Double Cheque

by Heather MacQuarrie

  “On the contrary,” she exclaimed, “it’s confirmation that the police have sent a report to their colleagues in Scotland, informing them that they have no reason whatsoever to suspect anyone from over here of being involved in the death of Mr Alex McKendrick and that consequently the case has been closed. It says that copies of this letter have also been sent to Kenneth Campbell, Sam Campbell and Grant Cartwright and that Douglas McKendrick, Mia McKendrick and Barbara McKendrick have all been informed.”

  “Hurray,” Alastair cheered. “They had more or less told you that anyway but it’s good to have it in writing.” As Jasmine picked up her glass and took a sip of the refreshing Pinot Grigio, he sat down beside her and smiled. Then he took the glass from her hand, set it back on the table beside his own and took her in his arms. “I look forward to the weekend so much now,” he breathed. “I love spending time with you.” As he kissed her tenderly on the lips all the tension of the week started to ease away. She kissed him back and held him close, her heart almost bursting with happiness.

  “Can you stay over tonight?” she whispered, licking her lips seductively. They hadn’t slept together since that first encounter three weeks ago.

  “Just try and stop me,” he replied, nuzzling into her neck. “I’ve come properly prepared this time.”

  Jasmine closed her eyes and swooned. She could hardly wait until bedtime but somehow managed to convince herself that the agony of waiting would make it all the better. “Let’s finish our wine,” she said, “and I’ll make us something to eat. Why don’t you paint me that picture you’ve promised?”

  Alastair had dabbled a bit with oils and water colours but, since gaining access to Jasmine’s studio, he was developing this into a real hobby and proving that he had impressive artistic talent. He had promised to paint her something bright and colourful for her bedroom wall. For the next couple of hours they cooked and kissed, painted and kissed, ate dinner and kissed. Jasmine was in seventh heaven.

  About eight o’clock they heard the doorbell ring. It was Maggie and Lawrence who explained that they were personally delivering some of their wedding invitations. Jasmine invited them in for a drink.

  “Just a quick one, then,” Maggie said, accepting the hospitality. “We want to see Jillian and Bradley too and then fit in a couple of other friends as well.”

  Alastair took Lawrence in to see his painting. Jasmine opened the envelope her friend had handed her and drew out the printed card. Maggie watched as her initial smile suddenly faded and her finger involuntarily touched her lips in a doubtful manner. It was clear that there was something wrong. She gave her a questioning look.

  “Sorry,” Jasmine faltered. “It’s a beautiful card, Maggie.” She hesitated, looking again at the names inscribed on it: Miss Jasmine Campbell and Mr Alastair Cartwright. “It’s just that Alastair’s name is wrong.”

  Maggie looked at the card over her friend’s shoulder. “I knew I’d spell something wrongly,” she joked, “after me doing a magazine article all about spelling! Sorry, I know there are various ways of spelling Alastair; I thought I’d got the right one. I’ll do you another one.”

  “No, Alastair is fine,” Jasmine told her. “It’s Cartwright. That’s not his name.”

  Maggie looked confused. “Oh, sorry, I just presumed. I mean, he’s Grant’s cousin. I thought they were all Cartwrights. The fact that they all live with their mothers and there are no dads.”

  “That’s true for Grant, Rebecca and Robyn,” Jasmine agreed, “although Robyn is apparently now calling herself Cartwright-Greenlees since their mother got married this summer. Grant has recently met his real dad but he’s sticking to Cartwright, the name he has had all his life. However, it’s different for Alastair. He did have a dad and his mother was happily married to him. He died.”

  “Gosh, I didn’t know that. Thank goodness he hasn’t seen it yet. Give it back to me and I’ll do you another one. What is his surname?”

  “Henning,” said Jasmine. “Alastair Henning. His father was an American and the rest of his Henning relations are over in New York so it’s just Alastair and his mum keeping the name alive on this side of the pond.”

  “Henning?” Maggie echoed nervously. “His father was American? But he died? I had no idea. How long ago did this happen?”

