Death by Indulgence Read online

  Rhona Charles was as much a product of bullying as those who took to drugs and alcohol to cope with the psychological and emotional impacts from years of torment. She didn’t self-harm, not in the usual sense of the term. She didn’t cut herself to expunge the emotional pain and self-loathing. No. She chose a longer route to harm, a gratifying method of instant reward.

  Food.

  ‘It’s a double-edged sword, Doctor. I was bullied for being the chubby child, but I derive such pleasure from eating.’

  Rhona was articulate, intelligent, forthright, and incredibly overweight.

  ‘Daddy was furious with the health spa in Hungary. He paid all that money, and I only lost half a stone, which I’ve put back on again. He says psychology is a waste of time and that’s why I’m here; the last resort before the wedding. Surgery.’

  Marcus counselled himself to maintain professional boundaries, to focus on the clinical issues and not allow his lustful desires to emerge. Even so, the consultation had been a delicate balance of diplomacy and truth. Marcus assumed that, like most of the rich women that entered his lair, Rhona was expecting him to be able to sculpt her into a slender version of herself. He could only guess at what she had imagined possible. Therefore, he started with a hit of reality. He asked her to stand and turn slowly on the spot.

  ‘Rhona, you are a bright confident woman and for that reason I will be very direct with you. I can’t make you into a model from a magazine. You will not have boyish hips and a flat stomach because that isn’t how your frame or genetics have designed you to be.’

  And you are already beautiful.

  She was the archetypal jolly, bonny-faced, overweight young woman, hiding a frail soul. Despite the aching in his groin, he kept a steady tone of voice as he moved around her. All the while he made use of medical terminology to provide reassurance for his patient and to keep his own thoughts on track. Feeling her abdomen from behind, weighing her breasts in his upturned palms and then placing firm hands on her hips and buttocks he gauged the task ahead.

  ‘What we will do first is to create a three-dimensional map of your body as it is now. From there we can explore your choices from straightforward liposuction to more radical surgery. In the meantime, I suggest you reconsider the use of exercise, diet and supplementary fat binding medication. Recovery from cosmetic surgery can take weeks, even months, so you could opt for a gastric band…’

  Tears had started to tip over his patient’s lower eyelids as he indicated for her to take a seat while he made notes.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘The thought of not being able to put forkful after forkful into my mouth is unimaginable. I need the taste sensations, the texture… of everything. I don’t want to feel full and I definitely can’t cope with those awful tablets again. The smell was revolting to say nothing of the ever-present fear of… what’s that expression they use? Overflow.’

  As a surgeon, Marcus could offer her salvation from type-two diabetes, reduce her future blood pressure problems, save her from a life of snoring and sleep apnoea, joint pain and premature death. Then again, this young lady had more money at her disposal than common sense and he could feel her determination to head straight for the cosmetic surgery solution. It saddened him.

  ‘Take a couple of weeks to think it through,’ Marcus said. ‘And read this information thoroughly. It’s a drastic step.’ And such a crying shame.

  Once she had been given time to apprise herself of the facts and the risks of surgery, he would need to see her again. It was important to thoroughly assess the best options, depending on the integrity of her skin and the distribution of body fat, before he took her cash.

  Reputation and pride in positive outcomes meant as much to him as financial gain although in essence the very nature of his surgical skills ensured his income stream was more a thunderous torrent of wealth.

  When Rhona was escorted into his clinic room that Wednesday, Marcus grinned to himself. Her make-up had been meticulously applied; she wore designer label clothes, which draped and swung over her midriff hiding the folds of fatty flesh beneath. She had accentuated her cleavage, her hair, her eyes and her shapely legs, making every effort to conceal her shame and boost her assets.

  ‘Welcome, Rhona. Lovely to see you again. I understand Karen has explained what we need to discover about you today. You’ve done all the nasty blood tests and the rest of the physical examinations. Now it’s decision time. There’s no hurry but I do need you to undress behind the curtain leaving your briefs on. Make use of the robe if it helps you to remain more comfortable. Karen will stay with us at all times during the examination and I will be thorough and as thoughtful as possible. Please say if at any time you feel unable to tolerate the examination and I’ll stop.’

  This was a routine speech, one performed at each such appointment and one that Marcus used as a steadying professional mantra.

  While his patient undressed and chatted to Karen, he brought up the computer-generated image of Rhona’s body on the screen of his desktop. Apple shaped. Large breasts, oversized abdomen and buttocks; Rhona’s arms and legs were relatively slim in comparison but there was an unsightly area of fat deposited on her inner thighs. Liposuction was a possibility for her legs, but the torso and her neck would, most likely, need the assistance of a knife. Everything hinged on the state of her skin. Elasticity and healthy skin would be the keys to a good result and to test that out he had to examine Rhona at intimately close range. He needed to palpate her flesh to feel the contours and lie of the adipose tissue beneath the skin. This was a potentially upsetting experience for patients without doubt, but for Marcus it was like putting a large vodka in front of an alcoholic.

  The two ladies were exchanging thoughts on what Rhona had read in the leaflets and information booklets given to her.

