Death by Indulgence Read online

  ‘Hi honey I’m home!’ she shouted when she approached reception.

  Nula had recently arrived on shift and was about to take up her seat behind the desk when she spied Ella. A hand shot to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. What the hell happened to you?’

  ‘Me? Nothing at all, I’m fine and dandy, thank you. I’ll be down in a minute to help Ada with breakfast service. Le petit déjeuner.’

  Boots in one hand, Ella skipped to the stairs and, as she ran up them, she sang. ‘I ain’t gonna bump no more, with no big fat woman …’

  Nula reached for the phone.

  Arriving at the door to her room, Ella rooted around in the shoulder bag, found her clutch bag and emptied it onto the carpet. She couldn’t recall if she’d taken her room key card with her when she’d left in a rush, many hours earlier.

  ‘Balls.’

  Leaving personal items strewn in the corridor outside her room and divesting herself of the heavy coat, she headed for the back stairs to the restaurant and sprinted, barefoot, down three flights. Bowling into the stores area, she bounced off the chest of Schubert who was making his way back to the kitchen with a clipboard in one hand, a pack of bacon in the other.

  ‘What the hell?’ he shouted, looking down at where she had landed on the concrete floor, crashing against an empty metal trolley. Legs akimbo, her dress had flipped up exposing her nakedness beneath. The chef averted his eyes. ‘Oh no. That is too much. Shame on you, Ella. You are a fucking drunk; an unprincipled tart and you are flashing your gash. Get out of my kitchen! Disgusting.’

  On hearing the clattering noises and raised voices, Ada and Flora had made an appearance and rushed to assist Ella, who was now howling and baying with laughter. She brushed them away as she stood to confront Schubert.

  ‘I’m not a drunken whore. I’m on an assignment to save the children from bullies and to promote the benefits of vigilante-ism. Death to the bullies, long live big fat beautiful women!’

  Ada stepped in. ‘She’s not drunk. She might look it but she’s not. She doesn’t even drink alcohol. Do ya, chuck?’

  ‘And I am the King of Spain,’ replied Schubert, sarcasm dripping from his tongue as he threw the clipboard onto the trolley in order to take hold of Ella’s upper arm. He had to raise his voice to be heard over her preaching.

  ‘The law is an ass. A scrawny inadequate ass. Fat people have rights; the right to eat what they like, when they like, the right for reinforced toilets seats to be made available, the right not to be called porky or lardy lass, chunky chick or blimp. The right to be seen as beautiful.’

  News had spread. Carla Lewis arrived in a fluster, but as the scene before her registered, she became rigid, stopping in mid stride.

  ‘Ella,’ she shrieked. ‘Are you intoxicated?’

  ‘Intoxicating, maybe, but not inebriated. S’il vous plaît. I am gorgeousness, fabulous, and downright amazing.’ Ella was trying to gesticulate wildly, but the chef had one arm firmly grasped in his beefy hand. He dragged her in the direction of the service lift.

  ‘Chef. You are one of the nicest fat men I know,’ Ella said turning to face him and aiming a kiss at his mouth which he dodged with the speed of a boxer. ‘We could make brilliant big bouncing babies together. Come on let’s do it now.’

  With Ella’s ample bosom being thrust at him, Schubert faltered, and, in his bemused state, Ella ripped her arm free and bolted for the kitchen, wafting her dress like a flamenco dancer. She ran for the head chef’s office where she leant against the doorframe, sliding her hands up and down her thighs. ‘Show me your pudding, Schubert, and I’ll make sure we have it with cream,’ she purred, licking her lips.

  Without warning she screamed in anger. ‘Get back the rest of you!’ She directed an outstretched arm and forefinger at the chasing group. Ada, Flora and Carla looked at each other, halting as ordered and then retreating slowly one step a time until they were out of Ella’s sight.

  ‘Hands off, he’s mine,’ she rasped.

  Schubert, rolling from side to side and gasping for air, made his way forward and gestured for Ella to make her way inside. Instead of following her, he snatched at the door handle and pulled his office door shut. He held on tightly as he instructed Carla to call urgently for police and ambulance.

