Death by Indulgence Page 2

  On the other hand, Val’s job offer had intrigued her.

  ‘I know you used be a nightclub bouncer but what is it that you do now, exactly?’ she had asked during her next meeting with Val, a sober affair held in a smoky, sparsely furnished office.

  ‘Nightclub security, if you don’t mind. And that was years ago.’ Val’s features softened as she recalled her time managing the main entrance of a local nightclub in Crewsthorpe. ‘Me and Mal used to work the door of Frenzy. What a bloody dive that was back then. Mal was nothing but a wiry scrapper with a gift for talking his way out of trouble, but even then he had my back and I had his.’

  ‘No wonder you two are still mates,’

  ‘Yeah, it’s handy having him around. Lots of family contacts in the Asian community too.’

  Malik Khan covered many jobs for Val where a male was required, or where technological know-how had to be employed. He was good at that. Depending on circumstances, and when it suited, he could become too British to be Asian or too Asian to be British. In the main he tried hard to be both - a proper trifle of cultures.

  Val sighed. ‘I’ve expanded my repertoire into something altogether more reliable than nightclub security. The smell of vomit no longer appeals, so I gave myself a promotion. Besides, I don’t ’ave the weight behind me for ejecting half-cut imbeciles onto pavements anymore.’ She gave a short laugh which made her cough. ‘These days I recover debts and occasionally pick up the odd bit of private investigation work. You know the sort of thing, “my husband’s having an affair with his secretary, please help me to catch him out so as I can divorce the bastard and take him to the cleaners.” It’s quite lucrative as it goes.’ She paused to scratch the end of her nose. ‘Why don’t you give it a try?’ she asked. ‘It has to be better than shouting numbers out to incontinent old duffers and brain dead council house scum.’

  Val was never one for niceties. ‘Try this course and see what you think,’ she said handing Ella a leaflet, which she took, unfolded and read aloud.

  ‘Become a private investigator. One day taster course for anyone considering a career change but who doesn’t know what being a private detective may entail. Why not find out if you’ve got what it takes?’

  With her imagination running away with her, she decided it was a sensible way of approaching the question of whether or not she had the qualities and characteristics required. ‘Ella Fitzwilliam, P.I.,’ she said to her reflection in the bathroom mirror before she left her bedsit on the day of the course. ‘After all, not just anyone can wear a mac.’

  She would have enjoyed the adventure a whole lot more had it not been for the instructor; a chauvinistic old codger, ex-security services, who went by the name of Brian Watts. A grey, unprepossessing individual, he seemed to take pleasure in ridiculing Ella.

  ‘Why on earth would you believe yourself to be suitable for covert surveillance? Look at you with your bright colours, all frocked up with shiny lipstick and fucking great tits sticking out a mile. You’d be no good for anything other than as H.T. material.’

  It didn’t take her long to discover that “H.T.”, in the world of private investigation, stands for “honey trap”.

  He was probably right. She struggled with the need to remain inconspicuous and had terrible difficulty in working some of the equipment they were shown; trackers, surveillance cameras, microphones and the like which required a rudimentary understanding of technology – a skill Ella lacked.

  Brian Watts spent the day talking to her chest or making unnecessary comments about her weight. The fact that she had an uncanny ability to recognise faces and quickly identify a falsehood, seemed to pass him by. He delighted in belittling her and, in turn, she only tolerated him in order to claim her certificate at the end of the day. There was no way she would allow herself to fail. Val had paid for the course and Ella felt indebted to her for the second time in her life. It never occurred to her to wonder why Val would go to so much trouble to help an old acquaintance, especially one so inept and unsuitable for the job.

  Once semi-qualified, her first official and unsupervised assignment had been easy. Spying on a man who was attending art classes. An infidelity case. With previous experience put to good use, she had been pleased at how well it had gone and felt a certain sense of pride on its successful completion.

