Death by Indulgence Page 6

  Marcus had convinced himself that he was heading for a meltdown of biblical proportions. He’d paced back and forth while Harry lazed on the bed watching him.

  ‘If Lydia hadn’t contrived to take herself to the verge of starvation in the misguided belief that she had to look like a trophy wife, then I wouldn’t be in this mess,’ Marcus announced. ‘I can barely get it up these days she’s so scrawny. I miss the proper Lydia, the whole person I moulded, the breasts I could fall into, the belly I could knead and her magnificent buttocks that rolled and swayed with divine rhythm. The only way things could improve is if she could, by immaculate conception, fall pregnant. The trouble is I no longer find her sexually attractive, not for months – not even if I fantasise my heart out – and now, for Christ’s sake, she’s insisted we get counselling. What the fuck am I going to do?’

  ‘What’s so wrong with this as an alternative?’ Harry asked. ‘It’s not the same as being unfaithful in my book.’

  Marcus wasn’t sure whether to laugh at that outrageous comment. ‘Your book is vastly different to mine. For one thing, I’m married with children. I know they’re not mine, but it’s the principle. You, however, are the oldest playboy in town. No one will judge you too harshly if the truth came out. On the other hand, I would be in deep and smelly stuff right up to my neck. I am a fucking bariatric surgeon with a client base rammed full of wonderful rounded women all wanting to be thinner and I can’t – mustn’t indulge myself. It would be career suicide.

  ‘Lydia used to be my safety net. There when I got home to do with as I pleased and now she’s screwed it all up. I cannot believe what she’s done. Do you know, I’ve even begun to consider confining my surgical skills to men only, to reduce the temptation.’ Marcus looked up at the ceiling. ‘Yes! That’s the answer. I’ll deal with it on Friday,’ he said, waving his arms in the air, his words coming in staccato bursts as he searched for solutions. ‘Harry, I’m in real trouble. It’s all I think about and if I carry on like this I’ll lose everything, my practice, my reputation, my registration - the lot. The whole fucking lot.’

  ‘Then you will have to remain secretive, just as you are, Marcus. You must hide your desires from public scrutiny. Unless, of course you force Lydia into changing her mind…’

  Marcus ran his fingers through his hair as he sat heavily into the bedroom chair next to an oak dressing table. ‘It’s like a drug. I can’t change.’ He sighed long and low. ‘You’re right. Until I can get my own wife back under control, I’ll have to get my kicks here. Maybe I could stay more often and that way I’ll be less of a risk professionally. If anyone who knows me sees me in the restaurant, I look like I’m entertaining clients, so that’s no big deal. Lydia knows I stay here every Wednesday to make travel manageable for Thursday surgery, so it’s all covered.’ He paused in his excitement. ‘God, you see, even the thought of it makes me as horny as hell. I’m dribbling.’

  Harry bounced from the bed. ‘Come on then. No time to waste. Food, then flesh, lots of it. Sins of the flesh. Big sins.’ He rubbed his hands together.

  11

  From across the room …

  Ella was staring at the back of the man’s head, waiting for him to turn to the left again so that she could catch sight of his features. She wasn’t watching Harry Drysdale. She was transfixed by the possibility that she could confirm the identity of his companion. The angle was awkward. Could it be him?

  ‘You okay?’ Mal asked her, raising his voice slightly. The noise level in the restaurant had increased with the arrival of several couples that had made their way to the bar for a drink.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Ella was having the most disconcerting flashbacks to her student nursing days and began to worry that the man may recognise her thus putting an end to Val’s carefully planned caper. She took a sip from her wineglass, anxiety drawn across her face.

  ‘The mark?’

  ‘No. His oppo.’

  ‘Mr Suave?’

  ‘Dr Suave, I suspect.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Once upon a time, a long time ago when I was toned and willowy, I came across him.’

  Each of the booths in the restaurant at Buxham’s was offset, affording more privacy to the occupiers and intentionally preventing an open view from other tables. The upholstery and panelling dulled the sounds, making it virtually impossible to listen in to the conversation unless it became raucous. Most chatter was coming from a large round table at the far end of the room. The Pudding Club meeting was in full swing. Chair of the club announced the menu for the evening accompanied by cries of joy from the club members, some of whom banged a spoon on the table for emphasis.

