Death by Indulgence Read online

  ‘Over to you, wife,’ Konrad said with a cheerful smile. ‘Netty, do your thing with these recordings and I’ll speak to the XL Agency about the price of buying an escort girl.’

  ‘What?’ Lorna queried, eyes wide, arms folding.

  ‘I want to sound out just how much they may charge for a full and frank interview…’

  ‘Oh… good,’ Lorna said, appeased. ‘Maybe we can find out what might have happened to Harry, while we’re at it, or had you forgotten about him?’ Lorna remained seated with her arms crossed while Konrad scratched the back of his neck considering his wife’s words.

  ‘I know you thought he was God’s gift to the justice system, but, underneath the seriousness and the tailored suits, our Harry was a cheeky scoundrel, a pocket Casanova, a party animal and a maverick. I talk about him in the past tense because from what police have uncovered, it looks as if Harry may be as dead as his own thumb.’

  Lorna’s face fell. She stared at Annette waiting for her to disagree. Annette said nothing and, with a slice of toast and jam half way between plate and mouth, she too waited for Konrad’s explanation.

  ‘While you were gallivanting up north with your new buddy Mal, talking to potty women and playing cards, my love, I was hanging around in a shitty pub in the back streets of Crewsthorpe plying DC McArthur with beer until his tongue ran away with him. He’s a sorry excuse for a copper, that one. He boasts. By the time he’s had a few ghastly lagers he’s gagging to blow the gaff about how important he is and how he knows better than DS Quinn. Anyway, the upshot is that blood found on an overcoat belonging to Marcus Carver was discovered during a search at his home. There it was hanging in his cloakroom as plain as day and covered in claret. The blood stains have been matched with the thumb and the thumb belongs to Harry.’ Konrad spread his hands wide. ‘Add to that the discovery of Harry’s mobile phone in a conifer bush in the garden and police have decided that Marcus Carver is the killer. He strenuously denies it of course.’

  Lorna and Annette were watching Konrad. Taking in his every word, each turn of phrase. They both kept their questions brief, instinctively knowing that Konrad hadn’t finished sharing the facts he had cajoled from DC McArthur.

  ‘How wonderfully obvious,’ Annette said. ‘Why did they suddenly decide to search his house?’

  ‘They had a phone call from Ella Fitzwilliam wanting to give information and telling them enough to set the wheels in motion for a possible murder investigation.’

  ‘I’m surprised McArthur was so detailed,’ Lorna chipped in.

  ‘So was I, but he couldn’t wait to tell me the best bit. By all accounts even the hardest nosed coppers had a job keeping a straight face when they marched in to the Carver residence, warrant at the ready, only to be confronted by scenes of celebration. Marcus had been so grief stricken at his wife’s death that he’d arranged a dinner party in order to feel better. Would you believe the cops barged in to a scene of gluttony, hedonism and voluptuousness the like of which they’d rarely witnessed before? McArthur’s description was peculiarly poetic. He said that Marcus Carver struck him as a perverted bastard and that the whole sight was reminiscent of a porn film he’d once watched involving a woman called Big Bertha. Quite an astute observation.’

  Lorna agreed. ‘Maybe he is a better detective than Quinn.’

  ‘That’s unlikely. He certainly can’t keep his trap shut. Fortunately for us, McArthur let slip another intriguing fact. When they re-examined the security records at Buxham’s, Ella Fitzwilliam showed up as returning from a night out at nearly nine in the morning of Thursday the fourth of January. That was the day she went bananas and the day Harry was last seen. Interestingly there was no record of her leaving the premises the night before and no sightings of her until she made a nuisance of herself on a train returning to Lensham station.’

  Konrad’s blue eye twinkled with anticipation as he waited for a response.

  ‘Shit,’ Annette hissed. ‘So Marcus has been arrested for what? Murder even though there’s no body?’

  ‘Interesting scenario, Miss Marple. It appears so. But what if he didn’t do it? What idiot would leave a coat covered in blood for the police to find?’

  Annette raised her eyebrows. ‘Sloppy.’