  On the final evening of that assignment she could entirely relax. She lay on the velvet chaise longue, one arm propping her trunk upright, the other draped across her accentuated waist allowing her hand and delicate fingers to rest on her uppermost thigh. A breeze had caused ripples of goose bumps to roll from her knees up her thigh and across the left hip, halting only where the folds of the crimson pashmina covered her pale skin. The shiver had brought Ella back from her daydream to the present of the oak panelled room she was in. The chill waft had passed, and the air became warm and still again. Only the scratching sounds of charcoal on paper and the breathing of the artists had gently broken into her consciousness.

  Another forty quid in the bank. Cash. Not bad for sitting around semi-naked, she thought. It was relatively easy money. Two forty minute sessions with enough time to eat a banana in the interval and answer a question or two about how she had made the outrageous decision to become an artists’ model. Usually the women asked, and the men hovered in the background, keen to understand but not daring to enquire.

  ‘You’re very brave.’

  ‘Not really, I just have to sit still wearing no clothes. It’s not technical or taxing. In fact, I find it allows me time to think; quiet contemplation if you like. I switch off from the fact that I’m being stared at.’

  He was there again as he had been for the preceding seven weeks. Mr Alan Jenkins, a mouse of a man who rarely spoke. During the time that Ella had been contracted to pose for the art group he’d barely interacted with anyone other than the art teacher who encouraged and guided the students in their efforts to master drawing the human body.

  ‘Alan, you have a real eye for this lady’s curves and somehow you’ve managed to capture the glossiness of her hair. I’m impressed. This must be helping with that masterpiece of yours.’

  It hadn’t taken long to confirm that Val would get her money from the client and Mr Alan Jenkins would be none-the-wiser he’d been under surveillance. His over-anxious wife would be reassured that he wasn’t having an affair after nearly thirty years of marriage and he’d merely taken up an innocent hobby, just like he said. His change of habits, furtive telephone calls and the money missing from their account could all be explained away. His “masterpiece” turned out to be a painting of his wife, using a photograph he’d taken in their garden. A gift for their pearl wedding anniversary.

  As Ella dressed and stuffed the cash into her purse from a gushingly grateful art teacher, she smiled, content. A happy ending for Mr and Mrs Jenkins, the successful completion of a case, and money. What a result!

  If she’d known what Val had in store as her next assignment, Ella would have offered to remain as life-model in residence for the art group and lived like a pauper.

  But she didn’t know.

  She couldn’t know.

  4

  The Search

  January

  Lorna placed her bowl and mug into the dishwasher as Konrad continued to comment on the details of the article outlining the disappearance of Harry Drysdale.

  ‘Do you want a lift to the station, Kon, or not?’ she asked as she reached for the empty cafetière and her husband’s drained coffee cup.

  He looked up at her. The expression as he stared down the opening of her blouse changed from one of lecherousness to realisation. ‘Shit. I’m running late - Bloody Barney’s fault for dragging me into the pub again last night. What time is the next train?’ Konrad leapt up from the table, chair screeching across the flagstone floor, and checked the kitchen clock. ‘If we’re lucky, I should just make the twelve minutes past. Give me two shakes.’

  ‘Don’t forget your eye-patch this time. I’m used
to it, but I don’t think the executives will ever forget that last meeting. You frightened the bejesus out of most of them.’

  ‘Funny though.’

  Lorna and Konrad had adapted to the sight of his scars and the loss of his right eye, but the pain of the attack that had caused them sometimes resurfaced and caught them unawares. Instead of dwelling on the events they used humour as a shield and never ventured to discuss in detail how his eye was lost.

  Gliding across the room to the hallway, Lorna then pulled on robust leather boots and wrapped her favourite scarf around her neck before shrugging into her thick winter coat. She held Konrad’s overcoat out for him as he stumbled towards the front door to their old stone cottage, forcing his feet into a pair of heavy leather brogues.

  ‘Pass my “twat hat” there’s a good girl. It keeps the wind out a bit,’ Konrad said, ramming a tweed cap onto his head. He pulled the brim down against the icy blast that greeted them both when they stepped onto the driveway.

  ‘Oh my, that’s brisk!’ Lorna exclaimed pulling on her gloves.

