Twenty Years a Stranger (The Stranger Series Book 1)

by Deborah Twelves

  Matthew looked at the woman in front of him with barely disguised revulsion. He needed her to stop banging on at him. What the hell had he been thinking, allowing her to know so much about his business? She was just another one in the growing list of people trying to bleed him dry. He didn’t deserve any of this, he thought bitterly to himself, but he couldn’t get away from the fact that the money-grabbing bitch had his balls in a vice.

  By the end of the evening, they had forged and backdated several documents, resulting in Jane ‘owning’ (she failed to spot the get-out clause in the small print) a Ferrari, a BMW convertible and a VW Beetle, which she thought would potentially be quite a cool first car for Aaron in the future. Not a bad few hours work as far as she was concerned. She had rented a storage facility nearby for her new cars and taken out insurance on them in her name only. That should ensure it all stood up in court if it ever came to that. She gave herself a pat on the back for her thoroughness. Jane had no intention of scrabbling around for the scraps of whatever was left after the scavengers of divorce and bankruptcy had picked everything over.

  She turned the conversation to the numerous bank accounts she knew he had on the go. It was imperative to get as much money as possible abroad and to be creative with the invoicing. ‘You need to move money around and close accounts wherever possible. Once the money has disappeared, it will be virtually impossible to do anything about it from the UK, especially given the secrecy and high levels of security surrounding Delaware.’

  Matthew agreed with her in principle and liked the idea of thwarting both the taxman and his wife. What he did not agree with was letting Jane get her hands on too much or know too much about what he was doing. Who did she think she was anyway, talking to him as though he was some sort of clueless idiot? He informed her in no uncertain terms that he would deal with the bank accounts himself, as he saw fit.

  Pushy cow.

  She had already squeezed more than enough out of him in his opinion. Mother of his child or not, she had let herself go in the last few years and there was no way he was going to be saddled with her on a long term basis.

  Jane was playing a dangerous game and, as he listened to her incessant nagging, he thought she would do well not to push him too far if she knew what was good for her.

  The surprise

  Everything you see is real, but not everyone you know is true.

  Grace

  The room immediately in front of me as I reached the top of the stairs in Daniel’s Channing Street ‘office’ was the kitchen. I glanced to the left and saw a door leading into what appeared to be the lounge, another set of stairs up to the top floor and a door leading into the bathroom. I peeked cautiously into the bathroom and, hanging from the bathroom mirror, was some sort of fancy dress, red devil’s horns on a headband, a cat’s mask and a long black cat’s tail. I screwed my face up as an unwelcome image of Lorraine or Jane wearing them came into my mind, but I quickly reminded myself that Lorraine at least claimed never to have set foot in there.

  Interesting.

  I forced myself to be methodical and decided to start with the kitchen. It was a compact, square-shaped room and was surprisingly clean and tidy. There was an iron in the corner on the work surface and my first thought was that I had never known Daniel to iron anything, or indeed to do any other form of housework, in his life. The units were a bog-standard, pale grey colour, cheap-looking, and the room was equipped with the basics of a washing machine, fridge and dishwasher. I opened the fridge door and inspected the contents, but there was not much in there except half a dozen bottles of Oyster Bay, Sauvignon Blanc, Daniel’s favourite white wine.

  I turned my attention to the units, pulled open one of the drawers with my latex-gloved hand and rummaged around furtively. There was a torn, brown envelope full of smiley-faced condoms in assorted colours, with some of them spilled out in the bottom of the drawer. They looked like kids’ balloons and I curled my lip with distaste as I remembered how Daniel had always said he hated wearing condoms.

  Right at the back of the drawer, just as I had hoped, was a spare set of keys to the flat. I snatched them out of the drawer and went straight back downstairs to check them in the door. Bingo!

  My next job was to get them copied. I had no idea what I would find in the flat or whether I would need to go back there, so I had decided in advance that I needed my own set of keys if at all possible. I had of course planned to have the key from the letting agent copied, but that idea was down the pan thanks to the unexpected problem of the second lock.

  There was another very important consideration. I needed to make absolutely sure that Daniel had no idea I had been in there, for my own safety, so that meant locking up properly when I left. Whatever I did or did not find, he had gone to great pains to hide something and I was pretty sure he would not take kindly to me snooping around in there. The hardware shop on the corner did key cutting, but it was out of the question to go there, especially after my previous visit. I did a quick Google search and, minutes later, I left the flat locking the door carefully behind me and headed up into the little shopping centre to find Timpsons.

  Half an hour later, I had my own shiny new set of keys in my hand and I began to relax. I would now be able to lock the door properly behind me and come and go as I pleased, invisibly, at least until Daniel came back from America. I checked that the keys worked, and then drove back to the letting agent to return their key and retrieve my passport.

  It was a long-winded and tedious process, but an essential one and, once I had covered the basics, I could get back on track with my mission.

