Death by Indulgence Page 9

  I do not get bullied.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like this?’ Schubert stood from his seat and leant over his paper-strewn desk, both sets of knuckles resting on draft menu cards. His ears reddened.

  Ella declined to be intimidated and in her head she truly believed her own charade. Her part was to play a confident restaurant manager. ‘I am the person tasked with ensuring that the magnificent food served in your kitchen is delivered to our customers efficiently, effectively and competently by cheerful conscientious waiting staff. I am the person who manages the timing of the orders for your brigade to avoid overwhelming them. I am the person who represents you in that restaurant.’ She took a step forward and opened both hands towards Schubert. ‘That is who the fuck I think I am. Over to you, Chef.’

  Chef straightened and folded his arms. Oh, dear. That’s a bad sign, thought Ella. However, for once, she was wrong. Schubert’s face mellowed, as did his tone of voice.

  ‘Well said, young lady. You have balls of steel and I admire you for having the guts to stand up for your staff and yourself. You have a valid reason and I apologise, unreservedly. I am a perfectionist, you understand.’ He angled his head to one side.

  ‘I do indeed, which is why I knew you would appreciate hearing the truth. We should work together.’

  ‘Agreed, young lady.’ Schubert pumped Ella’s hand and then in an unexpected manoeuvre he raised it to his lips and kissed gently. ‘I thank you for your observations. Together we shall achieve perfection.’

  Moving through the kitchen, swelling with pride and a sense of immense satisfaction, Ella could feel a dozen pairs of eyes watching her.

  ‘Have a good service tonight, team. It’s going to be another busy one, so let me know if you need changes in the running order as we go. See you later.’

  She stepped onto the carpet of the restaurant, exhaling loudly and checking her hands for tremors. Spiros, the maddest Greek barman Ella had ever come across, was giving her a silent round of applause from behind the bar. ‘If you do not cry, then you have done a wonderful thing.’ His specific meaning wasn’t clear to Ella, but the sentiment was positive enough.

  Her third Wednesday evening service was looming, the one just before Christmas, and she had arranged to meet with Val at the Old Station Café at three o’clock. Approaching the glass door she could see Mal slumped in a corner, huddled into a black puffer jacket, reading a daily newspaper, but no sign of her boss, her old friend. He dropped the edge of the paper peering towards the door as she entered. He beamed, allowed the paper to complete its journey to the table and stood to greet her. ‘Hi, sis. How’s the new job going?’

  ‘Great thanks. It’s a bit busy with the Christmas festivities so I can’t stay long.’ She sat down alongside Mal to ask quietly, ‘What’s making you grin?’

  ‘These adverts.’

  He poked a well-manicured finger toward some small advertisements in the personal section of the newspaper.

  ‘Getting lonely, are you?’

  ‘I’m not that bleedin’ desperate, luv. Not quite.’

  Ella shuffled closer to read. ‘Usual stuff… massage, home visits… oh dear, why would anyone want to have an exciting intimate time with someone old enough to be my granny? And what is a BBW when it’s at home?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Am I?’ Ella asked, somewhat astounded.

  ‘Big beautiful woman. BBW. There’s a few in here.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Ella said, affronted at the insinuation, ‘are you putting me in the same bracket as an oversized escort girl? Thanks a bloody bunch. I used to like you. Anyway,’ she said, moving back to her own personal space on the bench seat, ‘where’s Val?’

  In avoiding the question, Mal drew attention to himself. Ella noticed a sorrowful look in his eyes, a grey tinge to his skin and he seemed anxious, his face pinched. Before she had a chance to challenge him, Emo-waitress appeared at the corner of the table.

  ‘Where’s Val, your scruffy mate? I’ve left her a couple of messages.’ A puzzled look strayed across her black eyebrows. ‘Swinging both ways now are ya?’ she said to Ella chewing on gum while sliding her eyes in Mal’s direction. If anything her make-up was more heavily applied than the last time Ella had seen her. The girl was so morose that instead of hair piled on her head it should have been a gloomy cloud.

