Alex sighed tiredly. “I’ve no idea, Ruth. No idea at all. I only know there is no way I can work with him again … but I’ll worry about that when Vicky is better and we can discuss it properly as I’m sure she won’t want to work with him again either.”
“No, that’s for sure,” replied Ruth.
“Goodnight, Ruth. I’ll pop round in the morning but if there is anything you need, don’t hesitate to ring me. I mean it.”
“Thank you, Alex. Goodnight.”
Ruth crawled into bed in the second guestroom, absolutely exhausted, having eradicated all signs of her eldest step daughter ever having been in the flat. It would be nice if it were so easy to rid the world of the woman herself because Ruth had a niggling suspicion that Delia wouldn’t be content until they had all suffered just a bit more.
CHAPTER 34
CANLEIGH – APRIL 1974
Six days later, it was raining hard and fast in Yorkshire. It spilled out of the dark, whirling clouds so rapidly it sounded like someone was throwing stones at the windows, making it difficult to see outside with the water cascading down the glass.
Barrie stood beside the window in Delia’s bedroom in Canleigh Hall and looked out glumly. It had chucked it down all day and looked as if it was going to keep it up all night too. He had hoped to get out this evening. Go into Leeds or somewhere, anywhere but here in this vast mausoleum of old paintings and sculptures with old crusty servants who disliked and disapproved of him. It was ten thirty at night and Leeds would be beginning to hum in the pubs and the clubs. He wanted to be there; laughing, joking, flirting. He craved the excitement of loud, throbbing music and happy, intoxicated people. Since he and Delia had stepped foot in this building they hadn’t been outside the door and he was so bored he could scream.
He glanced at Delia, languishing on the bed, as naked as she was born, smoking cigarette after cigarette. She was grating on his nerves, teasing him relentlessly with her promises about how much money she was going to give him. How she was going to set him up for life, all for helping her with bail, but the clock was ticking and so far, talk was all it was. Nothing concrete. Nothing tangible. He began to fear she wasn’t telling the truth. After all, who else could she have turned to? The answer was in the white envelope on the bedside table. Delia had laughed gleefully when Hardy gave it to her that morning but refused to open it all day. Barrie knew who had sent it. When Delia was in the bathroom, he had picked it up and examined it. It bore the frank mark of Rathbones, the family solicitors in London. No doubt it was confirmation that Richard’s legacy to Delia was unfrozen and safely in her bank account. Why else would they be writing to her? It had to be that … and if it was, she could now give him what she had promised.
He couldn’t wait to get his hands on it. He had burned his boats with Vicky and the club and could never go back. He knew Vicky wouldn’t report what they had done to her to the police. She would be too frightened of the scandal and what it could do to her precious father. God, he wished they hadn’t done it though. He didn’t care about Vicky much but he did care about the club. Building up a lucrative business from scratch had been the most enjoyable process of his life and could have made him extremely wealthy … and he badly missed the thrill of being the centre of attraction.
Why had he been so reckless? All his hopes for an exciting future were finished if Delia didn’t play ball and give him what she had promised. He just itched to know what was inside that envelope. If it was news of the money and she did hand over what she owed him, all his problems would be solved and he could get out of here, fast. He would have enough security to be able to obtain a generous bank loan and could go back to London, not to Kensington, but somewhere upmarket, perhaps Knightsbridge, Bloomsbury, Mayfair even, and set up another club. Most of his old patrons would flock to him if they knew he was starting up somewhere new. He could guarantee it … and this time he wouldn’t have partners. He would run it all himself … be in total charge without a nagging wife to stand in his way. It would probably ruin Alex and Vicky but he didn’t care. Barrie licked his lips, thinking of all the women he really could go to bed with if he was free. He hadn’t dared while Vicky had been looking over his shoulder but it would be entirely different now. Even though he had told Vicky he didn’t want a divorce, he could see the advantages of being freed up from relying on the dratted Canleigh family … he just needed the sodding money!