  They were shuddering as Lorna started the engine. ‘Hmmm. You may have to catch the next train. Grab the ice scraper from the glove box and do the front windscreen. I’ll do the back with my Costco card.’

  The journey to the station turned out to be a treacherous one. Frosty roads, frozen puddles, black ice. On a sharp bend the VW Golf they were in narrowly missed a car coming the other way. ‘That was a tad close,’ Lorna said, her quavering voice revealing the level of concern at the near miss.

  ‘Good driving though,’ Konrad conceded.

  ‘Go on. Finish the sentence … “not bad for a girl”. I know that’s what you were thinking, you old misogynist.’ Lorna was teasing him again.

  ‘Wrong word, my love. I may occasionally trivialise women, mostly the stupid ones, but I have nothing against you lot as a gender. Some of you are quite fetching.’

  ‘I rest my case. You actually referred to women as “you lot”. Good grief, man, no wonder the feminist hard-liners have it in for you on a regular basis.’ Lorna was laughing, shaking her head, mocking. Konrad knew she accepted his old-fashioned attitudes and he in turn revelled in her chiding him for them.

  He retaliated.

  ‘See if you can manage to pretend to be productive today, there’s a good wife. I’m not fooled. As far as I can tell, this working from home arrangement is a front so that you sneak off for coffee with Netty. I lay the blame firmly at her podgy little feet. You give the impression that you’re researching for my next documentary series and she tells everyone that she’s in her home studio editing my current one. Nice plan between the two of you.’

  ‘Envy. It’s not an attractive look on you. Now, get ready to leap out but don’t slip on the pavement, at your age you’ll break something.’

  ‘Cheeky madam! Not so much of the old. The “forties” are the new “twenties” I’ll have you know. ’

  ‘That makes you nearly thirty then, doesn’t it?’ Lorna brought the Golf to a steady standstill at the drop-off area outside Lensham station. Konrad leant over and kissed her before he swivelled in his seat to leave. He made as dignified an exit as he could manage wrapped in his large overcoat, carrying a leather document case and newspaper. Safely out of the car he waved at Lorna before closing the door.

  ‘I’ll phone you if I find anything out about Harry. You do the same. Okay?’ He knew his wife well enough to be certain that she would return home, fire up the laptop and begin investigating Harry Drysdale’s disappearance.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied. ‘I owe that man my freedom, so the least we can do is help to find him. Do what you can, Kon. It sounds really odd. Not like Harry at all.’ She blew a kiss as the door clunked shut. ‘Oh and give my love to Eliza, and have a lovely lunch.’ Although her voice was muffled, her words could still be heard. Her husband smiled.

  Konrad had been swinging between excitement at seeing his daughter for the first time in months, and trepidation at the meeting scheduled for afternoon. A meeting that could make or break his TV career. He’d kept this matter of concern from Lorna, and the secrecy weighed on him heavily.

  There had been rumblings that Channel 7 wanted to pull the plug on his documentary series, The Truth Behind the Lies, because it was too formulaic. His research team would identify a possible miscarriage of justice, or a perpetrator who was insistent of their innocence, and Konrad would interview them in prison, explore the story and expose the injustice or the devious nature of the guilty person he was interviewing. Other journalists and TV celebrity faces had done the same and a new slant was required to keep his career afloat.

  Once on the train, Konrad had time to plan his defence and generate a counter-argument or at the very least some fresh ideas.

  With little warning, the meeting of the executive board had also been called to review the contract, which was nearing its sell by date. Konrad suspected that his ex-wife Delia was behind this particular change of fortune.

  It was Delia who had saved his stagnant career the first time round, and when his marriage went sour, she only remained as his business manager and agent because the money and kudos were important to her. She had cut the final strings eighteen months ago in favour of her new love, pretentious TV executive producer Robin De La Croix, who had infinitely more money and more influence than Konrad ever did. In Konrad’s eyes the man was nothing more than a boring superficial plonker. So much of a supercilious berk in fact that he and Delia made a perfect match. No more than she deserved. But the question for Konrad was, could Delia be cruel enough to see him dispensed with? - Her ex-husband, father to her children? And the answer? Probably.