  ‘Raving mad. Stark raving fucking mad,’ he declared, sweat pouring down his face.

  Ella was infuriated. Through the part-glazed door, she could be heard and seen swiping the desk clean of its contents, banging the filing cabinets, dragging books from shelves and hurling a chair at an internal wall. When it went eerily quiet after several minutes had elapsed, Schubert released his grip on the door handle to peep through the glass. He couldn’t see her hiding behind the desk and unable to satisfy himself that she was safe, he turned the handle and pushed the door inwards.

  In a whirlwind of nudity Ella launched herself at the opening and wrenching the door towards her knocked Schubert off balance and into a wall. She escaped, leaving her dress in the doorway, and began prancing around the kitchen, smearing herself with foodstuff: sauces, scrambled eggs, flour, plum tomatoes, and marmalade. ‘Breakfast for the fat King of Spain,’ she yelled.

  By the time the police arrived she was completely deranged. Two burly chefs had barricaded her into the dry goods store where she rampaged for forty minutes. The emergency services had no choice other than to unceremoniously bundle her into the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket where she was handcuffed for her own safety. It had been impossible to silence her and even as the ambulance departed she could be heard shouting in fury at the injustice meted out. ‘If I wasn’t fat, they wouldn’t have treated me like this. Black people have it easy. You fuckers…’

  41

  Ella

  Four weeks later

  The sight of Mal, standing waiting for her as she walked through the door to the small meeting room at the unit, resulted in a crescendo of emotion pouring out in gulps and sobs. All she wanted to do was to stand within his embrace and wish the rest of the world goodbye, but why on earth was he with Mrs Lorna Neale? What the hell was going on?

  Ella had been expecting the police, but so far they hadn’t put in an appearance and none of the staff members had mentioned that she might need a solicitor for anything other than to appeal against her detention under the Mental Health Act. This was now a moot point as she was an informal patient ready to be discharged. She could only think that there was another reason behind Konrad Neale’s wife being with Mal but at that moment it didn’t make sense and she could do no more than ask her to leave. It simplified matters.

  Once Lorna had closed the door, Ella took several minutes to compose herself enough to cope with Mal’s questions. She sat. He took a seat opposite. It took a gargantuan effort to concentrate on what he was saying. Her thinking was slow, stultified, shackled by neuroleptic medication designed for that very purpose. Her emotions had plummeted and for the past ten days she had been shadowed by an insidious depression that threatened her very existence.

  ‘Ella? What have they done to you?’ Mal asked, as he looked her up and down in dismay.

  There was a long pause between each question and the answer which, when it came, was hesitant and weak. She had to assimilate the meaning and then search for the words with which to respond.

  ‘They’ve given me lots of drugs to dull my mind. I feel like I’m not in my own body.’

  ‘Are you eating? You look like you’ve lost weight.’

  ‘Don’t feel hungry.’

  ‘What happened? Why didn’t you contact me until now?’

  ‘My parents live abroad, so I had to have an advocate to help me instead of a nearest relative. I didn’t want to tell the hospital about you because you’re not my real brother. I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘What happened that night with… you know who?’ Mal was whispering, looking at the corners of the ceiling to check for cameras. He found none.

  Ella scratched at her left knee. ‘
I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I can’t remember it. Only flashes of memories.’

  ‘Shit. Really?’ Mal inhaled steadily as if steeling himself for what he was about to say next. ‘I caught up with your friend Ada. She says you were… out of control. They had to call the police.’

  ‘So I‘ve been told. I can’t remember that bit. I know that at one moment in time I was standing in a refuse bin, the size of an American dumpster. It was cold and dark, a light was shining at me and I was balancing on Christmas trees wrapped in plastic sheeting. God knows what I was doing there.’

  ‘If only God could tell us the rest of the story…’

  There was a difficult silence. Mal had pity in his eyes and Ella wore a cloak of resignation. ‘I might have killed Harry Drysdale,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘No I don’t, but I could have done. I decided to call the police and tell them everything. Have they found his body yet?’