  “Alastair was just a little boy, about five years old at the time. It was a hit and run accident. His father was killed and he was left with a bad leg and brain damage, as you know. Sure you tried to warn me against starting a relationship with him. I thought you knew his history.”

  Alastair and Lawrence emerged from the studio where they had been viewing the work in progress. Maggie grabbed her fiancé’s arm. “Time we were away,” she ordered with an urgency that surprised him. “I’ll get that fixed for you, Jasmine.”

  They were out through the door in a flash and headed straight for their car.

  “I thought they were going up to see Jillian and Bradley,” Jasmine said, confused.

  “Never mind,” Alastair riposted. “Let’s lock up and turn off the lights before anyone else disturbs us.”

  Within ten minutes the young lovers were in bed, hungry for each other yet still relatively inexperienced in sexual matters. They held each other close and kissed.

  “I love you, Jasmine,” Alastair breathed, “I love everything about you.” Tenderly he touched her face, her neck, her breasts, her nipples, her tummy, his fingers gliding ever so gently over her smooth, creamy skin.

  “Oh Alastair, I love you too,” she whispered, breathlessly, willing him to continue the journey downwards, downwards and beyond. And he did. And it was so, so, blissful and so perfect and so fulfilling until she cried out because it was unbearable and yet she still wanted more. And then her own hands began to explore, to manipulate, to titillate and she felt his body respond to her touch. At last, when they joined together as one, the overwhelming joy they experienced surpassed everything they had dared to anticipate. They fell asleep in one another’s arms, blissfully happy and never wanting to be apart, ever again.

  ***

  Maggie sat in the car outside her mother’s house. She was agitated and tearful. “It’s too late to uninvite them to the wedding,” she wailed, “but I had no idea who he was. My dad killed his dad and ruined his childhood. He has brain damage. He had to attend a special school because of his learning difficulties. He’s still not allowed to drive.”

  Lawrence tried his best to comfort her. “You suffered too, Mags. Your childhood wasn’t plain sailing. None of it was your fault.”

  “What do I tell Mum? She’s starting to look happy again, happier than I’ve seen her in years, and this is going to set her back to square one.”

  “Do you need to tell her anything?”

  Maggie thought about that for a moment. “I could just write another invitation myself but what about the place cards and the guest lists for the tables? She’ll see his name on the day and that’ll be even worse.”

  “It’s just a name. Are you sure she would make the connection?”

  “I did, straightaway. It’s engrained in my mind. She’ll be the same.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.” They got out of the car and went inside.

  Greta was sitting at the kitchen table, half-way through a Sudoku puzzle. She looked up in delight at the unexpected visitors but Maggie’s eyes were still red and her face still a bit blotchy so her expression soon turned to one of concern. “Is something wrong?” she asked gently, setting down her pencil.

  “That letter you told me about,” Maggie faltered, “is there any way they could trace who sent it? You said you did it anonymously.”

  Greta looked startled. “Are you still tormenting yourself about that?” she asked with a heavy sigh.

  “I’ll tell you why in a minute. Are you sure you didn’t identify yourself or give any obvious clues?”


  “I signed it ‘Marguerite’.”

  Maggie gave a wry smile. That was a pet name the family sometimes used for her mum on account of the fact that she had been born in France and still had quite an affinity with the country. She said nothing for a moment.

  “Why does it matter?” Greta persisted.

  “A member of the Henning family has been invited to the wedding.”

  Greta gasped. “That’s not possible,” she countered. “The invitations are all out. I wrote them myself.”

  “It’s Jasmine’s boyfriend, Alastair. I thought his name was Cartwright but it’s not. It’s Henning.”

  “An unfortunate coincidence,” Greta concurred, “but I’m sure there are other families with the same name. This man was an American.”

  “That’s right. He was Alastair’s father. And Alastair himself was badly injured in the same accident. He still bears the scars today. He suffered brain damage.”

