by Linda Coles
He’d always known the boys’ names, of course; the headmaster had handed them over to him. But he’d done nothing more about it at the time, and done his best to forget how they’d driven Sylvia to kill herself. He hadn’t wanted to spend his energy on the lives of those he detested; getting himself to function each day had been hard work enough. But the events of the morning had dragged it back and pushed it with fury to the front of his mind. Like someone keeping their foot on an accelerator in his head. Maybe it was fate, maybe it was timing; maybe it was neither. But he now had the strength and opportunity to teach them all a lesson.
He lay back in the shade and let his mind dance off to wherever it wanted to go as he relaxed and pondered what shape his retribution would take. He then drove home, poured a whiskey and went straight to his den to write a diary note of what had happened.
And what he’d do about it.
A financial scam designed for seven select individuals. And one that would bring their worlds tumbling down—like they had his. It was beautiful in its simplicity.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
She was dog tired.
Again.
Chrissy’s body clock had only just tuned in to LA time, and now she was forcing it into another time zone. But it felt good to be home. It was almost 7 PM when she staggered in through the front door, her bags dragging behind her. A grinning Adam wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight, planting a firm kiss on her lips. Their two boys chorused their hellos and gave her quick pecks on her cheek. Teenage boys found it hard to show their true emotions, she knew, but there was no point in chiding them about it. When they had children of their own, they’d realise what she’d meant when their own teenagers replicated them.
“Hi boys,” she called to their retreating backs. With the boys out of sight, Adam pressed his lips to Chrissy’s again, lingering this time.
“I’ve missed you. And I’m glad you’re home earlier than expected.”
“So am I. And so have I, not necessarily in that order,” she said smiling and leaning forward for another kiss. “I need a drink.”
“I’ll bring your bags through. Wine?”
“Tea, I think. And a shower.” She could hear him straining slightly with her bags, odd grunts and groans as he tried to get them both together. Smiling fondly, she turned and took the smaller one from him.
“Toiletries,” she said by way of explanation. “Quick shower and I’ll be right back down.” Then she was gone, leaving Adam to follow with the larger one and deposit it in their bedroom. Ten minutes later, she was back downstairs, with wet hair and wearing her bathrobe, ready for an early night. A mug of tea and a slice of toast awaited her. And she couldn’t help noticing the three diaries that sat next to it. She willed herself not to pick them up yet, conscious of Adam deserving her full attention.
“Drink your tea first,” he said, smiling.
“You know me too well, Mr. Livingstone.”
“What did you want them for anyway? I had to rummage around in the dark for ages. Why the secrecy?”
“I’m not sure yet. But as soon as I find out, I’ll let you know, eh?” She took a mouthful of toast and chewed, watching his face. “Have you read them?”
“Might have,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “A bit boring, so I gave up. Except one of them.”
She stopped chewing, her eyes bulging at him. “Really?”
“I’m guessing that’s the one you’re interested in? The one where he conjures up a plan?”
Holy shit!
“Tell me.”
“Tell me why first, then I’ll tell you.”
“Adam!”
“Yes, Chrissy?”
She paused for a moment, deciding what and how much to say. If he’d read them anyway, he could know most of it already.
“Dad was up to something, wasn’t he? There were the letters around the time of his funeral, and some other stuff. I think he might have been up to no good.” She took another bite and waited for Adam to fill in some blanks.
Whoever speaks first loses.
“You guessed right, I’m afraid. Yes, there was a scam. He talks about it openly. From what I could glean, though, it was for a certain group of people, not general consumption. Like he did what he did on purpose. Tried to ruin them financially.”
“Are the people’s names mentioned?”
“Yes, though I can’t remember them. All male.”
“Do the names Cody Taylor, Stuart Townsend and Sam Moore sound familiar?”
Adam looked at her quizzically, head slightly to one side, like a Labrador trying to understand a human conversation.
“Yes, they do. How did you know?”
“I’ll tell you later. Promise. What was the scam?” She was desperate to know the details now, rapidly slotting jigsaw pieces together in her head. The picture was beginning to look bleaker than Wuthering Heights.
“An investment scheme, designed to crash at some point and lose the participants a good deal of money. Which it did. He’d noted their investments, significant amounts I might add, and their losses. Again, significant.”
“Did they each invest and lose a lot?”
“A couple of those who invested lost smaller amounts, but it would still have been painful. Not like the others, though. Are you going to tell me the rest of the tale now?”
How could she not?
“There’s still bits I’m trying to understand, but here’s what I know.” She prepared to spell the story out so far, but in broad terms. “Dad had a lover some years ago.”
“You’re kidding …”
“No, I’m not. There’s more. Some schoolboys saw them together one day and decided to blackmail the woman. She was a teacher at their school. I guess she couldn’t cope and committed suicide. The boys were found out and blamed, but nothing ever happened.”
“Then Gerald found them,” Adam said. “He wrote about meeting the blond one and conjuring up the plan.”
“That part I didn’t know about; you’ll have to fill me in.”