  ‘I understand the risks. He explained everything. Do you know, on one hand I’m almost relieved that he turned out not to be a crusty old man, but on the other he’s a bit too good looking, really. Don’t you think?’

  Karen gave immediate reassurance. ‘Don’t worry. You’re in safe hands. He’s happily married with two children and a gorgeous wife. Living the dream.’

  ‘Your staff here all seem to be stunning. A great advert for the practice I suppose. How does he cope surrounded by such attractive women each day?’

  Marcus could hear every word and tuned in for Karen’s answer. She laughed, dismissive of the inference. ‘I don’t think it ever crosses his mind. He’s a professional, Miss Charles. We all are.’

  By the way she spoke in short bursts, Marcus could hear Rhona’s nervousness. ‘He won’t try to talk me out of it will he? I want to look my best for Tom on our wedding day. He doesn’t want me too much smaller. He likes me as I am, but I need to look less like a whale, for me. My bum is fine, big but sturdy, as they say. My tits are my best feature by far, but my fat jelly belly has to go.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Ultimately the decision is yours.’ Karen was again the soothing voice of reason.

  It sometimes amused Marcus that his patients, no matter how well educated, seemed to accept that a thin curtain pulled around them constituted total privacy. Rhona didn’t whisper, she practically announced to the world her view on her body.

  Marcus centred himself as he approached the examination couch, a bespoke item of equipment designed for the bariatric specialist. Heavy-duty hydraulics and wide upholstered reclining seat with an adjustable arm and footrests. The touch of a button helped to alter the angle and height.

  Rhona was one of his more agile patients and he opted to begin by examining her back as she sat with her legs dangling towards the floor, facing away from him on the side of the couch. Karen knew the routine. What she didn’t know was why he always chose to begin with the examination of the patient’s back and shoulders.

  ‘Marcus always makes sure he has warmed his hands and he’ll talk you through everything as he goes along. If you’re not certain, just ask.’

  Suddenly Rhona
was unnervingly mute as she allowed the robe to slip from her shoulders, exposing her back and the Dimples of Venus at top of her buttocks. Marcus stared in silent appreciation while she kept her head bowed.

  Before placing his hands on her shoulders, he launched into his patter about the CGI information and what implications that had for the outcome of Rhona’s proposed surgery. Then he began. The skin beneath his hands was soft and blemish free.

  ‘Your shoulder area is fine, and, as I assess further, I see there is a well-defined waist, or there will be once we’ve tucked that tummy. I would suggest a little liposuction to reduce the underarm bulges in the area where your bra pushes them upwards. That way you won’t have to worry about the line of your wedding dress.’

  He felt her relax.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me quite so soon. Now when did you say the wedding date was set for?’

  ‘Next June.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Karen said, standing at the head of the couch. ‘You’ll have plenty of recovery time if we schedule surgery for the end of January and we won’t spoil your Christmas. Now then, could you sit back on the couch, rest your legs for a while. Marcus needs to plan out your abdominoplasty.’

  Taking care to look confidently into his patient’s eyes, Marcus stood back as Karen helped Rhona to take position on the examination couch.

  I am aiming for the umbilicus. I am palpating to keep my mind from wandering.

  His hands moved confidently, pressing deeply, as he assessed. ‘The skin is in very good condition. After some liposuction here, I think we will go for the tuck, but not too drastic. May I examine the areas on the inside of your thighs please, Rhona? I’m pretty certain that lipo will be beneficial, but I’d like to check. I don’t need to touch for long.’

  The agony of resisting the urge to probe deep inside her caused Marcus physical pain and the muscles in his right forearm cramped. He closed his eyes, moved his hand away from the edge of the briefs she wore and gave a final reassuring smile to Karen. ‘That’s all I need to see.’

  ‘What about my chin?’ asked Rhona as she sat up, not bothering to pull her robe around her; all embarrassment had seemingly melted away with the prospect of a miracle. ‘Or should I say chins… can you do anything?’ she asked as her hands cupped her lower jaw, fingers pushing the flesh into her neck.

  Marcus, thinking the examination was complete had dropped his guard. He pirouetted on the balls of his feet and sucked in a short breath.

  Look at her eyes. Stay professional. This is what you do. This is what you are. Keep your patients safe at all times. Maintain your defences.

  He coughed. ‘Gosh. I’d almost forgotten. We did say about a bit of a lift to rid you of those lady-jowls, if I remember rightly.’ He prodded a few times to make the examination look authentic and meaningful, but it wasn’t strictly necessary. His forearms brushed against her breasts and he backed away before his resistance failed him completely.

  ‘Yes. We’ll make a note of what we have agreed and book you in for surgery. Karen will take you through all the details. I’ll leave you to get dressed.’

  He was holding himself stiffly and his jaw was beginning to ache. If she hadn’t been so confident and composed, his struggles would have been minimal, but she was, and for that reason the level of sexual tension resulted in a jabbing headache and an erection that needed to be hidden behind his office desk.

  The water in the glass rippled as he lifted it to his lips. Not the steady hands of a surgeon, no, these were the tremors of a dreadful craving. Paracetamol may alleviate the thud in his temples, but the underlying condition could not be so easily remedied.