  Ella couldn’t concentrate. Seeing a face from years ago in her former life perturbed her, a man who may remember her. She had certainly never forgotten him.

  ‘So much for sitting back and enjoying the evening, absorbing the feel of the place and letting you suss out the security issues.’

  ‘Would it matter if he recognised you?’

  Ella thought about Mal’s question for a few moments. She had to keep reminding herself that as far as he was concerned, they were following Harry Drysdale because of an infidelity issue. She patted the linen serviette onto her lap giving a wry smile to Mal.

  ‘Clever man. Good question. I don’t think it would make any difference at all. My CV detailed my nursing career and anyone can end up in the hospitality trade, can’t they? It shouldn’t matter to him.’

  ‘So it could even be an advantage?’

  ‘Yes. I believe it could.’ Anticipation. Excitement. A chill of the thrills to come made Ella shudder and shift in her seat. ‘It could even mean a—’

  She stopped mid-sentence as Harry Drysdale slid from the curved banquette seating of table eighty-eight. He was laughing with his companions. ‘Back in a moment and you …’, he said, aiming a finger at his male friend, ‘don’t touch what you can’t afford. You have your own to play with.’

  The slight man, no taller than Ella herself, strode past her, strutting like a peacock. Self-assured, almost arrogant, he stopped briefly to talk with Teresa who had been allowed use of a cushioned bar stool with back and arms, to rest herself. Heavily pregnant she exuded gentle contentment. Mal had the best view of the exchange and gave Ella a running commentary between mouthfuls of his seafood starter.

  ‘They must know each other well. He’s walked up, kissed her and laid both hands straight on her baby hump.’

  ‘Do you mean, “bump”?’

  ‘Call it what you like, it’s a bit soddin’ forward, for a customer. Blimey. She’s put her hands on top of his and is helping him to feel the baby. At least I think that’s the general idea. Right, he’s off again. Striding over to the bar… no he’s carrying on to the gents’ toilets. I’ll give him a few minutes then I’ll check them out myself.’ Mal stabbed another king prawn, scooped some pea shoots onto the fork and stared at the mouthful before eating. ‘This tastes bleedin’ amazing.’

  Ella was distracted. She was able to see Harry Drysdale’s date and was trying to work out if they were a stable pairing or whether this was a one off of some sort. The woman was spilling from the top of her low-cut, ruffled blouse. Her right wrist shone and glittered with silver bracelets, her hands finely manicured and smooth skinned. She had shiny blonde hair, cut in a long bob, and was immaculately made-up, smiling with moist full lips. No matter that she was beautiful, there was no getting away from the fact that Harry Drysdale’s lady friend was rotund, probably verging on the clinically obese.

  She’s the reason he’s here. He likes them that way. Ella thought. They both do. Bingo. Val had been correct.

  Mal had been watching her spying on the occupants of table eighty-eight and had seemingly read her mind. ‘My old mum calls it being short for your weight.’

  Ella grinned at him. ‘I was expecting him to be caught with an escort girl or two, but not one of plus size vital statistics. Maybe I do stand a chance of landing a sugar daddy.’<
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  Then it struck her; she needed to play along with Mal’s belief that they were on an infidelity assignment. ‘Mal? Why are we trying to provide evidence of the mark’s habits if he’s not married? What does it matter to anyone if he likes his dates on the large side? This mystery client, is it a prospective wife?’

  Mal stuck out his bottom lip and sat back. ‘There’s a thought. I hadn’t really wondered. I s’pose Val may have the answer to that one. All I know is that we have to provide indisputable photographic evidence of his bedroom antics before we get paid. So first you will have to find out what those antics are because so far all he’s done is to have dinner with two fat ladies.’

  ‘Eighty-eight.’