  As soon as I was safely in the flat, I locked myself in and left the key in the lock. No harm in being extra cautious. I returned to the kitchen and began systematically going through everything, starting with the bin, thankful I had had the foresight to buy the box of latex gloves. Satisfied there was nothing of interest in there, having carefully analysed the various dirty food containers, old receipts and wrappers, I moved on to the washing machine. Reaching inside I pulled out a crumpled item of clothing and it took me a few moments to work out what exactly it was. I could not help laughing out loud as I realised I was holding a very large pair of pale pink bloomers, the ones old ladies used to wear, probably still do. Elasticated waist and down to the knee with a little lace frill around each leg. I held them up in front of me, pulling on the elastic to see the full expansion potential and spluttering with laughter at the vision that popped into my head. These must have been worn by Jane in some weird kind of role play, I decided, thinking they would be a perfect fit, judging from the size of her in the photos I had seen. The bloomers were enormous. I remembered the general hilarity at Adam’s comment in the hotel when we first began stalking Jane on Facebook.

  ‘Wow! So Daniel is, in fact, a closet chubby chaser. No wonder he left you.’

  At least I had the satisfaction of knowing I would always compare favourably there. Not that the bar was set very high.

  Another thought crossed my mind that maybe Daniel had developed some kind of weird granny fetish. I had heard jokes about the various websites that existed to cater for all tastes these days, and told myself that just about anything was possible where he was concerned.

  I laid out the bloomers on the worktop and photographed them. In fact, I set about photographing pretty much everything in there, including the contents of the drawers, the bin and the fridge. I was pretty sure that was what any PI or SOCO worth their salt would do. I planned to document it all so that I would have a detailed record in case I forgot anything later. I could not help a little snigger, thinking to myself that there was no way I would be forgetting those bloomers anytime soon.

  Ready to move on, I bundled the bloomers back into the washing machine and made sure everything was replaced just as I had found it, including the original keys at the back of the drawer. I had the bit between my teeth and was eager to see what other surprises the flat would offer up in my quest for the increasingly elusive tru
th.

  I headed into the lounge. Despite the fact I was alone and not likely to be disturbed, I felt the need to tiptoe around in my stocking feet like a cat burglar. I stopped and took a moment to assess my surroundings.

  There were two small sofas arranged in an L shape and a desk in one corner under the window, covered with messy piles of papers as if someone had been rummaging around looking for something. I wondered for a moment whether someone could have got there before me and ransacked the place, but decided on reflection that it was pretty typical of Daniel’s generally chaotic approach to filing and paperwork. In the other corner of the room was a smaller desk with a computer and more papers piled up on it. There were boxes and bags all over the place, some containing files and others containing assorted personal effects. I assumed it was more of the stuff Lorraine had told me she had thrown out of her house for Daniel to collect. I was leaving no stone unturned and everything would have to be carefully sifted through and photographed. The task I had set myself was already beginning to overwhelm me, but I had to press on. I reminded myself that I could always come back, as I casually picked up a card on the small desk. It was from Stephanie, the ‘friend’ Daniel had told me about.

  Some friend - I thought to myself as I read it.

  My darling Dan,

  Thank you so much for the wonderful few days in Venice and for spoiling me rotten. Can’t wait to see you again.

  Love and hugs,

  Stephi xx

  Unbelievable.

  He had taken her away to Venice on some sort of a dirty weekend, somewhere in between declaring undying love for Lorraine, spending time with Jane and his son and starting to make overtures to me again. Oh and, of course, going bankrupt.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire. He just couldn’t help himself.

  And what was with Dan? He hated his name being shortened and always insisted on people calling him Daniel. I was not sure why I felt so affronted on his behalf.

  I photographed the card and replaced it where I had found it. Then, on an impulse, I changed my mind, ripped it angrily into pieces and shoved the bits into the bottom of my bag.

  There were other older cards piled together in a bag: a Valentine card from Jane and a Father’s Day card from Aaron.

  For a few moments, I was lost in my thoughts, as I imagined Jane helping her son to choose all the cards over the years and write the messages to his daddy in his scrawling child’s handwriting. I wondered what it felt like to have a little person in your life who depended on you for everything, came to you for comfort when they were hurting, spontaneously hugged you, just for being Mummy….

  He had robbed me of the chance to know that feeling and I would never ever be able to forgive him for it. I snapped my mind back to the present, knowing that if I went down that particular rabbit hole I would never get out.

  I looked inside one of the boxes near the desk and moved the contents around, then pulled my hand back sharply as if I had been bitten. I wrinkled my nose in disgust as I realised what was in there and began to remove the items one by one for photographing, holding them at arm’s length, as if I might catch something from them. Underneath a layer of innocuous stationery items, there was a collection of dildos of varying sizes and colours, a pair of black PVC pants with a butt plug attached on the inside (I knew all about such things since reading Fifty Shades of Grey), a lime green mini butt plug still in its packaging, some sort of paddle thing, presumably for smacking, a feather tickling thing that made me think of Ken Dodd, and a heavy-duty black leather collar covered in metal spikes with a chain attached. Further in-depth rummaging revealed more butt plugs, an assortment of masks, nipple clamps and clitoris clamps, the very thought of which made my eyes water. I was repulsed and yet strangely fascinated by this new insight into the secret life of my husband (lives plural, I reminded myself).