He stared hard at the envelope and then at Delia, who was blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling. Would she honour her promise? A tremor of fear ran through his body. If she didn’t, he was sunk. Totally and utterly and had no idea what he would do. He hardly had a penny of his own. Even though Vicky had been happy to spend a considerable amount of her legacy from her grandmother on the club, on their marriage she was given advice from Rathbones and her bank manager not to have a joint bank account. He was told to set up a separate account for himself, into which Vicky paid him an allowance every month, along with his share of the profits from the club. He had been happy with that, flashing the money around carelessly, buying suits from Savile Row, and the brand-new Jag, crazily assuming his finances were secure for the rest of his life. How brainless he had been, not setting something aside for a rainy day. He stared outside. It was certainly that now … in more ways than one. He couldn’t even dip into the business account any longer, having left his bankcard and chequebook in the flat when he and Delia had left in a hurry and anyway, Vicky would probably freeze that pretty quickly. So now he was virtually penniless with only a couple of thousand pounds in his bank account and his future was totally dependent on what Delia might offer.
He looked across at her, lighting up yet another cigarette. God, he could hardly see across the room for the smoke. He wanted to open the window to let in some fresh air but if he did the pouring rain would come in too. He moved over to the bed and took a long swig from the champagne bottle which stood beside that tantalising envelope. She put out a hand and run a finger lightly down his arm.
“Don’t,” snapped Barrie. They had indulged in rampant sexual activity for most of the day, only stopping to eat and pour more of the Krug down their throats. He looked blearily at the mass of empty bottles flung carelessly on the floor. Had they really consumed so much since they had been here? It was a wonder they hadn’t died of alcoholic poisoning.
Even so, he took another swig, spluttering and choking as the liquid ran down his throat too quickly. Delia laughed. “Steady, boy, steady. There’s plenty more where that came from. Daddy darling has a vast cellar. It can keep us occupied for weeks … months even.”
She sat up, took a hard, long puff of her cigarette, and blew the smoke in his face. He grimaced and turned away. He was so fed up with her antics. He had to end this, now.
“Delia,” he beseeched her tiredly. “Will you please open your letter from the solicitors? I can’t take much more of this. I need to know if it’s the money.”
“Do you now … and what will you do if it is? Will you clear off? Leave me to my own devices?” she needled, wishing he would go anyway. She didn’t need him any longer and would be glad to get rid of him as he was nothing but a liability and she was beginning to wonder exactly how she was going to recover from what they had done. Her father would never want to know her, not when Hardy told him she was here, fornicating with Barrie … and after Vicky told him what had happened at the flat … and that was if he, for a second, believed she hadn’t had something to do with Richard’s death. He would be completely disgusted and would no doubt throw her out of Canleigh for once and for all. Okay, she had the money to go where she wanted and do what she wanted but there was nowhere and nothing she desired but to remain here in her home and she feared those days were sharply numbered. According to Hardy, it wouldn’t be long before Father and his mealy-mouthed wife returned, no doubt full of condemnation and anger, and God knows what she was going to do then. She had laughed, pretending it didn’t concern her but it had and she had to get rid of Barrie p
retty damned quick.
Delia studied him through a puff of smoke. She knew how much he wanted the money … but what he didn’t know was that she had no intentions of giving him any. Stupid idiot.
“So, what will you do with so much money?”
Barrie’s annoyance was growing. “You know damned well what I want to do … get started with another club. Delia, you promised. I want my £250,000. Now pay up.”
“And what will you do if I don’t give you anything?” Delia gave a lopsided grin. She was very drunk and just wanted to lay back and drift off into a more peaceful world. One where there was no constant scheming, or a need to entice men to do as she wanted to get what she wanted. She was tired of it all. She wanted it to end.
Barrie stood up and towered over her, his pent-up anger getting the better of him. “Don’t mess me with me any longer, Delia. You promised me that money as soon as Richard’s inheritance was released and I want it. Now.”
Delia uncurled her body slowly and sat up, her face set like granite. “I see. Well, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to give you a bean. I really don’t see why I should and I think it’s time you slung your hook. You’re not wanted nor needed anymore so I suggest you pack your bags and leave Canleigh as fast as you can.”
