Death by Indulgence Page 8

  Armed with the knowledge that her weight loss had been the result of surgery, Lydia could be forced to change her mind. He would remove the gastric band himself if he only he could. But that wasn’t possible.

  Without her cooperation he would be left making use of a three hundred pound woman, who cost him over three hundred pounds sterling an hour, each week, in food and services rendered. On top of that he was dabbling at work. Lydia had to be made to gain weight again, to meet his requirements. What were wives for if not that?

  Christmas was coming and geese were getting fat. It was time that Lydia did the same.

  Marcus checked the calendar on his phone to reassure himself that the yuletide holidays did not fall on a Wednesday. He knew he wouldn’t make it through the charade of jovial happy families without his next top up. He would find the right time to confront Lydia and in the meantime he would let her believe what she liked about his impotence. After all, the most vivid of imaginations could not help him pretend his deflated wife was an adequate substitute for Leonora. Or better still, the new hostess, Ella.

  Now there was another viable option, he thought. Ella. He could hire her as a housekeeper perhaps, or lure her with promises and make her his mistress.

  He picked up his suitcase and headed for the door of the hotel room. Harry was right. Wednesdays were sacrosanct. Nothing should be allowed to change them. His other life should remain hidden for now and so he vowed to placate Lydia until he could find the best way to fuel his increasing obsessions. After that, perhaps he would have no need for his wife, her extra skin and her sweet daughters. She had become too different and he could not reconcile himself with her objectionable behaviour.

  15

  The Search

  January 25th

  ‘Late on parade, Cyclops. You’re two pints behind, pal.’ Barney announced. Konrad meandered past him to disrobe and hang his overcoat on the stand in the corner of the public bar, gloves stuffed into one pocket. Lorna was greeting Annette, Barney’s wife, with a mid-air kiss aimed towards one cheek as Konrad replied to his best friend. ‘Must be my round then, old buddy, old chum. Make room.’ Barney stepped to one side allowing Konrad to elbow his way nearer the beer pumps to inspect the choice on offer.

  Rob, the landlord of The Valiant Soldier, was on standby with a straight pint glass in one hand, a wineglass in the other, awaiting instructions from Konrad. ‘The lovely Mrs Lorna Neale will have her usual glass of red wine, a large one if you please. No holding back on the alcohol tonight, we are walking home this evening. Well, to be fair, I think skating would be a more accurate description. We resembled a couple of pissed penguins on the journey here. The roads are bad enough, but the damned pavements are lethal. Leaving the house is a risk to human life in the village at the moment. We barely made it back from the station in the Golf without crashing, purely because my wife is an expert driver. So she tells me anyway.’

  Barney drained his glass and plonked it down in front of Konrad. ‘I’ll have another pint of your fine Hophead please, landlord.’

  ‘You can wait your turn,’ Konrad said. ‘Rob, I would like an… umm, now then what beer shall I have this evening?’ he asked, making a great show of examining the badges on each of the brass beer pumps. ‘What a difficult decision. I’ll be with you in a minute. Netty, what would you like? Another cider, is it?’

  Barney fidgeted, knowing the wind-up would get worse if he reacted. The sausage-like fingers of his right hand were still wrapped around his empty pint glass and he tapped one foot impatiently as Konrad built the tension. ‘Is this one an amber ale?’ Konrad asked, indicating to the pump on his far left. ‘No, Kon, that is an IPA, India Pale Ale like it says.’ Rob was being most helpful, playing along.

  ‘Could I try a taster of the Red Kite? I don’t think I’ve had that one before.’ He had, and Barney knew he had. While his thirsty friend looked on, Konrad picked up the glass of wine and pint of still cider. He delivered them in slow motion to Lorna and Annette who sat at a table near the fireplace. They had a front row view of the scene being enacted for their benefit and Annette was timing the event.

  Konrad waved cheerily at an elderly gentleman who sat alone at the far end of the bar. ‘Good evening, Duncan. Cold enough for you?’

  ‘Arrr,’ came the muffled reply. The man had a handkerchief to his large hooked nose.