  ‘Or a clue deliberately left by someone else,’ Konrad said.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Ella Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would she kill Harry?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘Think about it. We know she’s working for Valerie Royal. Val is dying from pancreatitis brought on by gall bladder problems and she has a massive smoking habit. One or the other was bound to send her to an early grave. We also know Ella is sent to gather damning evidence that will finally vindicate Val and prove the case that Marcus Carver is a risk to women - overweight women. Harry defended him in court even though he’s almost as active a pervert as his client. The motive is revenge for her friend Val. If we are to believe the story, when Ella and Val first met, in a psychiatric unit not a million miles from here, Val was enormous to the point of downright obese. Shortly after discharge she underwent radical surgery to remove part of her stomach to enforce weight loss and save her from premature death.’

  Konrad adjusted his eye-patch. ‘She drew an unlucky hand of cards that woman. Her surgeon, checking on how she had faired afterwards, misjudged the level of sedation when he decided to grope her and help himself to handfuls of flesh in which to amuse himself.’

  Resting his forearms on the kitchen table, he said, ‘It turns out Val wasn’t a one off or a momentary lapse of morals, but she was the first victim to report Marcus Carver to the police and to bring charges against him. Now she’s dying, and Ella wants Marcus and Harry to pay. So, acting as if of unsound mind she whacks Harry for defending Marcus. Then sets up Marcus to take the blame. Plain and simple,’ Konrad confirmed, stretching back and raising both arms, interlocking the fingers of each hand behind his head.

  Lorna had remained silent until that moment. She fiddled with the handle of her mug, long since emptied. ‘No. It can’t be that straightforward.’

  ‘There’s blood on a coat, and just because there’s no body, so far…’ Konrad said, tailing off, keeping his true thoughts from his wife.

  ‘What do the police think?’

  ‘I told you. They are convinced it was Marcus who killed Harry and disposed of the body. Not only that but they are reconsidering the facts surrounding Lydia Carver’s early demise. Police view her death as suspicious.’

  ‘Do they? I can see he might have wanted Lydia out of the way if he was obsessed with the girls at Buxham’s but murder by force-feeding is still stretching it a bit. Killing his wife is unlikely, but if the police are correct then what is the motive Marcus had for killing Harry?’ Lorna asked, still unconvinced.

  ‘Envy,’ Konrad replied. ‘According to the astounding genius that is DC McArthur, texts and pictures on Marcus’s phone show a dangerous game being played out, a rivalry and a race to see who could entice sweet Ella into bed first. It was such a draw that Marcus Carver left his sick wife at home to participate in the shenanigans. Your Ella, in her amateur attempts to win private investigator of the year, seems to have caused catastrophic friction between the two men. If those voice recordings are anything to go by, she would have been in for more than she bargained for. I wouldn’t like to hazard a guess as to who came off worse.’

  Konrad stood, his chair making a scraping sound on the kitchen tiles. ‘Time to chat to the two fat ladies of table number eighty-eight, see if we can’t piece together a real time line of events, because the police have got it wrong,’ he announced. Facing Lorna, animatedly he added, ‘Ella killed Harry, set up Marcus to look like the guilty party. She blackmailed him into helping her to hide the body and… you need to find out what else Mal was told. We have to know what Ella said to him when they talked at the hospital. She is our killer.’

  43

  Tuesday 6th February

  The gre
y darkness of the rainy afternoon did nothing to make the task any easier. Mal drove Ella in his cousin’s taxi and parked on double yellow lines directly outside The Old Station Café. Lights were on and the foggy windows prevented passers-by from recognising the blurry shadows of the customers within.

  ‘She’ll want to know. Let’s go in together, sit her down and break it to her as gently as we can. You okay, luv?’ Mal asked. Ella wanted to run away and not to have to tell Saskia about Val.

  ‘Not really. What if she’s not here?’

  ‘I phoned. She’s here ’til six this evening. I told her boss we have bad news, and he’s ready to let her go home early. We’ll take her.’

