of this nonsense.’ He had shouted right into her face, and although he was being insulting, for some reason she found it impossible to be cross with him. He looked so amusing, red and sweaty, that she was compelled to kiss him, full on the lips. The big wet kiss had him reeling.

  ‘Are you drunk, Ella? Well? Are you?’ He slammed a metal serving spoon onto the pass, making a horrendous clattering, jarring the other chefs into reacting with synchronised jolts, their white cylindrical hats wavered. As Ella stood there grinning inanely, he raised the long-handled spoon above his head. ‘I’ll have you sacked for this, now piss off and sober up.’

  Protesting her friend’s innocence, Ada had dragged her away to a corner of the stores at the rear of the bar. Once there, they could see through a gap in the door as Spiros entertained the pudding club members with puns. ‘Hey, lovely to see you all again, thanks for pudding up with me.’ He laughed heartily each time he received a positive response. ‘Make sure you come back because if you don’t then I’m a gonna tiramisu so much!’

  The effusive barman was handing out final nightcaps almost as fast as he was throwing one-liners at his customers. ‘I have a couple of favourite pudding songs. It’s true. Number one is in the gateau by Elvis, and number two is by The Beetles. You guess.’ The bemused customers shook their heads, beaming. ‘It’s a very famous song. Yes, it’s yellow sub-meringue! Yes. Now Spiros is a comedian, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Ella began to laugh until Ada dug her nails into the back of her arm. This vicious action made Ella yelp, bringing her up short. Ada, seizing the chance, then marched her into the cold night air through the double service doors into the car park beyond. Ella chatted incessantly until they took up position by the huge waste bins that served the kitchen and bar, tucking themselves out of the chill night air. Without warning, Ada let out a yell of surprise. ‘Bugger me. I thought that were a dead body.’ She held her hands to her chest as her breath caught.

  Ella chuckled at her friend. ‘You silly individual.’

  They looked at an untidy heap of items, each about six foot in length, wrapped in thick grey plastic, tied with brown hemp twine. Most had been thrown carelessly into the bin and the lid failed to close properly as a result. A couple of the grey bundles had been tossed to the ground.

  ‘What a neat way to dispose of Christmas trees,’ Ella said.

  ‘Aye, but why wrap the bloody things up, for God’s sake? They frightened the shit out of me.’

  ‘Saves the needles all dropping to the expensive carpets, I expect.’

  ‘I think you could be right. They must want to see the back of Christmas, getting shot of this lot so soon.’

  ‘Yes. It’ll be Valentine’s day before you know it. So, what have I done? Why have you brought me outside into the freezing cold?’ Ella demanded, rubbing at her arms.

  ‘Because you have been a right good mate to me and I’m worried about you, my little chicken. You’re losing it. I’ve never seen you so wayward. You can’t shut up. You’re running about trying to do your job at breakneck speed and if you don’t slow down a bit, you’ll end up exhausted. I’ll finish up down here. Don’t even think about arguing with me. Go.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Ada. I’m possibly the best senior hostess this place has seen in years.’

  30

  The Search

  Saturday 27th January

  Lorna placed her mobile phone back into her jacket pocket as she updated Konrad with news about Lydia Carver’s untimely death.

  ‘The funeral was yesterday and Katie says it was one of the most tense affairs in her ten years of directing services at the Lensham crematorium.’

  ‘Oh?’ Konrad was doodling. He had written a few random pitch ideas on a piece of blank foolscap paper plucked from the printer in Lorna’s home office. Despite appearing studious, he had stopped being productive several minutes before Lorna dialled the number to talk to her tame funeral director. Glad of an excuse to procrastinate, he lay down his pen.

  ‘Katie says that Marcus Carver was in an absolutely dreadful state.’

  ‘Not unexpected in the circumstances.’

  ‘Granted, but she was shocked at how badly he reacted to the sight of one of the mourners. There was an embarrassing fracas between Marcus and a tall older man before the service even began. Marcus spied the man, who turned out to be none other than a surgeon by the name of Charles Broughton, and went ballistic, shouting at him and accusing him of being responsible for Lydia’s death.’

  ‘What? What did Katie say happened?’

  ‘Charles Broughton left, on the face of it deciding that discretion be the better part of valour. Marcus ranted and raged, and rumour has it he breathed alcohol fumes over those closest to him, which included the pallbearers. Lydia’s family were appalled by the indignity of Marcus’ actions and asked Katie to call the police unless he restrained himself. They had refused to speak to him since details of the cause of death had become public and they have effectively excluded him from family matters. Apparently they have yet to come to terms with Lydia’s decision to have surgery and are blaming Marcus for not realising she was in a critical condition before he called an ambulance on the day she died.’

  Konrad looked deeply into his wife’s eyes. ‘They have a decent argument for being angry with him, I would say. He’s an eminent surgeon and didn’t happen to notice how close to death his own wife was? He knew she’d had the gastric band surgery by then and must have realised she was in pain. Despite this, he went to Buxham’s to meet with Harry and two fat ladies for fun and fleshy frolics. What does that say about the man?’

  ‘That he’s a bastard?’

  ‘Perhaps, but is he enough of a bastard to withhold treatment deliberately for his wife and to kill Harry? And if he is, then why has he killed Harry?’

  Lorna sat in her office chair and swivelled it left and right as she pondered. ‘Maybe they had a falling out over that girl. Ella, the hostess with the mostess. You saw the rivalry and how far their tongues hung out whenever that lovely woman paid them any heed. It was very entertaining to watch if I recall.’ Lorna stiffened and ceased her chair swaying movements. ‘Hang on. The last time Harry was seen, he was with Marcus entering his house. According to the taxi driver they walked through the front door together, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then less than an hour
later Lydia Carver is taken in an ambulance and rushed to hospital where she died. So what happened to Harry in that time?’

  Konrad stood up. ‘I think you’re on to something. I’m going to follow my original hunch and track down the other missing person - Ella Fitzwilliam. I shall start by getting in touch with her brother.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and rifled through the main section until he found the business card given to him by the receptionist at Buxham’s. ‘That girl may well hold the key to this mystery.’

  31

  Past midnight, the day of Harry’s disappearance

  Visualisation was working and, repeating bingo calls, she had begun to drift into a relaxed state. She held the medication pack against her chest and as her breathing became deeper, she could feel the pills were taking effect. When an insistent knocking entered her head she sat up in the half-light of her room. She flung the packet of tablets across the bed before staggering unsteadily towards the noise and taking hold of the door handle. Ella knew she should feel concerned, it was late, and the club had settled for the night, therefore the odds were that her visitor was not going to be a welcome one.

  Knock on the door, number four.

  She had barely turned the handle and pulled it towards her when a foot appeared.

  ‘How the hell did you find me?’ she asked. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘We were expecting you forty minutes ago at the very latest.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I was told to cancel any arrangements for tonight.’

  Marcus Carver stared at her, examining her closely as she stood in the doorway, hair in disarray, wearing a towelling bathrobe, slightly groggy and disorientated.