  When he returned to the bar Konrad leant across to Rob, a concerned expression on his face. ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘Not really. The dew-drop that lives permanently attached to his hooter - you know the one - froze solid. Quite painful by all accounts.’

  Konrad pursed his lips and nodded his understanding as Barney huffed with impatience.

  ‘Do you have steak and kidney pudding on the menu this evening, Rob?’ Konrad asked. ‘I have a real yearning for winter food.’

  Barney took the bait. ‘Bollocks. There is no way you will eat suet pudding, you poncey git. You’re too worried about your precious waistline to go near proper food like that. Now stop piss-arsing about and get me a beer.’

  Annette was rocking with laughter. ‘Pathetic. You didn’t last much more than three minutes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with three minutes? You don’t usually complain, missus. Three minutes is good going for me.’ Barney was grinning madly. Rob shook his head and pulled Konrad’s favourite pint. The joviality was honest and familiar, and a fitting beginning to an evening of lively discussion.

  ‘Don’t they ever get sick of that game?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘No, it’s been the same for years, apparently. They’ve known each other far too long, I reckon.’

  ‘Look at them. They’re so different, most people would never imagine they were as close as brothers, but Kon would be lost without you and Barney. He thinks that pretty much everyone else who pretends to be his friend turns out to be the opposite.’

  The pub was unusually quiet, mostly due to the disheartening weather conditions, allowing the four friends to make use of two large tables pushed together. They spread themselves out, to eat, drink and examine certain documents and photographs that Lorna and Konrad had brought along.

  ‘Right, gang. Here’s the gist of the article in this morning’s papers,’ Konrad announced as Barney approached the table with a full pint in his meaty hand. He oversaw proceedings from behind his wife’s left shoulder as he rested his back against an old oak upright beam, preferring to stand for a while.

  ‘When we went to the Pudding Club do, we all saw Harry at Buxham’s on the night before he apparently disappeared, Wednesday January the third. He left the restaurant with his male friend and two marvellously dressed, well-endowed women, at about nine thirty. He bade us goodnight and inferred that he was about to receive more than pudding served in his room.’

  ‘Maybe he got his just desserts then,’ offered Barney.

  ‘Perhaps he did.’ Konrad frowned, recalling events. ‘I didn’t enjoy myself much that night. It was torture watching everyone stuff themselves stupid. I can’t tell you how bloody relieved I am that the festive season has finally finished and I don’t have to attend any more damn parties.’

  ‘Yes, you certainly were more of a miserable bastard than usual that night. God knows why you can’t give in once a year. I’m sure your adoring public wouldn’t have noticed a few pounds going on. It’s winter; wear a jumper,’ Lorna said as she ruffled Konrad’s silver hair in response to a low growling noise he made, conceding to her argument. She then poked a finger at the newspaper article.

  ‘It says here that Harry stayed the night at Buxham’s and checked out early in the morning but hasn’t been seen since he boarded a train at Lensham.’

  ‘Come on then, Lorna, you’re famous for sniffing out a good story - what have you discovered so far? Who was he with?’ Konrad asked, keen to get on with things.

  Lorna pulled out her iPad and placed it on top of the Daily Albion article. ‘The handsome chap with our little Harry on the night we met them, was this man.�
� She brought up an image on the screen showing a gentleman standing at a lectern. ‘This well-groomed individual in a bespoke dinner suit is Marcus Carver, son of the famous Sir William Carver, surgeon and pioneer of specialist reconstructive facial surgery. If you’ll pardon the pun, Marcus has carved out a name for himself as a bariatric surgeon and cosmetic surgery is his stock in trade. It was his duty to follow in his father’s not inconsiderable footsteps. With a surname like that he had little choice.’

  Konrad smirked. ‘Nominative determinism it’s called. There are loads of examples. I once met a man called Mr Mike Churn who used to work for the milk marketing board. When I was in hospital in Manchester I was told of a Sister Cartilage who worked in osteopathy, Lorna’s old GP was called Dr Bone, and when we were in Bangor there was actually an undertaker by the name of Hugo Stiff, do you remember?’ he asked Lorna.

