Death by Indulgence Read online

‘I see. How unfortunate. Mr D and I have been waiting for you in room eleven.’

  Legs, eleven.

  His expression, as he took a step backwards was hard for Ella to translate, it was almost business-like. ‘Who told you the arrangements were cancelled?’

  ‘Reception said your guests had informed them to cancel because you were both tired. They were on their way home.’

  ‘Trudy and Leonora?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ella had been so entranced by the presence of celebrity in the restaurant that evening that she’d barely given table eighty-eight much thought as the night progressed. Dutiful in her role as a hostess, she had dealt carefully with the two men and been wary of Trudy and Leonora. With stern flashes, they reminded her of her vow to remain within the parameters of their agreement. She had to back off. Paradoxically this resulted in Mr D and Mr C flirting with her more openly, requesting her presence more than strictly necessary, playing against each other as they sought her notice.

  Val’s words had repeated in her head, ‘Whatever you do, don’t get caught.’ There was little possibility of that happening. She didn’t have any intention of taking a risk and countermanding the instructions from two very formidable women who had made their aims transparent to the extent of actual intimidation.

  ‘I don’t think your lady friends approve of me spoiling their party. I’d rather not cause a fuss,’ she said to Marcus who impassively waited for her excuse.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, whatever they think, they’ve eaten well, had some fun and gone home. I have Mr D’s late Christmas present for him and you are part of the gift, which is why I made a request for you to attend Mr D’s suite this evening.’

  A chance.

  A heavy weight dragged at Ella’s chest preventing her from taking a reasonable breath and the surge of accompanying adrenalin hit like a shot of stimulant. This was her one and only opportunity to come good for Val.

  ‘Was the request for a life drawing sitting?’

  ‘Something along those lines.’

  She caught a wisp of a greedy smile.

  ‘Not unexpectedly there’s food; a hamper of special tasty treats for you to share with us. You’ll be surprised at what I’ve put together. So you’ll come? Now?’

  ‘I’ll just put on some clothes and brush my hair. Wouldn’t want to be a scruffy gift. I’ll be along in ten minutes. Room eleven, you say? The VIP suite.’

  In her wardrobe was a dress she was saving for a special occasion. She’d bought it on a whim during her recent spending spree and it called to her. Cut low, front and back, it relied heavily on internal scaffolding to mould her breasts and cinch her in at the waist like a corset that could be fastened at the front. No need for a bra.

  Ella looked across at her trusty goldfish. ‘It’s no good relying on you to zip me up…’ she said, breathing in and hooking the last metal clasp into place. She tied the wide belt and swayed her hips from side to side in admiration, checking her handiwork in the mirror.

  Then came the matter of hair and makeup and attempting to hide the minuscule camera and microphone within the hairpiece she had bought for that very purpose. Ella checked the instructions, turned on the tiny gadget and her heart plummeted. ‘Separate battery included? What sort of shit equipment is this?’ Swearing, she tinkered with the round disc and inserted it as instructed into the main body of the surveillance camera. ‘Is the light supposed to come on?’ She had no idea whether the device was working or not when she secured it in place with some last minute ingenuity involving a piece of hotel tinsel and the majority of a can of hairspray.

  In her head a battle was taking place. The sedation of the tablets she had taken earlier was being undermined by the sheer thrill she felt at having a favourable set of circumstances in which to complete her objective.

  ‘Gordon. I have one last chance to collect ironclad evidence and I must sharpen up.’ Gordon swam about in his glass bowl, ignorant of the stress in Ella’s voice as she talked him through her strategy. She overlooked sharing this with anyone else in her life. No text to Mal, no message to Val. She was acting on her own instincts and heading into the unknown without back up. Again.

  She’d taken a huge risk and put the second and only remaining camera torch into her clutch bag, in case the one in her hairpiece failed to capture the action. Realising that taking her mobile phone would be a step too far and would tempt fate, she left it on her bedside table attached to the charger cable.

  Time against her, Ella left the attic room in a muddle and headed across the top floor before descending via the stairs to the suite on the first floor.