  Mal responded with a sardonic smile. ‘Val’s been a bit poorly the last day or so, luv. She might not be in to see you for a while. You hang on in there, darlin’. I’m sure she’ll be sniffing round again before too long.’

  ‘What the fuck would you know?’ Emo-girl snubbed Mal and returned her enquiries to Ella. ‘Drink? Summing t’w’eat?’ Her sloppy diction was a source of fascination to Ella who made the waitress repeat the question purely to delight in hearing her pronounce the Queen’s English so badly.

  ‘Hot Chocolate, if you have it please.’

  There was a tut and a sigh. Emo-waitress then tipped her pen towards Mal. ‘E want anyfing?’

  ‘A smile? Some cheerful witty banter to make my day complete, luv. What d’ you say?’

  ‘I say, do you want anyfing or not? If not, then fuck off.’

  ‘Another cup of your finest coffee would be great, luv, ta.’

  Emo-waitress didn’t reply other than to roll her eyes. Then she skulked off in the direction of the service area where she set about providing two drinks accompanied by unbridled swearing, crashing of crockery and clanking of utensils.

  Ella turned to Mal who was continuing to shake his head at the entertaining misery displayed by their waitress.

  ‘What a foul specimen. Does Val really fancy that?’ he said.

  ‘I think it’s already gone beyond the chatting up stage. Let’s not dwell for now. Tell me about Val,’ Ella demanded.

  ‘She’s in hospital having a few more tests done.’

  ‘A few more? What bloody tests? Hang on, Mal, she never mentioned this two days ago when I saw her. What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s not brilliant news, I’m afraid. That cough has turned out to be a bit of a bastard and she’s got something up with her guts as well.’

  ‘Like what?’ Ella asked, drilling into his eyes. He avoided her scrutiny by peering at the newspaper again.

  ‘Oi! Stop dribbling over the escort ads and try to be honest with me,’ she insisted.

  ‘You know what she’s like. She hates admitting to any sort of weakness, but she sends her best and asks you to carry on as planned,’ he said, glancing up. ‘Waste of time being over sentimental. She’s as tough as old boots and she wants you to get on with the job she sent you to do. Besides, we both need the money and I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Mal always gets his man. Know what you’ve got to do?’

  ‘Yes, but the agency have cancelled our lawyer friend’s choice of companion for this week, and it’s such short notice they can’t re-supply. I spoke to the duty manager and offered to make myself available for a life-drawing session by way of compensation. I only hope one of them takes the bait and that I haven’t fed myself to the wolves.’

  ‘Couldn’t you try one of these adverts instead? Get another escort girl in?’

  ‘You have to be kidding me. The agency they use at the club is high class, top notch, and they charge a fortune. You saw them on table eighty-eight. Fragrant, educated, articulate, expensively dressed and gorgeous. I’d be sacked on the spot for ordering in a fat minger from Scumsville as a substitute.’

  ‘Sorry. Just trying to help. Well done anyway. You did good.’

  Ella fidgeted. ‘I have no problem posing in the altogether, but Mal, I’m a bit crap with surveillance equipment. I’m not permitted to use my mobile phone and I’ll have to set up a camera in the room, if I manage to get that far. How the hell am I supposed to do that with the poxy things you’ve given me?’

  Mal rested his hands on top of the paper. ‘You’ll have to do your best. I had a meeting with the general manager at Buxham’s
and they are tighter than a duck’s arse when it comes to sweeping for hidden cameras and bugs in that place. The equipment they have is first class. I’m told there was nearly an international incident involving a rich Arab and an undercover reporter some years ago and since then they are obsessive. They check for bugs in air fresheners, USB chargers, remote controls, you name it they scrutinize it. Our secret services couldn’t do better.’ He sighed before continuing.

  ‘The only suggestion I made, to justify my bill, was for them to make confiscation of all mobile phones compulsory for anyone who uses the restaurant. So, young lady, you will have to do what you can. Get some pictures and then wait for instructions. After that we plan your resignation. Mind you, if Val’s going to be out of action you might have to stay on. You may have no other income and I could be left short myself.’