  ‘Why are you so convinced he’s dead?’

  Ella began to shiver. ‘I see pictures of him.’

  ‘Covered in blood?’

  ‘No, cocooned in plastic tarpaulin, like one of the Christmas trees. I pulled his arm out and it flopped.’ Ella gazed into space. ‘Someone was with me. I spoke to them and they held the torch so I could see what I was doing.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘Man. I’m pretty certain it was a man.’ She looked down at herself. ‘I was dressed like a man. In men’s clothing.’ Checking Mal’s reaction she realised that he was doubtful of her story.

  ‘What did the old bill say?’ he asked, bracing himself for the answer.

  ‘I’m not sure they took me seriously when I said where I was calling from.’

  ‘Hmmm. I think you’re getting yourself muddled up.’ He changed the subject. ‘Try not to worry. I brought you some of your own clothes. Good job. I can’t say what you’re wearing does you any favours, if I’m honest. Who did you borrow those old rags from? Someone called Waynetta?’ A fleeting grin washed across Mal’s face as he tried to alleviate the sad reality of the moment. ‘I collected everything from your room at Buxham’s. Most of it’s back at your flat. I let myself in with your keys. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Thanks. The goldfish?’

  ‘My cousin’s kids have adopted him.’

  ‘Good.’ Ella glanced up, a spark of life appearing in her eyes. ‘Did you get my mobile phone?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the suitcase. The staff have to make a list or something before they let you have it.’

  ‘Can you get it back from them? You keep the phone. Keep it safe. I’ll tell them. Give my permission. You have to guard it with your life. I filmed everything. I think, I, I, filmed everything.’ Stammering, Ella reached out to Mal and grabbed one of his hands. ‘I, I, I used a micro-camera hidden in my hair. I don’t know where it is. I lost it.’

  Mal patted her and stroked her arm as he spoke. ‘It won’t be on your phone, luv. What you recorded will be on the SD card in the unit itself. You can watch live pictures on the phone, but the recordings will be on the card. Where do you think you lost it?’

  42

  The Search

  The next day

  ‘Mad as a box of frogs then?’ Konrad asked.

  ‘So they said,’ Lorna replied. ‘Ling, the Chinese girl, saw Ella when she was admitted and says she was covered in sticky sauce, cornflakes, tomato ketchup… everything you could think of. According to her, our girl was practically bouncing off the walls shrieking about Christmas trees and calling bingo numbers in French of all things. I was horrified to think the poor mite had been in that state from here to Derbyshire.’ Lorna sighed as she fumbled in her bag. ‘Both ladies said she was a nightmare for about eight days. Then the medication kicked in and she slept for a good forty-eight hours, finally emerging as quiet as a lamb, doped up to the back teeth. She’s being discharged tomorrow. We tried to ask if we could bring her back with us yesterday, but the bloody system is so immovable. Cooped up in a hospital for weeks on end and the best they can manage is for her to be given a travel warrant to come back by train, on her own. There’s care for you.’

  Konrad stirred his coffee, an old habit. He no longer took sugar, but the action of circling the spoon in the cup helped him to think. ‘I take it you didn’t tell her the latest about Marcus Carver.’

  ‘What do you take me for? I’m not an insensitive oaf like some people I can mention.’ Lorna smirked at him before returning to the seriousness of the subject matter. ‘I didn’t tell either of them, but Malik twigged that something shocking had happened. What a stroke of luck you called when we were at the motorway service station. Imagine if you’d blabbed on hands free when I was driving.’ Lorna shook her head, recalling Konrad’s staggering announcement the previous night. ‘It’s not been disclosed in the media so far, has it?’

  ‘No, thank God, but we can expect it any minute. How was our Asian Romeo when he saw Ella?’

  Lorna gave him a knowing grin. ‘You were so right. He’s really soft on her, but the whole experience has shaken him. He was dreadfully quiet on the journey home.’

  ‘I’m not surprised…’ Annette added, pulling open a kitchen cabinet door. ‘I give up. Where do you keep your biscuits these days, Lorna?’

  ‘I never said we had any. You asked where I keep the biscuit tin… which is right in front of you.’