  She chortled, ‘Oh yes! I’d forgotten that one. Anyway, as I was saying, the sign on the cosmetic medical group’s Harley Street door reads, Marcus Carver, BSc. MBBS. FRSC (plast).’

  Annette was immediately enthralled by this information. ‘How ironic. A bariatric surgeon as a member of Buxham’s club; does he go there to tout for business?’

  Lorna gave her friend a wicked grin. ‘My guess would be even more ironic than yours. Unless he has an eating disorder, like bulimia, then I would suggest that Marcus Carver and Harry Drysdale don’t go to stuff themselves stupid with delicious highly calorific food and drink. The way they were behaving towards their lady-friends and the extremely attractive restaurant hostess would suggest a more carnal motive.’

  Annette wobbled with anticipation at what was to be revealed next.

  ‘This makes no odds for Harry,’ Lorna said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘He’s divorced and reckless, cares little for tabloid opinion about his private life but is dedicated to his income. He wouldn’t have done anything so rash as to run away with his latest floozy and miss an important court case. So therein lies the mystery.’ She waved her hand and poked at the screen. ‘However, this man, Marcus Carver, with a wife and two children - hers not his - and a massively successful business in the private cosmetic surgery field, has a lot to lose if his personal playtime antics were revealed as being…’

  ‘Fat?’ suggested Annette, looking round at Barney who shrugged.

  Lorna caught the exchange and pushed for confirmation. ‘Come on. You two have been trotting along to The Lensham and District Pudding Club nearly every month for the past year. You know more. Spill.’

  Konrad put his beer down and folded his arms, waiting. ‘Yeah. Spill,’ he echoed.

  The sheepish expression on the faces of Barney and Annette prophesied confessions still to be imagined. Spotting this, Konrad and Lorna made themselves comfortable and ordered more drinks from Rob who was attending to the fireplace, poking at the burning embers and adding a couple more logs. He was nosily tuned in to the conversation, eager to learn what secrets were to be told.

  Suet pudding secrets with jam and custard.

  ‘We didn’t know it was him. Buxham’s is obsessive about privacy and although we all use our first names in the pudding club, the full members of Buxham’s are anonymous. Your friend Harry didn’t react too badly when you recognised and called out to him, but the staff never refer to the guests by anything other than sir or madam. Or an initial. Harry was always Mr D, his mate was Mr C, but it’s more customary for a simple table number to be used. They always sit at table number eighty-eight. The whole pudding club knew it. Two fat ladies, eighty-eight. It was a standing joke.’

  Konrad listened intently to every word. His radar was on and whirring madly. ‘You think Harry was there every Wednesday with the same man and at least one woman. You said two fat ladies, but are they always the same two fat ladies or does it change? Is Harry with Marcus Carver each time or is he joined by anyone else and how come neither of you mentioned this to us previously?’

  Barney wore a look of confusion. ‘We didn’t know it was Harry Drysdale. Neither of us. Did we Netty? Remember, it’s been a few years since we’ve seen him and even then he was wafting about in a wig and a gown.’

  ‘It feels a bit peculiar to think we never recognised him at all,’ Annette said, ‘but honestly even though he was smartly dressed for dinner he was relaxed, full of cheerful banter and just another customer as far as we knew. You can’t really see what goes on in those booths anyway. It’s a place for private members to relax and not to have to worry about being recognised.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’ Lorna asked.

  ‘We reckon the two fat ladies are ordered in,’ Barney said. ‘We’ve seen at least four different ones pass by, heading to or from table eighty-eight and a couple of other tables, if I’m right.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true and Barney checked each one of them out as they wiggled their buttocks in his direction,’ Annette said, thrusting her head playfully backwards into Barney’s rounded beer belly.

  ‘It’s free to look.’

  ‘Is it? Maybe it’s a pound an ogle, and you were lucky not to get caught.’ Barney squeezed his wife’s shoulders and bent forward to kiss the top of her head. ‘Only one woman for me, oh-chunky-one. I could never imagine losing my head in anyone else’s breasts.’