So, he did. By the time Adam had recited what he’d read, Chrissy sat open mouthed. “I wondered what the catalyst had been,” she said, almost to herself.
“So, you know about the suicides?”
“Yes, of three of them. I’m guessing because of their losses and the shame of it, am I right?”
“Yes, though Gerald would never have known that part for sure. Just that they were dead.”
They both sat in silence as they digested what her father had done, what he’d been responsible for. No wonder Philip Banks had been so vehement about him.
To make sure the old bastard was dead!
Her father had been responsible for the suicides of his three friends. All because of a stupid schoolboy blackmailing prank. It was unreal, too hard to contemplate.
“Who sent those letters, then, do you think?” Chrissy asked.
“My guess would be one of the other two remaining, or both.”
Steve Marks and Dr. Robert Newsome.
“And there’s one more thing,” Adam added. “Someone else has read the diaries.”
“Oh? How do you know?” Chrissy felt a chill run down her spine. How could he know that?
“Because of the notations in the margins. A different handwriting. And what they say.”
“Really? What? Who was it?”
“I’d say your mother, if I’m not mistaken. She’s known. All along.”
Chrissy remembered back to that day when they were planning her father’s funeral and her mother’s terse remark: “Not after what he’s done.”
She’d thought it had to do with the ‘Thief’ note. Obviously not.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
As bone tired as she was, Chrissy hardly slept a wink all night. After Adam had told her about the diary’s content, and what her father had deliberately done to ruin the boys, now grown men, she couldn’t get over the fact her mother had known about the scam all along. And nobody had been any
the wiser. She’d slipped out of bed again and gone downstairs to her chair in the kitchen, where she’d curled up with yet another mug of chamomile tea.
So, she thought. That’s why her mother had been so bitter at the end, about what he’d done: she’d been angry about Sylvia, not the money.
She checked the clock on the cooker. Three AM in Surrey meant early evening in LA, so there’d be nobody in the office. Then she remembered Banks & Crowley website, which listed the men’s mobile numbers! She dialled Philip first; she’d upset him the least. If he hung up on her, she’d call Alistair and hope they weren’t sat together in a bar somewhere.
The call connected quickly. “Philip Banks.”
“It’s Chrissy Livingstone—don’t hang up!” she shouted, a bit too loudly for the sleeping house she was sat in. She screwed her face up, wincing, and listened for both footsteps upstairs and Philip hanging up. Neither happened.
“What do you want?’ He was cool. Maybe even cold. Not even a hint of tepid.
“I wanted to say sorry, actually. For what my father put you all through, mainly. I’d no idea.” There was silence on the line. He was somewhere quiet, home maybe; the sound of his breathing all she could hear.
“Thank you,” he said eventually. “But you don’t need to apologise; it was his doing, not yours.”
“But three of your friends died from his doing! I don’t know what else to say or what I can do to put it right.”
“There is nothing to put it right; they’ve gone now. But at least no one else will die because of it.”
“Because he’s dead, you mean?”
“Yes. Because he’s dead too.” A spark flashed in Chrissy’s brain and something else dropped into place.
“You came over to see him, to kill him, didn’t you? Because three of your friends had committed suicide. It was nothing to do with a client at all, was it? But you didn’t manage it.” She was conscious of her voice rising again, but this was important.
“No, I didn’t kill him,” he said wearily. “By the time I’d got to talk to him he was already dead. You have to believe me on that.”
“How can I be so sure?”
“Because I’m not a killer, simple as that. And Alistair told me of your conversation about all of this, so why ring and speak to me now?”
“Because I didn’t know my father had set it all up on purpose, to get you all back. I thought it had been bad luck. That’s why I wondered if maybe you’d had a hand in his demise. Like I’d said to Alistair, easy enough to do. Particularly if you’ve another close friend who’s a doctor with the required knowledge.” She left the subtle accusation to hang in the air.
Whoever speaks first loses.
Nobody did. Philip Banks had hung up.
Chrissy stared at the phone; the screen was blank.
“One of the others, by chance?” It was Adam. He’d been stood in the doorway listening. Chrissy nearly jumped out of her skin in the semi-darkness.
“Hell’s bells, Adam!” He flicked the light on and they both squinted in its brightness.
“And what did he say when you asked him if he’d done it?” He was filling the kettle as he talked and flicked the switch on to boil.
“He said no, of course. And I believe him. But I had to ask. He was here, at Dad’s funeral, for goodness’ sake.”
Adam turned to her and said, “To make sure he’d gone, eh?”
“Yes, something like that.”
He knelt down in front of her chair and wrapped his arms around her legs, looking up into her eyes. “Look. It’s a shitty thing to find out about your dad, but it’s all over and done with now. It wasn’t your fault. He chose and found his revenge. That’s it. Done. And you should try and forget it all ever happened and remember your dad as the decent man you knew and loved. Let the past stay in the past.”
She knew he was right, but still. It hurt her, too.
“And there’s no point telling Julie and upsetting her. Or saying anything else to your mother. Let it be now.”