Barrie flung the champagne bottle on the floor, reached down, threw his hands around her neck, and shook her head hard. “You’ll give me every penny you owe me, you whore,” he hissed. “Christ, I’ve earned it, pandering to your depraved whims.”
Delia tore his hands away from her neck and moved further away from him on the bed. “You jerk. Can’t you see when you’ve been had? Who else do you think would have bailed me? I had no-one to turn to. It had to be you, even if I had to bribe you. I never intended to give you anything so you can forget it. Clear off. I don’t want to see you ever again. And,” she laughed loudly,” I don’t suppose my idiot sister will either. Oh, dear, Barrie, darling, you really have messed up. What will you do now?” she asked sarcastically.
“You bitch! You bloody cow,” Barrie growled, lurching towards her, hands poised once more for her throat.
Delia grabbed an empty champagne bottle from the bedside cabinet and raised it high above her head. “Don’t touch me again you brute or you’ll get more than you bargained for,” she growled.
Maddened beyond reason, Barrie felt a red mist descend. He had heard of it happening to others but never experienced it himself. He made to grab her neck with both hands again, intending to squeeze it tightly. His rage was intense. He wanted to kill her. Extinguish her life. She deserved it. She had used and abused him. He hated her passionately.
Sensing her life was in the balance, Delia brought down her arm with as much force as she could muster, smashing the bottle onto Barrie’s head as hard as she could. Large, jagged chunks of green glass showered over the bed and the carpet.
For a second Barrie paused. He was seeing stars but then his sight cleared and she, his nemesis, was still there before him and still breathing. He lunged towards her again. Delia’s former inertia evaporated fast and she sprung off the bed, trying to put as much distance as she could between them but he was quick and furious and determined to do her harm. He leapt across the bed to where she stood and they grappled furiously before he managed to pull her up by the hair and smashed his fist hard into her face. Delia fell heavily onto the shards of broken glass on the floor, knocking her head against the dressing table. She lay still.
“Blasted whore,” Barrie muttered angrily, giving her a swift kick in the ribs with his bare foot. She remained motionless but he didn’t care. All he wanted to do was get out of this room, out of this house. Get away as far as his two thousand pounds would allow him and think about his options … perhaps he could drive home and see Vicky. Grovel like hell. Say it was all down to Delia. She had bewitched him. Vicky had always been a pushover. If he begged and pleaded, and begged and pleaded again, she might just forgive him. Christ, how could he have been so damned idiotic to have believed Delia? He kicked her again but she didn’t flinch but then what did he care. She had done him over well. Now he had to drive as fast as he could back to London and try to repair the damage … if he could. God, he hoped so, or he was well and truly in the mire.
His suitcase was still on the floor by the window where it had sat since they arrived at Canleigh. He quickly found some socks and pulled them on. The broken glass on the floor had pricked his left foot in two places but luckily there wasn’t much blood and he hadn’t any access to plasters in any case. He pulled on jeans, a thin sweater, and his black leather jacket and looked back at Delia, whose face was strangely white and her breathing shallow. But she was alive. He hadn’t killed her. He could finish her off now but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to. It would be foolish. He would deal with her at some future date because it was a damned sure thing she wasn’t going to get away with this if he could help it. No, he would leave her to come around and resume her pathetic life and then one day, one day, he would make her regret she had tangled with him.
Her black leather handbag lay on the floor beside the bed. He opened it. The cheque book and cards were no good to him but the cash was. A great wad of it. Around £500 he surmised. That would help. It would give him a decent hotel room for the rest of the night so he could clean himself up and plan his next move with Vicky. He shoved it into his suitcase, threw around the zipper, grabbed the keys to his Jag and throwing one last look of intense hatred at the inert form of his sister in law, staggered out of the bedroom. He didn’t notice the blood seeping into the carpet from where a sharp piece of glass had become embedded in Delia’s face, or the smouldering cigarette in the bedclothes.