  ‘Exactly. Two fat ladies - eighty-eight. I’m off for a pee and to check out the place.’ He rose and stepped from the table, passing Harry Drysdale within a few paces. The two men nodded at each other. Ella looked carefully at Harry as he marched by. He didn’t register her existence, not noticing her as she sat in the booth of table sixty-six.

  Clickety-click. That is what the camera will do when I catch you at it.

  Ella smirked to herself, but again wondered what the driving force was behind Val’s request for photographic evidence. Was she planning to blackmail both men?

  Who was Harry Drysdale? A barrister. A respected barrister who was divorced and therefore free to do as he pleased unless it was illegal in which case his career and reputation would be sullied. Was the revenge worth the effort and the expense? Ella debated this with herself. Did he look like a pervert? Not at all.

  As the spruce lawyer returned to table eighty-eight, the other man – the man from her past and the subject of Val’s hatred – turned to greet him with hands spread wide. ‘Never touched her,’ he joked.

  ‘Is that so, Mr C?’ Harry mocked.

  That’s enlightening.

  Mr C was altogether stockier in build, like a chisel-jawed rugby flanker, with a quiet air about him, less confident than Harry Drysdale. Twitchy. He swivelled his head to his left and caught Ella looking over at them.

  She smiled, an automatic response. He turned away again preventing Ella from reading his reaction but she guessed it hadn’t been favourable. He shuffled to his right, hiding from view, but as he did so she was able to confirm her suspicions.

  It was him.

  Older, but it was definitely him.

  Marcus Carver.

  She tensed at the bitter recall of when she had first met Marcus Carver. His tastes hadn’t changed.

  Harry glanced across at her as if directed to do so by his friend Mr C. Ella, caught out again, held his gaze determined to appear innocent of prying or nosiness. She flashed her eyes as she beamed a bright inviting smile and saw him acknowledge her greeting. He had the temerity to wink.

  A player. A pocket-sized player. What games do you play I wonder?

  Ella’s thoughts were gate-crashed by Mal’s return to the table, followed shortly by a chatty waitress who cleared their starters and offered more drinks. Before Mal could share his findings, their main courses arrived and all thoughts of investigations went on hold.

  ‘Oh, this looks so delicious.’

  They tucked into their plates of food with joyful noises, and within minutes Teresa approached to check on their level of satisfaction with the dining experience. As she was about to retreat, having received overwhelmingly positive responses from Mal and Ella, a request for attention came from behind her. Harry was calling.

  ‘I think he’s asking who we are,’ Ella guessed, trying to warn Mal that she had perhaps aroused unnecessary curiosity from the table diagonally opposite. She tried to eat and chat nonchalantly with Mal, acting as normally as she could, but with one eye on the interactions between Teresa and Harry. Teresa unfurled an arm in Ella’s direction and was explaining to the guests on table eighty-eight who their fellow diners were. There was a muffled ‘Aaaahhh,’ which arose above the booth confirming that all was well.

  Ella forced a grin while muttering updates and manoeuvring food onto her fork. ‘The lawyer’s nodding a lot. He’s looking over. Shit.’

  ‘What?’ asked Mal, through gritted teeth, as he reached for a glass of water.

  ‘Mr C.’ The man she recognised from her past had shuffled across toward the edge of the upholstered leather seating and turned his head to his shoulder again. This time he caught Ella’s eye and kept it, raising an eyebrow. He regarded her with an intense stare.

  ‘Fuck me,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’ Mal asked again, exasperated at not being given the reason behind Ella’s responses.

  ‘He licked his lips. The bloody lecherous bastard,’ she whispered.

  But he didn’t recognise me.

  12

  The Search

  January 25th

  Konrad felt queasy. His stomach churned endlessly as he waited for the Channel 7 executives to call him in to answer their questions, propose new ideas and to provide a sound rationale for his vast salary.

  He sat on the leather chairs in an open plan office area beyond the glass-walled meeting room. He could hear raised voices behind the closed blinds. With his palms sticky from nervous sweat, gluing his hands to the leather document case on his lap, he struggled to find his usual composure. There was too much at stake and the level of tension threatened to undo his efforts to save his own career. Requiring a confident pitch to the top men, if his anxieties got the better of him, he would stumble over his words and that would never do.