  Ella unclipped her seatbelt and reached for her handbag in the footwell of the car. ‘I wish I could remember where I got this bag from. It’s very expensive but I can’t recall buying it. I can’t even find a receipt. Mind you, it’s irrelevant in the great scheme of my overdraft. God only knows how I’m going to pay that back. I bought so much…’ She swung her head towards Mal. ‘And don’t bother offering to help. You’ve done enough. I can never repay you.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  Malik pushed the door open for her and the sound of the familiar tinkling brass bell clanked above the gurgling noises of the ancient coffee machine. Nineteen eighties pop tunes were playing on the radio which stood pride of place on the counter. Saskia spied them and strode towards them before they could decide where to sit. She raised her hands, palms front, and said, ‘Hold it right there.’ With a fierce glower she spoke to Ella through gritted teeth, and her tangled hair shook loose from the impossibly large untidy bun on her head. Mirroring her body language Mal also raised his hands but spread them wide in an open placatory gesture. Saskia ignored him, boring into Ella, trying to herd her back towards the door.

  ‘What is it you don’t get about the words “piss off and don’t come back”, eh? No druggies, no alkies and no whores. Got it?’

  ‘Right…’ Mal answered, somewhat uncertain. He looked at Ella, she raised both shoulders and pursed her lips, eyes wide.

  ‘No. We don’t get it. Can we please speak to you in private? It’s a delicate matter,’ she said.

  Saskia faltered. ‘Brilliant. Alcho-zheimer’s, is it? Conveniently forgotten what a fuckin’ disgrace you made of yourself, have ya?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Still got the boots to match the ’and bag as well?’ Saskia was scornful, almost venomous and Ella could only stare at Mal for support. He waded in.

  ‘Listen, luv—’

  ‘Don’t you luv me, you arrogant tosser. Some friend you are. Last time Val allowed me to visit she said you ain’t bovered to see her more than once.’

  Voices became raised and inquisitive customers had their heads inclined in the direction of the conflict. Saskia now had a forefinger aimed at Mal’s chest and in defence he raised both hands higher as he backed away. The scene resembled that of an old fashioned, childhood game of stick ‘em up.’

  Mal smiled. ‘You’ve got this all wrong. Can we please talk? Sensibly like? It’s taken all her guts just to walk through the door, so the least you can do is to listen to what we’ve come to tell you. It’s not good news, luv.’ This time the unwarranted term of endearment was overlooked. Saskia appeared to sag, unable to hold herself upright. Mal stepped forward, taking an elbow and guided her to the nearest seat. Ella joined them.

  ‘I’m so sorry. We’ve just come from the hospital. Val named us as next of kin. Goodness knows why.’ There was no need for Ella to use the actual words. Saskia began to shake and allowed Mal to take her hand, all animosity dispensed with. She didn’t cry. ‘Poor cow,’ was all she said.

  Ella, face pale, no make-up, dressed in a brown jumper and jeans, waited. She tried to feel sorry for the waitress because a broken heart was always painful, but Saskia hadn’t been that much in love. Her reaction was muted, so perhaps it was only lust after all, Ella decided. Sympathy only went so far and Ella’s driving need to fill in the blanks, from the night and morning that Harry Drysdale had disappeared, had to take precedence. What did the girl mean about the matching boots? Why had she been so angry?

  Saskia must have possessed amazing powers of intuition because she sought Ella’s eyes. ‘S’pose you wanna know what ya did?’

  ‘Yes, please. I had a craft moment, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Craft?’ Mal queried.

  ‘CRAFT - Can’t Remember A Fucking Thing. Usually strikes in middle age, but not in my case.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He managed a short-lived grin at her quip.

  Ella turned to Saskia. ‘I’m so sorry if I caused any trouble. What did I do?’

  The description of Ella’s behaviour the last time she’d been at The Old Station Café had most impact upon Mal. He lowered his eyes and, having let go of Saskia, who didn’t revel in the touch of another human, he began to rub at his cheeks with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Val should never have sent you in there,’ he murmured.

  ‘I volunteered. Remember? She gave me a job when most other employers wouldn’t give me the time of day. She saved me. Again. I owed her.’

  ‘Did Val tell you they met in a psychiatric unit?’ Mal asked, staring at Saskia, his eyes sad.

  The bird’s nest bun on the waitress’s head bobbed as she confirmed.

  ‘Did she also tell you I live with Bipolar Disorder and I have to take medication and limit stressful situations and get enough sleep, all to avoid a relapse?’ Ella asked softly.