Barrie weaved unsteadily down the stairs to the entrance hall. It was dimly lit as Hardy had only left two small lamps switched on. The front door was locked and there didn’t appear to be a key anywhere in the immediate vicinity. With sheer frustration, he kicked and pounded the wood with his feet and fists and alerted to the commotion, Hardy, followed by Anderson, his newly appointed young under butler, tore up the stairs from the servant’s quarters to see what was going on. Hardy flicked a switch on the wall by the door and the sudden burst of light almost blinded Barrie. He staggered against the door, wielding the suitcase at it.
“Open this bloody door,” he bellowed. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Are you alright, Sir?” asked Hardy, glad young Anderson was by his side. Barrie was exceedingly drunk and in a terrible rage and would be difficult to handle if he really kicked off.
“No! I’m not, damn you! Let me out of this God forsaken house. Now!” Barrie yelled, leaning against a nearby chair delicate Louis XVIII chair to steady himself.
Hardy gulped. The chair was worth a lot of money. He didn’t want to see it damaged. “But Sir … do you think you should drive?” Hardy enquired politely, seeing the car keys in Barrie’s hand.
“Mind your own bloody business and just do as I say. Open this bloody door!”
Hardy reluctantly gave in, producing the large silver key from a hiding place behind a statuette. He opened the door, standing back as Barrie pushed his way passed and out into the wet, cold night, reeling towards his Jaguar standing on the forecourt.
In dismay, Hardy and Anderson watched Barrie scramble into the driving seat and after a couple of abortive attempts made the engine roar into life, shattering the stillness of the night. In a matter of seconds, the car disappeared out of sight at an almighty speed, careering dangerously down the drive towards the main road.
“I’m going to ring the police,” muttered Hardy, grabbing the telephone on the hall table near to him. “He’s going to kill someone.”
A loud explosion, followed by a massive ball of fire lighting up the night sky, stopped him in his tracks.
CHAPTER 35
CANLEIGH – APRIL 1974
Yet again, there were members of the press outside the ornate black wrought iron gates of Canleigh, eager for photographs of anyone con
nected with the house or titbits on the latest crisis in the lives of such a prominent family. As the Rolls Royce approached, driven by the Duke himself, the Duchess beside him, and their son and nanny in the rear with Lady Victoria, the chattering crowd parted and the cameras flashed but for once the journalists were silent. There had been another death in the Canleigh family and they showed a modicum of respect.
One of the gardeners, requested to take on security duties until the furore died down, opened the gates and the Rolls entered the estate and moved slowly down the long drive. On the third bend, they came across a police car and a red fire service van with blue lights on top, standing near to the solid ancient oak tree where the burnt-out shell of Barrie’s Jaguar was embedded. As Barrie’s remains were still in the wreckage, a huge plastic sheet was shielding the scene from anyone traversing the drive. Stephen was fast asleep but all the adult occupants of the car gazed at the scene with dismay and sadness. What a dreadful end it had been for Vicky’s husband, trapped, and burnt alive in his car. No-one, whatever they did, deserved such a horrific death.
The police officer on guard duty nodded politely at the occupants of the car as they drove slowly passed. A fire officer emerged from behind the sheeting and doffed his cap. Vicky burst into tears.
They passed St. Mary’s, where Richard had recently been buried. Ruth wondered if Charles would stop there first but he didn’t even glance that way, his face set like stone, his eyes fixed firmly on the bend ahead which would bring the Hall into view. Ruth twisted her hands in her lap nervously, praying all this awful, ugly business wouldn’t be detrimental to Charles’s health. He had been doing so well but the strain of hearing that Delia and Barrie had been cavorting at Canleigh, ending in Barrie’s death and Delia’s hospitalisation, along with damage to the Hall itself, was already causing severe stress. She had had to tell him, of course. There was no alternative once Hardy had telephoned to relay what had occurred and no matter how she might want to, it was impossible to shield Charles any longer. Although he must never know about the horror inflicted on Vicky. That was a complete and utter certainty.
Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) Page 57