  Around the smoked glass oval table, the suits sat with laptops in front of them and, as Konrad entered the room, a hush descended. Even mild paranoia was hard to control.

  What did they know to make them react in this way? he wondered. Was this the end of his career? Was he destined to cope with being a third rate media has-been?

  His guts lurched, and he braced for the bad news.

  The salt and pepper-haired man, his beaked nose resembling that of a bird of prey, motioned to a chair opposite. Dino Ledbetter was the man with the power and the budget, keen to present the production forecasts for The Truth Behind the Lies.

  ‘Konrad. Welcome. Take a seat,’ he purred, placing his elbows in front of him and intertwining his fingers. ‘Viewing figures remain high for The Truth, however, after some discussion, we are of the opinion that a shift in emphasis may go a long way to revitalising the original concept. We would very much like to hear your views while we consider whether to renew your contract with us.’

  Expecting the worst and then hearing it, Konrad wracked his brain to find the right response and, as a result, Dino, who stared intently with his closely set, predatory eyes, prompted him, misunderstanding his delay. ‘Konrad. You are well respected and hard working. Please consider what we have to say very carefully before making a decision you’ll regret.’

  Konrad glanced swiftly around the table and caught the eye of Robin De La Croix, - D.L.C. himself - who immediately shifted his eyes towards his laptop screen. His raised brow and haughty look alluded to an argument won while Konrad was not even on the battlefield.

  ‘There was a minority view that it was time to call an end to the series. A tiny minority, let me add,’ Dino said.

  Konrad smiled to himself as Dino’s body language confirmed D.L.C. as one of the culprits. Stuart Barnfield, the co-conspirator to D.L.C.’s right, shifted awkwardly and rubbed the side of his nose with one forefinger. Dino continued. ‘We need something from you Konrad. What would you suggest?’

  Konrad drew a deep cleansing breath. ‘I would consider it foolhardy for Channel 7 to undermine the faith of the viewing public by shelving a popular show, but I agree there does need to be a reinvigoration of the format. Can I point out that I’ve been very much put on the spot here. I would have thought, out of respect, that any discussion about contracts should have been preceded by a less formal consultation, but as I’m here—‘ Dino Ledbetter was about to speak again, but Konrad cut him short by raising a hand, not wanting to stem the f
low of ideas that he and Eliza had developed earlier. His speech, although appearing spontaneous, was well rehearsed.

  ‘Let me pitch this to you: Hidden lives, ladies and gentlemen, those lies that people tell to cover up sordid secrets, not necessarily the tricksters, the scammers and the downright deceitful, but the opposite. You know the sort of thing. Our viewers are interested in real-life stories that explore the little known facets of human behaviours, quirky ones, kinky ones, obscure fascinations, socially unacceptable pastimes for those in authority or positions of trust.’ Konrad turned to bore into Dino’s eyes. ‘It is possible to broaden our horizons from straightforward miscarriages of justice without losing the central theme of seeking the truth. May I also say that we should maintain the same production standards or we risk losing the interest of the public. My team and I are the right people for the job. We live and breathe documentary.’

  He swept the room with his remaining eye, ensuring he caught the return gaze of each man and woman who sat in judgement of him. ‘You could choose a new more handsome face, if you so wish… but if I wanted solid returns on my investment, then I’d bet on the sure thing.’

  Konrad managed to disguise his despair at being made to fight for his position. Only just. Seeing a chance to gain the advantage over his detractors, he calmly inhaled deeply before making his final argument and leaving them to debate his future.

  He had predicted that by this time of the proceedings he would be humming a repetitive melody on the way back downstairs to reception. He visualised himself skipping from the lift and stepping lightly towards the main desk at Marriot and Weston’s, the office block where Channel 7 housed its headquarters. However, his brush with the executive board had not gone well. He hadn’t lost the fight, but he was waiting for the judges’ decision on whether he had won on points. The alternative scenario was that dastardly D.L.C. and his sidekick, Muttley – Stuart Barnfield – had swayed the consensus in their own favour. Delia’s favour.