  Maggie started to cry again and Lawrence put a soothing arm around her. Greta looked stricken. She knew that a son had also been involved but had not been aware of the seriousness of his injuries. “Do they know it was your father?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “Thank God.”

  “I can’t uninvite them.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I said I’d bring them another invitation.”

  “I’ll write it for you now.”

  As Greta wrote the name on the card, the tears also came to her own eyes. It was only about six weeks since she had learnt the truth herself, the truth about how her husband had mown down Mr Henning and injured his son. He had driven on and had never been caught, only owning up to her on his death-bed. Both she and Maggie had been plagued by his erratic and destructive behaviour in the intervening years as he had struggled unsuccessfully with his shame and guilt.

  Greta handed Maggie the new card. “Just apologise for the mistake and play it cool,” she advised. “If you say nothing and I say nothing, no-one will ever know.”

  “And you won’t mind him being there?”

  “Why should we mind? The lad has done nothing to be ashamed of, quite the contrary. I learnt how to have a brass neck a long time ago.”

  ***

  Jasmine’s flat was in darkness. “Just leave it in the post-box,” suggested Lawrence. “You can give her a ring tomorrow.” Then he added, “Those two have the right idea. Time we were in bed too. It’s been a stressful couple of hours.”

  They shared a warm embrace and headed home.

  Chapter 19

  Although Patricia knew that Dougie had a brother living nearby, she had never actually met him. However, she knew that they were close and she felt sad for him, knowing that Alex had died. But she didn’t dare make contact, not now that Kenneth was in a forgiving frame of mind. She wasn’t sure what had brought about the transformation but she wasn’t going to analyse it too carefully. After four nights of non-communication and separate rooms they were once again living properly as man and wife and the affair that had threatened to ruin their marriage was hardly mentioned. When the letter had arrived on Friday morning, informing them that there would be no charges against any of the family in relation to the unexplained death, they had both promised to put the whole sad episode behind them. Kenneth was working extra hours to make up for the time he had lost with his unscheduled holiday and Patricia was coping by keeping herself busy.

  Arriving home on Monday at her customary hour around tea-time, and knowing that Kenneth wouldn’t be in until about eight o’clock, Patricia decided to do some extra laundry that had been building up. She went upstairs and emptied the linen basket onto the bedroom floor and then proceeded to sort the garments into white or pale-coloured items, black or very dark clothing, and red things, which she always did separately, ever since she had inadvertently dyed some of Kenneth’s underwear a rather nice shade of pink. She viewed the three piles and decided to start with the dark wash as it appeared to be the largest. Downstairs she loaded the items into the machine, one at a time, opening buttons, closing zips and checking pockets. Nothing was as annoying as a stray tissue getting into a dark wash. It was next to impossible to remove the tiny white fragments from the accompanying shirts and trousers. The last item to go in was a pair of casual trousers which she hadn’t seen Kenneth wearing for some time. She put her hand into the pocket and pulled out a few scraps of paper. At least they weren’t tissues. But then she took a closer look. They were receipts.

  Patricia sat down and stared at the evidence in her hands. The first receipt was for petrol, paid for in cash, from a garage in central Scotland. It was dated the fourth of October. The second one, bearing the same date, was for a meal purchased at a road-side café about fifty miles further north. Kenneth had told the police that he travelled to Spain on the first day of the month, the same day that he had disappeared from home. Patricia started to sweat profusely. The implications of her find were so obvious. She opened a drawer where she kept personal belongings in the form of family photos, notebooks, recipe cards and the like and placed the two receipts in the centre of an old diary, then checked her watch and saw that she still had an hour before Kenneth was due home. She went to his study and turned on his computer. She knew his password. They had never had occasion before to mistrust one another. Within a few minutes Patricia had all the proof she needed. Kenneth had purchased an airline ticket to travel from Scotland to Spain on the eleventh of October. No wonder she hadn’t noticed much of a tan. He’d only been there for four days. Turning the computer off and leaving everything exactly as she had found it, Patricia left the room and went back downstairs.