  Room number eleven was larger than some peoples’ executive apartments. It was palatial. The sparkling tinsel in Ella’s hair, and her green and gold lamé dress complemented the amber brocade of the swag and tail curtains at each window. Wearing her brightest red pashmina, she looked every inch the Christmas parcel, ready to be unwrapped. Marcus, still dressed in a traditional dinner suit, opened the double entrance doors in answer to Ella’s knock. Once a few feet inside, Ella gawped at the splendour of the suite.

  On a carpeted dais to the left of where Ella stood mesmerised by the splendour, was a magnificent four poster bed, white with gold ormolu detail. Draped in fine shimmering toile, the bed reminded Ella of a scene from a Disney film. Emperor sized and imposing, it was set like a stage. On it lay Harry Drysdale, also wearing his formal dinner attire, with burgundy cummerbund at his waist, black bow tie at his neck. The only item missing was the jacket.

  To Ella’s amazement she saw that he was tied at his ankles and wrists to the base of the four upright ornate posts using braided silken tiebacks, pulling each of Harry’s limbs taut. At the end of the bed, between his legs, was a wicker basket, lid open, content on display. From where she stood, Ella could make out fine chocolates, an array of delicate amuse-bouche, a finger buffet of cake and desserts and a bottle of champagne. A Buxham’s special festive hamper.

  ‘Come closer, Ella, so that my friend can appreciate the delightful present I have arranged for him.’ Marcus directed Ella to stand to one side of the huge bed where Harry Drysdale turned his head to see her. Although he was gagged, his eyes flickered with elation as he saw her. The anticipation was palpable.

  ‘Hello, Mr D. Happy New Year. I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t realise—’

  ‘Stop chattering.’

  Marcus approached her from behind and, without asking, took her clutch bag from her as he directed her to stand still. Despite her protestation, he removed her pashmina from around her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor. Raising one of her arms at right angles, he squeezed at the folds of pliant flesh beneath her biceps.

  ‘Look, Mr D, how tender she is. I could eat her up.’

  Harry thrashed his head left and right with eyes imploring Marcus not to continue. When Ella caught his despair, she recalibrated her thoughts in a flash. Something was wrong.

  ‘I’ll put this one back down and see what else I can find to entertain you with shall I?’ Marcus crooned. Ella felt Marcus Carver press himself against her as he leered placing two sweaty hands on her bare shoulders. ‘What a simply divine dress you’re wearing, so flattering in all the right places. Shall we take a peek at what’s underneath?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so,’ she said, hoping desperately that the interaction was being captured and recorded by her hairpiece and that she could make her move and extricate herself, preventing Marcus from having his wicked way. ‘I get the distinct feeling you’re not much of an artist, Mr C.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. I have created a masterpiece of suspense for my friend here. Look at him. He’s bursting with desires he can’t act on. Now then, young lady, before I position you for the finale, you really should have a treat. Go on, make a pig of yourself from the hamper and Mr D can watch that too.’

  One fat lady, number eight.

  The food was beyond delicious and Ella had almost forgotten about
Harry as she tucked in to the feast. Marcus had laid a plate on the bed next to his friend, in front of Ella, refilling it every few seconds as she devoured the morsels of luxurious fulfilment in rapid compulsive succession. Marcus laughed as Harry squirmed. He seemed to be trying to tell Ella something but with the gag firmly in place she had no way of interpreting his dancing eyebrows, reddening face and thrusting pelvis.

  ‘Hold still, Mr D. The food is slipping off the plate and making a mess.’ Marcus Carver’s words sounded cruel, almost sadistic. Unable to force another morsel into her mouth, Ella took a sip of fizzy wine, prosecco or perhaps champagne she assumed. Marcus took the cut glass flute from her and placed it on the table next to her clutch bag.

  ‘Now to business. Put your hands on your hips please,’ Marcus requested from behind her, his voice deeper and more resonant. He stood so close that she could feel his hot, red wine infused breath on the back of her neck and it sent shivers across her shoulder blades. Trying not to react, holding onto her racing thoughts as best she could, she stared ahead. When she noticed that the posts of the bed were made of cut glass, she almost cried out. Alleviating some of her fears, this was a breakthrough of pure luck. For although the images were fractured, she could make out her own outline and that of the man behind her. If she could see him, she could film him.

