by Carol Wyer
How had he managed to get involved in such a mess? Loyalty. Fucking loyalty. He should have ratted them out and to hell with the consequences. They were nothing but a bunch of snotty-nosed bastards anyway. They all treated him like a minion, not like the manager of a top private members’ club at all. He snorted at that last thought. How naïve he’d been when Raymond had brought him over to help run the place, promising him he’d be dealing with English gentry. Being the stupid sod he was, and fascinated by his own misinformed ideas of British upper-class culture, he’d agreed and today had a demanding wife, argumentative children and a whopping mortgage. He was like the mythological Titan, Atlas, who was burdened with the weight of the heavens on his shoulders: Xavier Durand – the man who carried the problems of the fucking world. At least, it felt like he did.
The clock’s ticking was getting on his nerves. He’d not slept since he’d learnt both Alex and Ian had died in suspicious circumstances, but finding out what those exact circumstances had been had proved impossible. None of his contacts knew or were willing to talk about the men’s deaths. So much for being a confidant to most of these clients. The problem was, of course, he was not ‘one of them’. He didn’t drive a supercar, hadn’t ever owned a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds or Spain, or enjoyed a private education. He was an ordinary man from a small village in France. They’d never consider him an equal. Fuck them! Fuck them all!
It was after eleven o’clock and none of the members intended staying the night. There’d been a huge drop-off in overnighters since January. If it had been up to him, he’d have continued with the operation, but Raymond had panicked big time, and these days the members had to settle for an ordinary private members’ club with excellent facilities but no extras.
The last two members exited the drawing room, where they’d been nursing a whisky each for the last hour. Xavier rose to his feet and wished them both a pleasant evening. As their voices receded, a hush fell over the place. The rest of the staff had long since left for the night. Raymond rarely set foot in the place any more, so it was up to Xavier to lock up. He ambled to the entrance, listened to the throaty rumble of the Jaguar as it pulled out of the car park. He watched as it turned on to the main road and roared furiously into the distance, and then pushed the heavy door to before locking it. He was going to search for a new position – jump rather than be pushed. It was clear Raymond’s heart had gone out of the business, and now the Gold Service was no longer being offered, Xavier wasn’t earning the tips or bonuses he’d once been raking in.
He headed to the drawing room to tidy up after the men and return their empty glasses to the bar. The room was oak-panelled, with Louis XIV-style furniture, bureaux and period mirrors with ornate gold frames, and rigid-back chairs with golden armrests and rich red seats. Reproductions of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec’s famous cancan dancers from Le Moulin Rouge adorned the walls, lending the whole room a sense of Parisian chic. It was, by far, Xavier’s favourite part of the entire building.
He glanced around to ensure everything was shipshape, even though he knew the cleaners would arrive first thing in the morning. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and resting his elbows on the bar, exhaled noisily. At last, he could return to his family. He wasn’t on duty again until 2 p.m.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar – a worn face with heavy eyes and a five o’clock shadow. He needed to move on and find a new appointment. He was done with this place. His reflection vanished as the room plunged into darkness, and before he could move, the door shut to, extinguishing the light from reception and leaving Xavier blinking into the blackness. He remained stock-still, unable to grasp what was happening. The sharp pricking sensation came out of the blue. At first, he thought he’d been stung by a wasp, or a bee, and slapped a hand on to his neck to flatten the creature, then realised there was an obstruction – a thin metal one that was instantly withdrawn. It was only then that he grasped the seriousness of the situation. Somebody was here with him.
His reflexes were slow and when he spun to strike back, it was already too late. His attacker had melted into the darkness.
‘What do you want?’ he shouted.
He was met with a wall of silence. His mobile. He could use the light to find his way out. He patted his pocket for it, then remembered it was in the back office. Shit! He dropped to the floor on all fours to fool the assailant, who’d expect him to fumble about in the dark. He would scurry across to the door. He knew where the furniture was positioned. He’d been in the room enough times to know his way out blindfolded. To his left was a chair. He traced the rigid straight leg with trembling fingertips. If he scrabbled across to the right of it, he’d dodge the large table at the front of the room and should be able to reach the door before whoever was in here got wind of what he was doing.
No sooner had these thoughts entered his head than they began to muddy. Xavier couldn’t remember if his fingers had grazed against the front or back leg of the chair, and as he began to sway, he heard laughter.
Galvanised into action by the sound, he scuttled across the thick carpet towards freedom, the pile grazing his palms and causing friction burns as he slid across it, but he didn’t care. He powered on, desperate to reach the far end of the room, seemingly miles away rather than the few metres it actually was. He brushed against one of the six turned legs of the library table, each with a slight bulge in the middle and reminiscent of a Greek column. There was only a short distance left to travel.
A kick knocked him off balance and forced him sideways on to the floor. He wasn’t going to be caught by the maniac. He pushed back on to his knees and stood up, ready to fight. His hands found the library table and he fumbled for the object he knew was on it.
‘Found you.’