  ***

  Gertrude had been afraid to broach the subject with Catherine but she decided now that she could put it off no longer. Grant and Imogen had been married for over three weeks and, with it being Hallowe’en night, the sound of fireworks and the excited voices of neighbourhood children in fancy dress were putting her in the mood for a party.

  “I want to celebrate Grant’s wedding,” she told her daughter. “How would you feel about me inviting Mr Ferguson?”

  Catherine had almost expected the request so she wasn’t too surprised. However, she did try to stall any decision by pointing out that her son and daughter-in-law had deliberately married in secret because they didn’t want any fuss.

  “I realise that,” Gertrude agreed, “and I respect their right to avoid all the formality involved, especially after what happened the last time.” She was of course referring to Grant’s first wedding to Zoe, who had been terminally ill at the time. “But we still need to mark the occasion and, now that he’s formed a bond with his father, I think he should be there.”

  “You’re quite right. I won’t stand in your way.” Gertrude had been ready for an argument. She stared at Catherine, open-mouthed. “Mark and I will help you to organise it. I can’t put off seeing the man forever. He’s part of Grant’s life now.”

  “Good for you,” Gertrude managed at last with a grin. “That is such a sensible attitude.”

  The two women sat down together to discuss the proposed event, where and when they would have it, who else would be invited, and whether they would keep it secret from the happy couple or include them in the arrangements. In the end they agreed to keep it a small family affair so that it wouldn’t turn into the wedding reception they had decided against in the first place. Gertrude phoned around a few local venues and managed to book a room for a Saturday afternoon, two weeks away. She was told that it could accommodate up to thirty-five people. Then Catherine phoned Grant and told him to keep the date free; she and Mark were taking him and his bride out for lunch.

  Chapter 20

  The list was chopped and changed several times until both Gertrude and Catherine were happy with it. Thirty-three people would fit into that room nicely; they had been together to check it out. There was a good balanced ag
e-range, divided fairly equally gender-wise. Hopefully it was a group that would gel successfully and create a party atmosphere. Gertrude ran her eye over it one more time.

  Gertrude herself, the groom’s grandmother;

  Catherine and Mark, Grant’s mother and step-father;

  Grant and Imogen, the newly-weds;

  Rebecca and Robyn, Grant’s sisters, and Robyn’s boyfriend, Jack;

  Thomasina, Catherine’s sister and Grant’s aunt;

  Alastair, Grant’s cousin, and his girlfriend, Jasmine;

  Daphne and Adrian, Grant’s in-laws from his marriage to Zoe;

  Erica, Zoe’s sister;

  Bradley, honorary family member, and his fiancée, Jillian;

  Joanna and Keith, Imogen’s parents;

  Joanna’s mum and dad;

  Vincent, Imogen’s half-brother, and his girlfriend, Jane;

  Holly, one of Imogen’s best friends (along with Jillian);

  Dorothy and Robert, Jillian and Vincent’s parents;

  Cameron Ferguson and his wife, Lauren;

  Angus Ferguson, Grant’s new-found grandfather;

  James and Henry, Grant’s new-found half-brothers;

  Patty Campbell and her husband, Kenneth;

  Douglas McKendrick

  They had deliberated over those last three names for some time, but yes, they definitely deserved to be invited. Catherine’s friend, Patty, had been instrumental in helping to bring Grant and Cameron together, and Douglas McKendrick had been the link. Hopefully everyone would be able to come. It had been purposefully timed early in the day so that the Scottish contingent would be able to get a flight home and not have the expense of staying over.

  And now the day of the party had arrived. Grant and Imogen had been told that lunch would be at two o’clock. Everyone else had been asked to arrive half an hour earlier so that even latecomers would be in situ well before the guests of honour made an appearance. Gertrude, Catherine and Mark manned the door to greet their friends as they came in and point them in the direction of the drinks table. As usual, Gertrude, her looks belying her seventy-four years, was resplendent in a rich, red and gold outfit, set off by her customary, jangly beads and bracelets. Everyone else had been asked to dress casually.