  Konrad heaved a sigh. ‘Thanks for leaving me with that picture in my mind. Now can we please get back to the matter in hand? What connection do we have regarding these larger women and Harry’s disappearance?’ He looked at each of them. ‘We don’t. Do we, Lorna?’

  Wearing a serious face, his wife concurred. ‘There is nothing to suggest anything illegal or untoward in Harry’s case. However, I went on an exploration of Marcus Carver’s past and first, I stumbled across something that may have a bearing and, secondly, an astounding discovery about his wife that will raise your eyebrows. If we zero in on Marcus Carver, we may find out what has happened to Harry.’

  16

  The week before Christmas

  Ella was settling into the demands of the festive season at Buxham’s to such a degree that she occasionally forgot she was there to gather vital information and set up the two men that were now firmly in her crosshairs, Harry Drysdale and Marcus Carver.

  Nothing about her new role had been beyond her capabilities so far. Although her aching feet often complained by the end of the evening, she was revelling in the challenges of the frantic restaurant service on each shift.

  Much to Ella’s relief, Ada had taken up the job offer and, despite being a part-timer, was now accepted as a hard-working member of the front of house team in Buxham’s restaurant. The rest of the club staff had been friendly and helpful enough, with the exception of the cantankerous head chef Schubert. That was his surname. Everyone referred to him as Schubert or more simply as Chef.

  Yes, Chef, No, Chef, three bags full, Chef. Ella would say to herself when he began his daily criticism of the waiting staff.

  He was a pernickety Austrian shouting machine with a vocabulary made up mostly of volcanic expletives. He reminded Ella of a furious bulbous Arnold Schwarzenegger. Ada was so upset by the man that she’d threatened to hand her notice in within the first two weeks of commencing her new job.

  ‘He’s a bastard. I’ll not ’ave him talk to me like that. Once more and I’ll stick his hollandaise sauce where t’ sun don’t shine.’

  His hypercritical approach made most of the waiting staff jittery. When Flora, one of Buxham’s best waitresses, had burst into tears the previous evening, Ella was forced to make her case to Schubert for him to ease up on his ranting before there was a front of house mutiny.

  There was little opportunity to resolve matters during that busy evening service, other than to lodge her complaint with Schubert over the pass.

  ‘Chef, will you please refrain from addressing staff in such a hurtful manner. I think we should speak about this again tomorrow when you have calmed down.’

  Schubert was sweating over several plates that lay under the heat lamps awaiting his final tweaks
of presentation. He rounded on Ella, eyes narrowing. ‘Fuck off back to the restaurant. I don’t need your advice, new girl.’ A waft of garlic accompanied his words.

  When she emerged from his small office the following morning she pasted a smile on her face for the benefit of the kitchen brigade. The chefs were putting on a good show of concentrating on their preparations, their mise en place, but she caught their veiled signs of approval and admiration.

  The heated exchange between Ella and Schubert could easily have been heard from several feet beyond the office. His initial onslaught was booming to the degree that the glass panels in the door shook, but Ella had stood firm. She blasted him for his appalling man-management and with her final suggestion, about how to control his temper Schubert rocked back in his creaking chair and howled with sarcastic laughter.

  ‘You are seriously suggesting that if I want to swear, that I go to the walk-in freezer and shout in there? Are you mad?’

  ‘That’s a distinct possibility, Chef, but mad or not, it’s my duty to tell you that your behaviour constitutes bullying and harassment. It’s unnecessary and undermines the efficiency of the restaurant team, which, I hasten to add, includes your brigade.’

  ‘How I manage my fucking team is up to me, Bella,’ he roared.

  ‘My name is Ella, and you are mistaken. I do not allow myself to get bullied. Not anymore. I don’t bully anyone else and it is unacceptable in the workplace. Encouragement and constructive criticism are welcome and the odd swear word is fine as long as it is not aimed at individuals. Do I make myself clear?’ Ella had stood with her hands on her hips, staring defiantly at Schubert, not faltering, not flinching.