  Clickety-click, sixty-six.

  The numbers and the rhymes began to enter into her mind, unbidden, nonsensical. Unstoppable.

  ‘Mr D is finding this most exhilarating, aren’t you, Mr D?’ Marcus said as he placed one hand on Ella’s shoulder, watching his friend writhe. ‘I’m going to carry out a simple medical examination, nothing invasive.’

  Doctor’s orders, number nine.

  He stepped to her side and produced a stethoscope from around his neck. ‘I shall palpate your magnificent assets as if they are made of the finest dough and listen to the sounds of your bowels. Mr D loves to knead, to feel the rise and fall of the flesh. Isn’t that true, Mr D?’

  It was a most peculiar experience for Ella. She didn’t object. She stood patiently allowing Marcus to prod and put his ear to her heaving chest using the stethoscope. As he did so, she called out bingo numbers in her head to distract her from the degradation. After a short while she got stuck on a repetition of the same call. Two fat ladies, eighty-eight. Two fat ladies, eighty-eight. Two fat ladies, eighty-eight.

  When Marcus had completed his first task she was ordered to face in the opposite direction, away from the bed, her back to Harry Drysdale whose muffled groans continued.

  Treat ‘em mean, thirteen.

  Marcus had his hands in her cleavage trying to examine how the dress could be undone. He was greedy, licking his lips, panting.

  ‘Is this what you do to your patients, Dr Carver?’ The question from Ella was spoken clearly, loudly and with emphasis on the word doctor. These words were in her head and that was where they were supposed to have remained, but she couldn’t manage the pressure. ‘Dr Marcus Carver who gets off on big women but is too embarrassed to admit it. Too ashamed to be seen admiring decent sized women, so instead he helps himself when they are at their most vulnerable, you should—’

  The reaction was instantaneous.

  ‘What?’ Marcus stepped back, stethoscope swinging at his neck.

  ‘You heard me,’ Ella said tossing her head in Harry’s direction. His eyes were wide. Was it fear that she saw there?

  ‘You shouldn’t know my name,’ Marcus growled.

  ‘But I do because we’ve met before. I’ve seen what you do to women like me. Women who need you to help them, not to abuse them.’

  ‘Have I treated you?’

  ‘If you did I’m not a good example, Dr Carver, am I?’

  In the background Harry was grunting, and a strange sobbing emanated from the gag as he thrust his head back and forth trying in vain to attract attention.

  ‘Are you a journalist?’ Marcus challenged. ‘Undercover reporter? No. I think not. You hardly blend into the background. No. You are something else.’

  ‘I am a private investigator.’

  ‘Pull the other one, dear.’ Marcus was sneering at her. Scornful.

  ‘I am. I work for Valerie Royal.’

  ‘Who the hell is that?’

  Where was his defeated look? There should have been a moment of shock, a confession of shame and a hiatus during which Ella could hear the declaration of his guilt as she made good her escape, but it didn’t arrive. Marcus Carver held her defiant stare, and she witnessed a nebulous fury build in him.

  ‘I’ve never heard of Valerie Royal. Don’t take me for a fool. You’re trying to claim that you are here to take revenge for women who tease me with their bodies just like you are now? Is that what you mean?’ He closed the gap between them and held her wrists against her waist. ‘I don’t think so. You have willingly come along to a man’s suite in the night, dressed for sex, expecting to take off your clothes for money. I suppose you’ll be anticipating a handsome payment in return because you’re nothing but a common whore. A fat prostitute taking advantage of my wealth and my desires. Don’t try me. You were gagging for this.’

  Marcus was rough and the grip on Ella’s wrists tightened as he thrust his pelvis against her. ‘You flirted with us both, playing one against the other. You wanted in on the lucrative deal the other girls have. Can’t blame you. They get paid a hell of a lot more than a waitress does.’