  He stared around at the passengers on the train, he could usually tell if people recognised him. Being a regular on their television sets, he wasn’t hard to miss. Silver haired, with an eye patch that matched the tie he wore, tall, with a deliberately piratical and confident air about him.

  He always took a seat in the last carriage and placed himself so that he could see up the length of it without having to turn his head. All the end train carriages on that line had been decommissioned from their previous first-class status due to lack of use and overcrowding in second-class carriages. Fortunately most travellers were unaware of this change and often Konrad had the place to himself at off-peak times. On that day there was a sprinkling of other travellers probably heading for the last days of the January sales in London.

  A curiously mismatched couple took his attention away from reading the Daily Albion. They had entered the carriage behind him at Lensham Station and made their way to seats with a table. The man was of athletic build and conventionally handsome, she too was striking, but for different reasons. Her long hair framed a round and radiant face. She reminded him of someone.

  The woman on the train was animated, chatting to her companion as she tucked into a bag of Maltesers, popping them into her mouth one after the other as the slender man encouragingly looked on.

  The beautiful woman - for without doubt she was stunning in her looks - wobbled with laughter at something the man had said. Her whole body bounced, with waves of flesh rolling and subsiding in gentle rhythm with her tuneful tittering. A Malteser had escaped and landed in her cleavage.

  Konrad held his breath as the man aimed a finger and thumb toward his partner’s breasts to retrieve the ball of chocolate before it melted.

  ‘Eat up, Rhona,’ said the young man, placing the Malteser on her tongue. ‘We can’t have you missing out on the calories. There’s no fun without flesh.’

  Those were the words that Harry Drysdale had used the last time Konrad had seen him. “There’s no fun without flesh”.

  5

  Four weeks before Harry’s disappearance

  Marcus Carver buzzed through to the phone in reception. ‘Hello, Geeta. Is the surgery timetable for tomorrow still rammed? Or have I been reprieved of a late finish? I promised Lydia I wouldn’t be late home for my birthday, not that I’m bothered, I�
��d rather forget how old I am. However, my wife has been planning something with the children, and until now it had totally slipped my mind. Could you check for me before Karen comes in with the next patient? Thank you kindly.’

  The anticipation was starting to build. Wednesday morning clinic was well underway, filling his time and keeping his eager mind on the present. The rush of expectation usually came in the early afternoon as he prepared to leave the office with his overnight bag, a leather holdall, swinging him towards the door and the railway station.

  There was a sharp salvo of knocks before Karen stepped into the stark and modern clinic room. She was willowy and efficient, dressed in a brilliant-white surgical tunic and trousers. ‘Sorry, Marcus, Geeta says tomorrow’s list is as it stands, but she has managed to preserve your late start time. I hope that helps to reduce the travel stress. Shall I ask her to phone Lydia for you?’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Karen, but I’ll break the news to my wife when I phone her later. Not to worry. It’s nothing unusual. I’m always bloody late getting home on a Thursday.’

  Karen smiled with implicit understanding. ‘Your new client is ready - Rhona Charles. Here are the notes from the initial consultation if you need them, but the main electronic document file is up to date on the system. I’ve completed the baseline physical checks and explained the purpose of today’s visit. Rhona’s fiancé can’t be here again today, so I’ll chaperone.’

  Holding out his hand for the folder, Marcus thanked his clinic nurse as she returned to the main waiting room to collect his patient. He hoped she hadn’t seen his fingers trembling.

  He stared at the name on the case notes and immediately summoned up the memory of the first time Rhona Charles had entered his consultation room, nervous, and slightly breathless. The younger ones often tugged at his sympathetic side. Without his help their self-esteem, and their long-term health could be in considerable jeopardy. Rhona was one of those. He couldn’t be angry at her lack of self-control because he had heard the story before. When she sat before him in his plush office she had described herself as a survivor of bullying, but she wasn’t. It was obvious to him that she was still a victim, and that made her vulnerable to flattery. Plain vulnerable.