  His desires were threatening to break free from their bonds and destroy him. He needed his fix.

  6

  November

  ‘We’ve found him,’ Val croaked as she threw paperwork across the desk for Ella to check. The pokey office was a place lingered in for as short a time as possible. It was far more helpful for anyone’s future health to meet elsewhere because Val smoked like a chimney and cared little for Ella’s irritation and complaints about the legal requirements for a smoke-free workplace. ‘It’s my office. I’ll do what I bleedin’ well like,’ she reminded her whenever the subject of clean air arose.

  ‘The main man?’

  ‘No, the other one. The posh nob. Old-fashioned tracking and sleuthing was required. I asked Mal to keep him under close tabs and he’s identified a particular place our mark regularly frequents. This man’s private life isn’t newsworthy and I doubt it will bother him too much if it was disclosed to the general public but his little peccadillo is a shared interest with—’

  ‘But, Val,’ Ella interrupted, ‘if we keep spending time on this, you’ll go bankrupt unless you have some mystery client who’s loaded.’

  Val shrugged. ‘Might have, you never know.’

  After taking a long drag and blowing air thoughtfully away from Ella’s face, Val stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Ideally, I want both of them to pay for what they’ve done, but most of all I want to be sure he’s not still screwing up young people’s lives. He’s a fucking pervert and I know that lawyer of his is protecting him.’

  ‘You didn’t tell Mal what this is all about, did you?’

  ‘What do you take me for? Some fucking moron? Of course I didn’t. He thinks it’s the usual unfaithful lover scenario. The less he knows, the better.’

  ‘But if Malik’s done all that surveillance then where do I come in?’ Ella asked.

  ‘We have a timescale to keep to and the next move requires your particular skills,’ Val said.

  ‘My skills? Are you sure? And a deadline?’ Ella asked, keen to hear where her new career was taking her next.

  Val fiddled with her pen and seemed to be searching for the right words. Hesitantly she said, ‘Ella, I don’t have the attributes for the next part of the case. You’ll have to be the ears and the eyes on these two men from the inside.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Val. You don’t need to sound like Sam Spade. Where am I going and why?’

  Val wasn’t prone to diplomacy but, for once, she chose with care how she broke the news to Ella about her next assignment. ‘I’m too thin,’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘That’s hardly my fault,’ Ella replied. ‘If you cut back on the fags and ate more, then you’d put on weight. The solution is simple.’ She smiled at her employer, not knowing why she had begun her explanation with that phrase about body size. Not questioning why it was relevant.

  Val sprang to her feet. ‘Come on, it’s easier if I show you. Grab your coat.’

  They drove for nearly an hour before heading off the motorway and into the town of Lensham, not twenty minutes away from where Ella had spent several weeks sitting naked in an evening art class each Wednesday.

  ‘The station has direct fast trains to London. That’s what makes it so convenient for our man. He stays overnight whenever he can, usually on a Wednesday. He travels alone, but Mal says he meets a male friend at the station and they either hop into a cab or walk together until they reach their destination. Mal has taken a couple of photos and I’m damned sure it’s who we think it is, but you know what he looks like, beyond any doubt.’

  ‘His face is firmly and regrettably etched in my mind, as well you know. Where’s the hotel?’

  Val parked up in the station car park. ‘Twenty minutes free parking gives us enough time. Where they stay is within walking distance, come on you need the exercise.’

  ‘Very funny…’ Ella screwed up her eyes.

  Contrasting in size and style, the two ladies walked the damp November streets where the smell of late autumn was in the air. Tree-lined avenues branched off a busy main road and from one of these, between houses, a narrow single-track roadway led to a handsome regency-style residence. Three stories high, with sash windows, and fronted by black cast-iron railings, it had a classic appeal. To the left of an imposing lacquered front door was a sign, rather like a plaque
, the word Buxham’s was painted in silver calligraphy on a black gloss board. For the larger life … was written beneath, as if from a quote. No phone number, no email, no website address.

  ‘How classy,’ Ella said.

  Val released a series of rasping claggy coughs before being able to speak again. ‘It’s not on Trip-advisor nor Google ads but they do have a restaurant and bar licence and are a fully regulated premises with accommodation,’ she informed Ella as they strolled past, nonchalantly. ‘It is in fact a club, a private members’ club.’

  Withholding a vital piece of information, Val insisted that, as they walked by, they carefully scout what they could of the perimeter, which was nigh on impossible. An enormous solid oak sliding gate remained closed, preventing a view into the private car park. Either side of the main house were curved high walls, stately in their magnificence. The short roadway was wide enough for one vehicle to enter from the avenue but opened up to a sweeping turning circle in front of Buxham’s main entrance; one-way in or out for any vehicle. For members arriving on foot, the main entrance or a discreet plain door through the high wall with a touchpad entry system were the two choices.

  ‘Act as if we’re lost.’ Val pulled a pamphlet, advertising a local tattoo artist, from the inside pocket of her leather biker jacket, stopping to consult it. ‘We can’t hang around and there’s nowhere to observe from without it being blatant what we’re up to.’