The whispered voice surprised him. He gripped the bronze Sphinx paperweight – one of a pair – and held it out to the side, trying to locate the attacker. His mind began to cloud, and then, without warning, his arm clutching the paperweight was wrenched backwards so forcefully he thought his shoulder socket would pop. He attempted to hold on to the Sphinx, but it slipped from his hand. The person cursed and relaxed their grip for a second. Xavier attempted to bolt, but his limbs wouldn’t work and both hands were grasped and yanked behind him. He had no energy to fight. His body refused to cooperate and an abrupt wave of disregard for his safety washed over him, numbing his senses to his predicament.
‘Why?’ The word sounded as if somebody else had spoken it.
‘You really need me to tell you why?’ The voice was sharp and filled with hate.
Hands grabbed his shoulders, whereupon he stumbled and lurched drunkenly beside his attacker, who guided and dropped him on to a padded seat. Euphoria replaced the fear. He knew this chair; he rubbed his hands on the gilt lion’s-paw armrest and was transported back to an era he never knew other than from pictures and television. He was sitting on a red-and-gold throne like Louis XIV himself. The lights in the drawing room were switched on. He chortled at a new thought: Xavier was the Sun King.
He drifted back and forth, crossing the bridge between reality and make-believe, and didn’t scream until he saw what his attacker held in front of his face – a terrifying metal device that was undoubtedly going to cause him considerable pain.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
TUESDAY, 8 JUNE – MORNING
The door to the first-class carriage opens unexpectedly and she flinches. The young officer who moves through the doorway releases a soft groan at the sight. Behind him comes another white-suited officer, followed by another. She feels tugging at her elbow. She can’t move. She isn’t ready to leave yet.
‘Kate, come on.’
She shakes her head.
William’s hand tightens its grip. ‘You’ve seen enough.’
Kate was unable to concentrate on the television. The faces of the morning presenters, sitting on a red sofa chatting pleasantly to guests, had gradually morphed into those of the victims of the gun attack on
the train in January. A woman wearing a pale pink lace top, blonde hair in finger waves, transformed into one of the two friends who’d been on a day trip in London together and never made it home. The male presenter changed into the businessman, and an elderly interviewee became another victim, whose walking sticks had been discovered on the luggage rack above her dead body.
Tears leaked from Kate’s eyes, trickled down her face and on to her lap. The ringing of her mobile brought her back to reality and she groped for it, relieved to be brought back from the horror of her hallucinations.
‘DI Kate Young?’ The voice was friendly, smooth and gentle.
‘Who is this?’
‘My name is Dan Corrance. I worked with Chris a while back on a story in Manchester about a paedophile ring.’
At the mention of her husband’s name, icy tentacles wrapped themselves around her heart and squeezed. She caught her breath. ‘You’re the journalist from the other day. I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Please don’t hang up. I need to talk to you about Chris.’
She hesitated for a second. ‘What about him?’
‘Can we meet? I need to talk to you in person.’
‘What about?’
‘I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.’
‘What’s it about?’ she repeated.
‘I want to help you find out the truth about Chris.’
The invisible tentacles tightened their grip and grey spots appeared before her eyes. She struggled to gain control. Chris? What could Dan possibly know? This was some sort of ploy. The man was only going to pump her for information about the investigation. She pressed the ‘end call’ button.
The discomfort in her chest diminished, but she rubbed under her ribs all the same. A dull ache travelled from her cervical vertebrae into the top of her head, a result of taking far too many pills. Thank goodness she’d found strength to dump them, once and for all. She had to manage without them. She needed clarity of thought, and her over-reliance on them was threatening to derail her and the investigation. The investigation. That ought to be her primary focus.
She snapped off the set and checked her phone, looking once again at Emma’s photograph of the three apples on Ian’s kitchen wall. The pictures were likely to be no more than an ironic coincidence, yet the idea of the murderer choosing an apple to kill intrigued her.
She massaged her neck and browsed through information on the choke-pear, then flicked through endless websites but couldn’t find any for sale. When she finally checked the time, it was 8.05 a.m., time to ring Fiona Corby.
Fiona sounded flat and groggy. ‘Any news?’ she asked without preamble.
‘I need another chat with you. Is now convenient?’
‘Can we do it over the phone? I have to take the boys to school in a few minutes.’
‘They’re going back to school already?’ Kate tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. She’d assume they’d need more time to come to terms with their father’s death.
Fiona’s response was frosty. ‘They miss their friends and school life. They’ll be better off there than moping about here. Besides, we’re under siege with journalists. We can’t leave the house without being mobbed. At least at school there’ll be some semblance of normality. How can I help you?’
‘I need to start by asking about Rory. When did you last see him?’
‘Saturday evening at his house.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘Late. I can’t be sure of the exact time, but I got home around half twelve. We had things to sort out,’ she said, her voice dropping low.
‘He told us you broke up with him.’
‘I knew deep down I was always going to end it with him. It would never have worked out.’
Rory’s alibi had held up, but there were more questions to ask. ‘Do you know someone called Ian Wentworth?’
‘No. I haven’t heard of him.’
‘He’s an ENT surgeon.’