  ‘So we have to finish this job. We can’t let Val down. Not now.’

  ‘Yep. That’s about the size of it. Here is a list and lay out of the CCTV cameras. If you need anything else you have my number and I’ll come to your rescue like any big brother would. No questions will be asked, just don’t get caught.’

  Ella had considered telling Mal about her history with Marcus Carver but decided against it. She would do as she thought fit. Val had a plan for setting up Harry Drysdale and she would do the same for Marcus Carver. Two for the price of one. How best to go about manufacturing their undoing would depend entirely on what happened in the following three weeks. It was up to Ella to find out the details, to prove Val’s hypothesis. But how?

  17

  The Wednesday Before Christmas

  December the twentieth had not worked out as planned. The XL Agency had cancelled Mr D’s date for the evening and there had been a peculiar competitive feel to the dynamics on table eighty-eight as a result. It wasn’t long before Ella had determined that she was the subject of desire to fill the gap left by Harry’s escort but that both men were vying for her.

  She made a show of caving in to a special Christmas request, agreeing to sit as an artist’s model for Harry Drysdale after dinner service. This was despite the fact that the idea had been hers in the first place.

  ‘Mr C has the curvaceous Leonora to keep him company and so it’s only fair that I should take up the club’s generous offer of another companion for the late evening hours. Art for art’s sake,’ Harry said.

  Ella felt the pit of her stomach lurch as the reality of her offer sank in. She was dubious and uncertain as to what she was about to undertake. All the staff at Buxham’s assumed that both men’s appetites were left of normal. However, in reality, they had no evidence to suggest exactly what went on between their members and the ladies of the XL Agency.

  The staff team signed binding contracts and were well paid for their silence; even tittle-tattle between the club’s employees did not stray far beyond innuendo, euphemism and brief offensive references. The phrase “to lick the bowl clean” took on a whole new meaning at Buxham’s on a Wednesday.

  The restaurant emptied much sooner than was usual, with many gourmet members forced into catching earlier trains home due to disruption from industrial action on the railway lines. This played into Ella’s hands. She had time to shower, reapply her make up, and take her much need medication. The nervous anticipation had begun to excite her and knowing that she was required to sit motionless she made judicial use of a small blue pill. Lorazepam. It would take the edge off her hypomania and allow her to carry out her investigative duties calmly. After consulting her goldfish, Gordon, about the need for underwear, she changed into a long-line cashmere V-neck jumper and leggings. Satisfied, she then presented herself, pashmina at the ready, at the door of Harry Drysdale’s suite a few minutes after nine-thirty that evening.

  Not knowing what risks she may be about to take, she had made sure to inform the duty manager and get a message to Mal. The text that came back from her colleague made her laugh aloud.

  Any trouble, just kick him in the nuts and cry rape.

  The advice from the duty manager was much more customer focussed. He was impressed that Ella’s talents were being put to such good use in providing a range of services at Buxham’s that had not been previously available. What’s more, he’d shared words along those lines with Ella while he calculated how much additional charge to add to Mr D’s monthly bill. ‘A nice boost to your earnings, Ella. A Christmas bonus. You’ll have no trouble as long as you set your boundaries and keep to them. You decide the limits of the agreement. I will be charging for three hours in total. Any more than that please let me know.’

  Ella stared at him, unsure what advice to ask. Was he condoning personal services of an intimate nature?

  She found out within minutes of entering Harry Drysdale’s lavish suite. He had changed from smart clothes worn for dinner, into extremely casual linen trousers and a T-shirt, and signalled for her to enter. She stood a couple of inches taller than he did until, shaking slightly, she slipped off her shoes and padded towards the sofa. Prodding at the upholstery, she tried to work out where she could place her large handbag so that the camera within would pick up what she was to be confronted with.

  ‘No. I’d prefer it if you could pose on the bed for me,’ Harry said.

  Ella froze. She stammered as she forced the words from her mouth. ‘I, I need to make it abundantly clear, Mr D… I’m not here for sex. This booking is for life modelling.’