  I felt increasingly like a pathologist as I neatly laid out my evidence and took my photos. Pretending I was here to do a job was the only way I could get through this. My eye was drawn back to the sofa and a couple of gift bags with Disney images on them. I carefully pulled out some boy’s T-shirts, blue and red, with superhero motifs on the front. I read the messages on the label and was powerless to stop an overwhelming sadness invading my mind.

  To Munchkin, with lots of love from Daddy xxxx

  Bitter tears sprang to my eyes at the unfairness of it all. These were the things that could bring me to my knees and drag me down into the darkest of places. Not the boxes of sex toys. Not his trips to Venice or anywhere else with other women. Not his pathetic attempts to hide his money from me. Just something as simple as that little message and a father’s affectionate nickname for his child.

  I wiped away the tears roughly with my sleeve and hurriedly shoved everything back where it belonged, determined to stay strong.

  Slowly I moved over to the large desk by the window. Time for something a bit less personal. The first thing I picked up was a bill of sale for a Ferrari. I knew Daniel had recently imported that particular car from the US as he had told me all about it when we were out for dinner one night with Frieda and James. He had been showing off to them as usual with the photos of all his cars and I remembered thinking it actually looked a bit tacky with its red leather interior. He had said it was due to come into the country just before Christmas, which would have been just after the email sent everything into turmoil.

  I felt the fury rising in me like the rumbling of a volcano, as I stared at the names and signatures on the bill of sale. Jane Sutcliffe’s name and paw print were all over it, with no mention of Daniel anywhere. I had to fight to stop my temper getting the better of me as I realised what was going on. Smashing the place up would get me nowhere. I had to be smarter than that. Clearly, they were in this together, beavering away behind the scenes, transferring assets to her name to put them out of my reach in the divorce court.

  They were obviously trying to stitch me up and I was pretty sure the Court took a dim view of that sort of behaviour, but I needed proof of what they were doing if I was going to have any chance of stopping them getting away with it. I realised the bill of sale was only a tiny part of the jigsaw and meant nothing unless I could find the original one in Daniel’s name, which would prove they were trying to pull a fast one. Nevertheless, I had to believe the rest of the pieces would come together if I did not give up. The shipping documents and the insurance certificate were all there with the bill of sale. All in her name. They clearly thought they were so incredibly clever, but both of them were going to learn the hard way that they had massively underestimated me.

  Despite my earlier resolve to be methodical I was too angry about this latest discovery to think clearly and stepped back from the desk. Suddenly, I felt a compelling and overwhelming desire to see what was going on in the bedroom upstairs, the room I had subconsciously been avoiding.

  I marched up the stairs, and then stopped dead in the doorway, looking around, unwilling to go in straight away. I stared at a full-length mirror opposite the entrance, which had several long women’s nighties draped over it and a couple of long whips leaning against it that looked remarkably like my dressage whips. I could see two tall chests of drawers to one side in a little alcove and a double bed in the middle of the room. The walls were painted a non-descript, magnolia colour like the rest of the flat and there were net curtains at the window. It all looked dated and more than a little grubby. I wrinkled my nose as I stepped inside and detected a slightly unpleasant, musty smell.

  The double bed was made up with white satin bed linen.

  Tacky.

  I immediately recognised Daniel’s small holdall on top of the bed. There was no mistaking it because I had made it myself from one of our old racing sails and had given it to him for Christmas the year before. Beside the holdall on the bed were a couple of car magazines and an old fashioned, large-sized woman’s corset that would have looked more at home in Queen Victoria’s era, with red stockings attached to the suspenders.
/>   Who the hell wears red stockings? More to the point, who wears a corset-like that these days?

  I tentatively peeled back a corner of the duvet to reveal more stockings stuffed down the bed, black this time, screwed up in a ball as if they had been taken off in a hurry. The bed looked like it hadn’t been changed in a while and I noticed a bottle of water and a half-empty wine glass on the bedside table. I pulled the duvet back up towards the pillow, glad once again of my latex gloves, and went over to the chests of drawers in the corner, carefully avoiding the suspicious stain on the carpet.

  One by one I opened the drawers and found them all in the same jumbled and messy state. They were crammed full of oversized, women’s underwear and a load of extra-large stockings, still in their packs. The material of the underwear looked cheap, involving a lot of lace, net and nylon and it struck me how random the selection was, from heavy-duty, old fashioned corsets and bloomers to crotchless pants and peephole bras. The colours were garish and there were a lot of bright reds and shocking pinks, mingled with animal print. No self-respecting woman would have been seen dead in any of it unless she was working the streets, I decided disdainfully. I thought, with a certain amount of smugness, of my own underwear drawer, with its neatly arranged, matching sets from Agent Provocateur and La Perla. At least I could hold my head high if anyone decided to go rummaging through my knicker drawers.

  I turned my attention back to Daniel’s sex den. All the stuff I found was massive, clearly pointing to his apparent penchant for larger ladies.

  Jane. Had to be.

  One of the top drawers was packed full of G-strings, several of them with rows of large beads attached to the string at the back. I could not imagine that was particularly comfortable but, then again, I decided that probably wasn’t the point.