  ‘She did mention it.’

  ‘Good, then you’ll understand that what you saw was not a drunk or a druggie, it was me in the middle of a full-blown manic episode. I can’t remember much because my brain goes haywire preventing me from storing memories correctly. I can’t recall what I don’t file away.’ Ella looked around her. ‘Can you tell me if I said anything about a murder?’

  Saskia looked horrified. ‘Don’t be bleedin’ stupid…’ Her words faded. ‘Hang on though, when I was dragging you down from that bench over there you said something proper weird.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like… “be careful, the last person that did that to me killed a man”, that was it, I think.’

  ‘What were you doing to make me say such a thing?’

  ‘Pulling at your clothes, that stupid fake fur coat thing.’

  ‘And I had this bag with me?’

  ‘Yeah and matching boots, like I said.’

  ‘Where the hell did I get them from?’

  Nobody had an answer for her.

  The sight of a police car pulling up behind his cousin’s taxi aroused Mal’s attention. ‘Shit. Hold tight, I’ll get rid of them then we’ll give you a lift home if you like,’ he said to Saskia. ‘I’ve cleared it with your boss.’

  ‘No, thanks. I’d rather keep busy.’

  ‘Your call. Give me a sec, Ella, then come out as if you’re my fare. Good luck, Saskia. See ya.’

  ‘Yeah, see ya,’ she replied. The corners of her mouth moved slightly as if a smile may finally escape, but before one could blossom the familiar sour dolefulness returned.

  Ella watched with interest as Mal headed through the door with a cheery greeting to the officers who had walked to the rear of the Mercedes. One was talking into the radio clipped to his uniform, ducking his head down.

  Wrapped up against the chill of the winter weather, Ella put on a tatty duffle coat and coiled a beige scarf around her neck. ‘Bye, Saskia. Again, I’m sorry for the trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve dealt with scumbags much worse. Take care of yourself. Let me know when the funeral is, will ya?’

  Ella didn’t reply. She headed to the door looking up at the bell as it rang out announcing her departure.

  Mal wasn’t making his usual impact.

  ‘So, this isn’t your vehicle,’ the tallest policeman said. ‘This vehicle is registered to your cousin. What’s his name then?’

  ‘Dinesh Khan.’


  ‘That checks out, Pete,’ his colleague answered, poking a finger to hold the earpiece of his radio in place, allowing him to hear over the passing traffic. ‘Malik Khan?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Mal looked uncertain. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘We do, sir.’

  The officer greeted Ella. ‘Hello there, would you be Ella Fitzwilliam, by any chance?’

  There was no reason for her to lie. She had been expecting them to track her down as soon as Harry’s body was discovered. It was all over the news. Marcus Carver, renowned plastic surgeon, had been taken for questioning. It was her turn. She’d given the police enough indication that the best place to search would be the local waste disposal site and that Harry Drysdale’s body would be wrapped up to look like a discarded Christmas tree. How hard could it be for them to decide she was the guilty party?

  ‘We’ve been looking for you two. DS Quinn would like to speak to you both in relation to an incident that took place at the beginning of January.’ He wafted a hand towards the vehicle in front of them. ‘Your cousin will have to pick his cab up from the police station, Mr Khan. It can’t stay here. Miss Fitzwilliam, if you would come with us please.’

  Mal tried to salvage the situation, and in an effort to protect Ella said, ‘Does she have to go? We’ve just come from the hospital, our friend died today.’ He reached out for Ella’s hand, but she held it stiffly, not grasping at him for comfort. ‘Look officers, Ella hasn’t been well herself and she has to avoid stress. Can’t this wait?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Khan, but we have been asked to bring you both in for questioning. It’s better to volunteer information than to wait for an official demand, if you get my drift.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mal. I’ve caused you so much trouble. I’m sorry.’ Ella’s voice sounded full of self-reproach. ‘Let’s get this over with, shall we? I can’t help any more than I already have but you might know something that will help the police. What more have we got to lose now that Val’s dead?’

  Nothing showed in her face because despite being on the verge of tears, her emotions were flattened, and her senses controlled, but gnawing away inside was a steely determination to get to the dreadful truth. The police could give her pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that were missing.