‘None of us has visited an ENT surgeon.’
‘Did Alex ever mention the name to you?’
‘No. Should he have?’
‘Possibly. Ian was one of his acquaintances. They met at Courchevel.’
‘Oh, that was way before I came on the scene. He gave up skiing years ago. No, the name never cropped up.’
‘What about Raymond Maddox? Did Alex ever mention him to you?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Xavier Durand?’
‘No. I’ve not heard of any of these people.’ There was a heavy sigh and then, ‘Have you any idea who killed my husband?’
‘As soon as we know something, or arrest somebody, I’ll be in contact. I’m sorry, Fiona. I understand how difficult this is for you.’
‘I don’t think you can possibly understand what it’s like not to know how your husband died. I’ve only been told he was attacked. Nobody will give us any further details, and that’s left me imagining the worst and wondering how much Alex suffered.’ Her voice cracked.
Kate understood, but she couldn’t divulge any details, not until they’d brought the killer to justice. She could only offer a crumb of comfort. ‘Alex was probably not fully aware of what was happening. We believe he was drugged at the time.’
‘Drugged,’ Fiona repeated. ‘Somebody put something in his food or drink?’
Unable to mention the injection, Kate remained silent as Fiona mulled it over. ‘But he never ate lunch, so it must have been in a drink. You can’t put drugs in a banana.’
‘A banana?’ Kate asked.
‘Yes, Alex never ate meals during the day because he said they made him sluggish. He lived on bananas. The children nicknamed him Banana Man because he was always snacking on them.’
Kate heard the tears thickening the woman’s voice, but a prickling in her scalp caused her to interrupt. ‘Did Alex eat any other fruit? What about apples?’
There was a short pause. ‘He didn’t like apples. Or oranges.’
‘Would there have been any apples in the house?’
‘No. I’m not mad about apples either, and with going away to France, I didn’t buy any for the children.’
The tingling sensation intensified. The apple must have belonged to the killer.
‘Is this important?’ Fiona sounded more alert.
‘It might be. I have to talk to a colleague first, Fiona. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘You will tell me what happened to him, won’t you?’
‘I will, once we’ve got all the facts straight.’
‘Please. I need to know.’
Kate hung up. She was on to something. She swiped through the contacts list on her phone, selecting Ervin’s name.
He picked up almost immediately. ‘Morning, Kate. What can I do for you?’
‘Hi, Ervin. It’s about the apple at Ian’s apartment. Have you discovered what variety it was yet?’
‘Not yet. It’s still being analysed. Have you any idea how many varieties of apple there are? Approximately 7,500 throughout the world!’
She could imagine the mock horror on his face as he spoke. Ervin thrived on factoids. ‘More than I expected. Would you check it against the apple you retrieved from Alex’s house?’
‘Certainly. Do you think they’re the same variety?’
‘They might be. I’ve found out Alex never ate apples and there were none in the house, so it’s likely the killer took it along with them.’
‘Why specifically an apple?’
‘I don’t know yet, but the killer obviously attaches some importance to it.’
‘I’ll run checks straight away and see if they are the same variety. What if they are?’
‘I can’t think that far yet, but if so then the killer might have selected them for a reason, or both apples were purchased at the same time from the same batch.’
‘I’m on my own at the moment so I’ll handle this personally. We’re extremely short-staffed and I’ve even lost Faith. I had
to send her over to Ian’s holiday cottage to lift fingerprints. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
‘I’d appreciate it. Thanks, Ervin.’
Kate dropped her mobile into her bag, put her empty tea mug into the sink and headed for the station. Emma would have already left for Ian’s cottage to join Faith, but Morgan might be in and she hoped he’d have news about Cooper.
She was halfway down the road when her mobile rang again.
It was William. ‘Kate, can you meet me at The Lodge?’
The Lodge was a new-build residence in the affluent area of the Trentham Estate, situated in the south-west of Stoke-on-Trent, and a fifteen-minute drive from her own house. It was also where Superintendent Dickson lived.
‘Everything okay, William?’
‘No. John has received an unwelcome gift.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TUESDAY, 8 JUNE – MORNING
Emma Donaldson was majorly pissed off. Morgan wasn’t answering his phone and she could only assume it was because of the argument Kate had partially overheard as they’d entered the office the day before. Stupid prick! He’d gone off on one about Kate as they’d walked up the stairs together . . .
‘She’s not right in the head. That fucking cake – all scrunched up in her bag, and then there’s the pills. She’s popping them like sweets.’
‘Back off, you imbecile. She’s okay. She’s been through hell. Give her a fucking break.’
‘William told us to keep an eye on her and you know as well as I do she’s not up to this.’
‘She’s not gone wrong so far in this investigation, has she? She’s following up all the leads we have, and she’s not done anything out of the ordinary. I don’t know what your problem is, but you can’t go squealing to the DCI just cos you saw her take a couple of pills or because she’s acting a bit weird. Whatever doubts you have about her, let them go and don’t tell the DCI or Super anything. Stick to working the investigation. Kate will sort herself out.’