Chrissy sat silent for a moment. “Okay. But I’m going to see how Mum is tomorrow.”
“Absolutely.”
She sighed heavily. “Love you, Adam Livingstone.”
“Then turn the kettle off and let’s go back to bed.”
Chapter Seventy-Nine
It was mid-morning when she got to her mother’s house. Letting herself in, she called out that it was Chrissy and headed straight upstairs to her mother’s bedroom. Sandra Baker was sat up in bed, looking both pale and frail. The remains of her breakfast tray were still at the side of her bed from Julie’s earlier visit. Chrissy bent in to kiss her mother on the cheek and sat on the edge of the bed. It sagged a little as she took her mother’s thin hand in her own.
“Hello, Mum. How are you doing?” she asked, giving her half a smile, half a concerned look.
“I’m on the mend. I think the worst is over. A virus, I expect, and, well, with the funeral and everything …” Her words trailed off like she’d run out of steam already.
“Can I get you some more tea?”
“Yes. That would be lovely.”
Chrissy stood and collected the breakfast tray to take downstairs.
“How was your trip?” her mother asked faintly.
“I cut it short. I’d seen enough and you aren’t well, so I came home last night. A bit of a flying visit, but you’re more important.”
Her mother seemed to like that and smiled her appreciation, catching Chrissy’s eye for a moment.
“I’ll be right back up.”
A few minutes later and Chrissy delivered a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits.
“Keep your strength up,” Chrissy said, as if the Custard Creams were going to have the same effect on the old woman as spinach did on Popeye.
“Lovely.”
Chrissy sat back down on the side of the bed and poured her mother a cup.
“Could I trouble you to pass me something from the bedside cabinet on your father’s side, please?”
“Of course,” said Chrissy, standing and making her way round the bed. She knelt down to undo the cupboard. “What do you need?” She opened the little door and peered inside, and then froze.
Holy shit!
They were there. At the back. All three of them.
The missing diaries.
The room filled with silence so loud that Chrissy wanted to put her hands over her ears. She stayed frozen in place, staring at them.
“Pass them up, would you?” Her mother’s voice was barely audible.
Chrissy reached out to them, her finger tips caressing the spines before her hand pulled all three forward. She showed them the light of day and stood to look at her mother, questioning.
“Julie told me Adam had visited. And you’d made that excuse to get inside the shed looking for something you’d left.” She was almost breathless with the effort. “You’re not stupid. And neither am I.”
“No. I’m a little disappointed, yes, but not stupid.”
Her mother patted the place where Chrissy had been sat only a moment ago. Chrissy watched her mother’s face as she passed her the diaries.
“It’s all in there,” she said, pointing. “All the sordid details of his adulterous affair. I nearly vomited at his words. He was desperately in love with her, you know.”
Chrissy sat silent, thunderstruck. Her mother had known of the affair all along and kept it to herself all these years. Should she feel sorry for her? She waited for her to catch her breath and go on.
“But I couldn’t have him leave me, leave us,” her mother said. “It wasn’t right. What would we have done? What would people have said?”
“So, what happened?”
“I went to see her that morning.”
“That morning?”
“When that gunman went berserk. I went to her cottage. I told her he’d never leave me for her. Never leave us all. Never.”
Chrissy sat motionless, listening, watching her mo
ther’s face. The woman—the boys’ teacher, her father’s lover—must have been hysterical at the news. And desperate.
“She killed herself, Mother.”
“I know. I’m not proud. I couldn’t let it carry on, though.”
“Do you know what you’ve done? Really done?”
“I stopped their affair, stopped them loving each other!” Her mother’s strength had suddenly returned.
“No! You killed her. But you also killed three other people! And Dad’s getting the blame for it, even now. How could you?” Chrissy stood and paced around the bed, flicking looks back at the woman she thought she knew so well, as she again tried to make sense of events she had thought were settled. “And that probably killed Dad too!” she screamed.
The colour drained from her mother’s face.
“Yes!” Chrissy went on, unable to stop herself. “There were seven boys that were blackmailing Dad’s lover. Dad has always thought they were responsible for her death. But it was you behind Sylvia Marsh’s death all along! Dad set their punishment in motion without realising the truth. Three of them died because of it. The others vowed their own revenge; one came to see Dad. Then he had his heart attack.” She glared furiously at her mother. “I can’t believe it. Sylvia Marsh and three others are dead, entirely because of you!”
“Don’t mention that woman’s name in my house,’ Sandra Baker spat, her voice low and level.
“Is that all you can say? Did you hear me? Four people plus Dad are all gone because of what you said to her. Do you not care? Even about Dad?
“Our marriage had died long ago,” she said, as cold as a gravestone. “And I didn’t want her to have him. Not anybody.”
Chrissy stood silent and dumbfounded, trying to understand her mother’s twisted logic. Had the woman ever loved Gerald Baker at all? Had it always been about the lifestyle he’d provided for her all these years? Could the woman in front of her be so spiteful and show no remorse at all? Not even for her own husband, the father of her children?