  Ella sucked in air through her clenched jaw, and, shifting her weight onto her left leg she raised the knee of her right with as much force as she could. Marcus released his fingers from her wrists and made a guttural groan of agony as he bent forward, clutching at his groin. Ella staggered backwards and pushed Marcus away towards the bed where he fell, poleaxed, landing on Harry Drysdale’s head before rolling off to bend his knees, coiling up in response to the pain.

  Ella leant down to gather her pashmina from the floor, but as she turned to the table to retrieve her other belongings and flee, the atmosphere in the room changed.

  ‘What have you done?’ Marcus squawked from his foetal position on the bed where he was staring into Harry’s lifeless eyes.

  ‘Is he hurt?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Not anymore,’ Marcus replied in a hollow voice.

  32

  The Search

  Saturday 27th January

  ‘Hello, I’m enquiring about a quote for a security system,’ Konrad said holding the card that Nula had given him on one hand, his mobile phone to his ear.

  ‘Certainly sir, domestic or industrial?’

  He had been following his lead, his hunch, but Konrad had not been expecting the number to be for a legitimate security business and he blustered slightly until it came to him. ‘Well, it’s both. It’s for a garage and service station but part of the premises is residential.’ Barney wouldn’t mind and Netty would be wonderful in the role of sceptical customer, Konrad decided.

  He discussed and agreed a date and time for a site visit. ‘That’s great, my friends have struggled with petty crime and several drive-offs. I’ve finally managed to persuade them to have a proper security system fitted. So who shall I tell them to expect on Monday?’

  ‘Malik, sir. Malik Khan. I make all the site visits in person. Can I ask how you found me? Only Lower Marton is a bit outside my normal patch.’

  Konrad, on hearing a note of concern in Malik’s voice, quickly saved the situation. ‘I was given your number by the reception staff at my club. They recommended you.’

  ‘No problem, mister?’

  ‘My name is Neale. Konrad Neale.’

  The following Monday Annette called Konrad. ‘Well, he’ll either turn up out of curiosity and the magnetic draw of meeting a celebrity, or you will have frightened him off completely. What time did he say? Eleven-thirty? He’s late.’

  Annette Ribble was never impressed by tardiness, and although she was keen to meet Malik Khan, his late arrival had grated. ‘What with people who answer every bloody que
stion with the word “so”, people who don’t tuck the chair under the table when they get up after a meal, drivers who fail to say thank you…’ She was about to reel off a further list of things that irritated her in life when she heard a big litre car engine as it rolled onto the forecourt of Ribble’s Garage.

  ‘He’s here, Kon. We’ll fill you in with the details once he’s gone. Bye.’ She ended the call as Barney appeared from the workshop, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He approached the car with his familiar rolling gait and broad grin, his warm breath vaporising in the freezing air. Pulling on a woolly hat, Annette prepared to step from the entrance of the small convenience store adjacent to the workshop where their assistant June was manning the till.

  ‘Bloody flashy car. One of Konrad’s film buddies is it?’ June asked in a flat indifferent tone. ‘I ‘ope not. Can’t stand them lot. And that boring wife of his is bad enough.’

  ‘No. I think this might be the chap about the security system.’ Annette cast her patient reply over her shoulder as the door swung shut on June’s disdainful response. ‘He’ll charge too much.’

  Mal parked a glacier blue BMW M4 in front of Barney’s workshop, away from the fuel pumps. ‘Hello, mate. Mr Ribble is it? Is Mr Neale here?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint young man, but Mr Neale is in London today. You took a risk driving that high performance beast in this crap weather.’ Judging by the sheepish expression, Barney guessed that the BMW had been a means to impress Konrad. Emphasising the foolhardiness of driving a pricey sports car in late January, a few flakes of snow descended.

  ‘Never mind. My wife is Kon’s film editor, she has a studio upstairs and she’ll be the one dealing with you. She knows more about this sort of thing.’

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Mal’s face as he was introduced to Annette. ‘You’re Konrad Neale’s film editor?’

  ‘Yes. What were you expecting? Some lush dressed up to the nines swanning around in a lavish studio full of famous actors all tripping over themselves? Sorry, sunshine, but reality is so much more mundane. Follow me.’