  Through a strong sense of foreboding her bladder was playing tricks, and she felt a sudden urgency to urinate. It was fear. Her confidence and self-assurance had deserted the moment her eyes moved from the sofa to the bed and the calming effect of the lorazepam had not so far been felt. She fidgeted, rocking from one leg to the other.

  Harry bent over and from the coffee table he picked up a sketchpad.

  ‘I know. I believe that was my request. If I had wanted anything more, I would have negotiated harder. Please, feel free to make use of the bathroom to undress and come out when you are ready.’

  For a while, she couldn’t regain control over her imagination but she did at least manage to reduce the nervous quivering of her limbs. For Ella self-soothing involved talking through difficult times, usually aiming her words towards Gordon, her goldfish, in the privacy of her own room. In the bathroom of Harry Drysdale’ s suite, as she stripped off her clothes, she had a full-on internal monologue.

  Right you stupid biddy. This is where you need to be. Build trust with the man then you can use him to get to Marcus fucking Carver. Be elusive, make him want you and work for the privilege. She looked in the mirror and looped the pashmina around her back and over her arms. Off we go. Sit still and silently. Let him do the talking.

  He was as good as his word. Harry gave instructions on how he wished her to lie on the bed and checked that she was comfortable. Sitting in a chair across the room he began to draw using pencil, not charcoal. The air was warm and gentle music was playing in the background, Spanish guitar music. Harry seemed to be concentrating hard on the artistic task and there was a distinct lack of conversation, putting Ella in an unusual position as far as developing a trusting relationship was concerned. With her breathing under control, her thoughts slowed, and her focus regained, she became aware of her own vulnerability, not because of her nakedness, but because she couldn’t fathom out what was to come next.

  How on earth was she going to wheedle information out of him if there was no meaningful verbal interaction? Her great scheme to offer this as exclusive entertainment for VIP club members had not been so brilliant after all. A basic novice’s error on her part, she realised.

  Ella could now see that the man drawing her was in charge, silently managing the whole situation and revelling in that certainty. After several long minutes, he ran his tongue across his lower lip and a frown appeared. ‘This is a little delicate, but there are lines where your lingerie has marked your skin. I wonder would you mind taking a break and perhaps we could place the pashmina in such a way that those creases are c
overed. It’s such a shame to ruin the sweep of your torso.’

  He approached as Ella sat up. She was embarrassed for failing to take this into consideration as she used to do for the art classes when she prepared well ahead of time, removing soft underwear and rubbing moisturiser into her skin. That evening, however, she didn’t have the luxury of wearing such unsupportive bra and briefs. In the restaurant she routinely wore large sturdy knickers to hold herself under control and her bras were specifically designed to lift and restrain her breasts from swinging about and causing backache. Looking down she quickly realised how unsightly those marks were. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t have time to moisturise. I sometimes use bio oil to—’

  ‘Good idea. Let’s try that. Here, feel free.’ Harry handed her a tall cylindrical plastic bottle from the nearest bedside cabinet. She undid the cap and sniffed warily, checking his eyes for giveaway signs of deceptive intent. The smell was familiar. She rubbed a little on her fingertips and inhaled once more. Lavender, bergamot, and patchouli - a light perfumed oil that absorbed into the skin in seconds. Ideal. She didn’t take time to question why he should have it in his possession, she was more relieved to know that it would be suitable for her immediate needs. Without thinking, Ella began to shuffle to the edge of the bed aiming for the bathroom. Harry stopped her. ‘Please, carry on where you are, that way we can chat.’

  Her breath caught in her throat. Stay and play, or hide and lose the opportunity to work her magic by befriending Harry Drysdale. She had no real alternative. ‘I might make a mess on the lovely bedspread,’ she said looking around for a way of improving her plight.

  ‘Quite right young lady. How very considerate of you. I’ll fetch a bath towel.’ Ella sat transfixed, watching him. How cunning of him to use the hiatus in proceedings to get to the bathroom, perhaps to access her bag for information about her, to gain advantage. Convinced that her naivety was going to be her downfall, she berated herself silently for lack of a plan, a workable, practical plan. She was winging it.