  Annette turned, holding a lid on one hand and a red biscuit tin tucked under the other arm, a horrified look on her face. ‘What? I’ve just looked in here and it’s empty,’ she said incredulously. ‘This is my idea of a sick joke. You offer a cuppa but no cake or biscuits? What is the matter with you two?’

  Feeling sorry for her, Lorna gave up her search for the item she was seeking and crossed the kitchen to where Annette was standing and staring inside the tin in the hope that magic would happen.

  ‘Will toast and jam do you?’ Lorna asked, a sympathetic tone apparent.

  With a lengthy blow of relief, Annette relaxed and toddled back to a chair at the kitchen table where she plonked herself down next to Konrad. ‘If you haven’t got scones, then toast would be lovely.’

  ‘I can’t resist a biscuit, so Lorna has stopped buying them,’ Konrad explained, patting his midriff. ‘Got to stay trim for the viewing public. You know how it is. Now then, Lorna, what is it that Malik Khan gave you?’ he asked his wife, who was busying herself placing slices of granary bread into the toaster.

  Lorna indicated to where she had left her handbag. ‘It’s on my phone. There’s a number of voice recordings he made.’

  ‘Oh, I know what that will be,’ Annette chirped, grasping Konrad’s forearm. ‘When I collared him in my studio, he confessed to hijacking his cousin’s private hire contract with Buxham’s. Same cab, different driver and the customers never seemed to notice any difference. Cocky Mal dresses down and becomes a stereotypical Asian taxi driver who then spies on the escort women from the XL Agency. He listened in to their conversations and simply made whatever recordings he could. A belt and braces job of surveillance and helpful in terms of keeping an eye on what Ella was dealing with inside the club.’

  Lorna raised an eyebrow at Konrad who had reached into her handbag and pulled from it her mobile phone. He weighed it in the palm of his hand. ‘Why is he letting us have this?’

  ‘He thinks it might help to explain what Harry and Marcus were up to and why Ella was out of her depth. Those were his words, roughly.’

  A wry smile appeared on Konrad’s lips. ‘If this is as juicy as I suspect it is, then we may have been handed a career lifeline. I have to see the executives on Tuesday. If I can’t rustle up a decent proposal for the first episode of this new version of The Truth Behind the Lies, then I may as well eat what I like, get fat, and be a happy-has-been.’

  ‘It beats thin, miserable and rich any day,’ Annette said, grabbing a large roll of flesh beneath her knitted to
p.

  Stillness settled in the kitchen, interrupted momentarily by toast popping up, being buttered and slathered in jam before being presented to Annette on a plate. ‘Right. Shall we listen?’ Lorna asked, taking her seat.

  The toast remained untouched. Annette only noticed its presence when Konrad pressed the pause symbol after hearing the first recording.

  ‘Thirteen minutes of dynamite, Netty,’ Konrad announced. ‘Absolutely bloody earthshattering.’ He sat forward in his chair and closed his mouth, elbows on the table he slowly placed the tips of his fingers to his lips.

  ‘There are five more, some shorter, some longer and I wonder if you would have time to transcribe them before… say… Sunday evening?’ Lorna looked directly at Annette who had taken the first bite of her toast. She nodded so enthusiastically that her hair swung forward and brushed against the jam as she rushed to chew the sugary slice and reply. Crumbs escaped and landed in an avalanche down the mountainous front of her top and she waved one hand in a small circular movement as she swallowed. Taking a slurp of tea, she then ran her tongue across her mouth before speaking excitedly.

  ‘It would be a pleasure. I can’t wait to hear the rest of this stuff. Bloody hellfire and buckets of blood.’

  ‘Quite,’ Konrad said. ‘Feeders and gainers, what’s that about?’

  ‘Found it,’ Lorna said, raising her eyes from her ever-present iPad. ‘Adipophilia, to give its proper name, is fat fetishism. According to Wikipedia it is a sexual attraction to overweight or obese people to the exclusion of other body types.’ She paused before reading on. ‘Goodness me. I think we might need to explore this in more depth.’