When Blanche had rung off, she poured herself a large gin and tonic and then sat musing over her predicament, such as it was, for Blanche had never been known to refuse to look on the black side of life. After two hours and two more gin and tonics her thoughts turned to considering the best way to take her revenge on Edward for his callousness. Not that she was seriously angry with him, for the entire set she moved in would probably have behaved in exactly the same way; it was more a matter of thoughts suddenly coming into her head simply because she felt she had nothing to do.
Eventually she went to bed, but slept only fitfully. Just after two o’clock she suddenly woke up and thought of a way to get back at Edward: she would telephone him, there and then…
For a moment she hesitated. She had already decided what to say to him, but what if it were his wife who answered the phone? Even worse, what if it turned out that his wife were someone she knew?
In a matter of seconds she dismissed her reservations, trusting in her ability to find something suitably hurtful to say if something unexpected were to present itself. She dialled Edward’s number, heard the ringing tone and then Edward’s voice:
‘Hello, who’s that?’
Ignoring his request to identify herself, Blanche continued: ‘Are you listening?’
There followed a few seconds of silence, so she repeated: ‘Are you listening?’
‘Oh yes,’ he replied.
‘This is very important. I did not call the police. It was your family that called the police.’
‘What the devil are you talking about? Who is that?’ Edward responded in an agitated fashion.
Satisfied that he did not know who was calling and that he seemed upset, Blanche replaced the receiver, leaving Edward to ponder over the identity of his caller, the meaning of the message, and to worry over the hidden threat implied by the message.
Why did Blanche say what she said? Simply to make Edward fret. She knew perfectly well that nothing he had done to her would merit a police involvement; but she was also aware that simply telling someone that they have been reported to the police was sufficient to make them feel uneasy, even if they have no reason to fear the police, and frantically worried if they have. In fact she did not know Edward well enough to be aware if he had done anything to interest the police, but if he had, which was possible, it would serve him right for treating her in such a rotten fashion!
The following day, the act of thinking about it in the cold light of day – made absolutely no difference to Blanche’s attitude: on the contrary, she still felt extremely angry with Edward, and resolved to phone him again the next night. Once more she waited until two o’clock in the morning, for she felt that at that time of night people would be at their most vulnerable. She heard the phone ring out, and again heard Edward’s voice: ‘Hello, who’s that?’
This time she replied, ‘Is your wife there?’
‘No,’ he answered, ‘she’s not. Who wants her?’
Blanche decided to ignore his question, and continued, ‘Does she know you pursue other women?’
‘Who is that? Is that Blanche, by any chance?’
Again she chose not to answer his question, and asked another of her own. ‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Speak to whom?’
‘To your wife.’
‘I told you, she’s not here.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In another room.’
‘I suppose she’s refusing to sleep with you because she knows you’ve been chasing other women?’
‘No, it’s not like that at all.’
‘Do you mean she knows about your other women?’
‘What other women?’
‘Blanche, for instance.’
‘Who is that?’
Her resolve fortified by a conviction that he still did not know whom he was talking to, she continued, ‘Does your wife know about Blanche?’
‘No, she doesn’t.’
‘So how much money would you pay me not to tell her about Blanche? Shall we say £500?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘£1000 then?’
‘I’m not paying you anything! Who is that?’
But Blanche had replaced the receiver and terminated the call.
The following night Blanche phoned Edward again, once more in the middle of the night. When he answered, she said, ‘You owe me £1000.’
‘Why?’ he replied, not knowing what she was talking about, or even who she was.
‘To prevent me telling your wife about Blanche.’
‘I thought you said £500 last time.’
‘It will go up £500 every time you refuse, until you see sense and agree to pay.’
‘But I don’t even know who you are! How can I pay somebody if I don’t know who they are?’
Blanche felt very heartened by his response, for her strategy depended upon his not being aware that it was Blanche herself that was calling. Naturally she had no intention of actually telling Edward’s wife, mainly because she did not want to precipitate any retaliation, of whatever kind.
‘I shall give you instructions for payment as soon as you agree to pay.’
‘And you won’t say anything to my wife if I pay you £500?’
‘It was £500 yesterday, so it is £1000 today, and it will go up by £500 every day.’
‘And after I pay you, you will leave me alone?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Among other things, on whether you tell the police.’
‘But you said the other night that the police already knew…’
‘I said nothing of the sort. I have not told the police. The police have nothing to do with it.’
She spoke quietly, calmly; Edward’s mind was far from quiet or calm, especially when she continued to speak: ‘You have ten seconds to decide. After that I shall speak to your wife.’
‘No!’ he replied, as forcefully as he could while speaking quietly enough for his wife not to overhear from the adjoining bedroom. ‘I’ll pay!’
‘That is very sensible,’ she said. ‘You will pay £1000 in cash, you will put it in an envelope with the name Edward Playfair on the front, and leave it at the reception desk of the Ritz in Piccadilly. Is that clear?’
‘Very clear. And if I do that, you won’t say anything to my wife?’
‘If you act exactly as I say within twenty-four hours, you have nothing to fear.’
‘All right. I will do it tomorrow afternoon.’
Blanche smiled to herself, and replaced the receiver.
Two days later, Blanche went to the Ritz, asked if an envelope addressed to Edward Playfair had been left there for her to pick up. The receptionist handed over an envelope, and Blanche went straight home. Once there, she opened the envelope, and counted twenty £50 notes, and gave a whoop of joy. ‘That was easy!’ she told herself. ‘Perhaps I should have asked for more!’
A week later, despite what she had told him, she contacted him again, because she had discovered what pleasure may be gained as a result of making a victim squirm. As soon as Edward realised that his blackmailer was on the phone again, he protested: ‘You promised me that if I paid you £1000 you would not get in touch with me again!’
‘I made no such promise! What I said was that if you paid me within twenty-four hours you had nothing to fear. Are you afraid?’
‘No,’ he replied, principally because he thought it was the best thing to say.
‘There you are, you see!’ she countered. ‘I said you had nothing to fear. Now I need some more money…’
‘How much?’
‘A thousand.’
‘And if I pay, will you give me an assurance that you won’t contact me again?’
‘Oh yes! There’s just one thing…’
‘What’s that?’
‘What if I’m a liar?’
‘Then I shall call the police.’
‘Just give me the money, and worry later! Same arrangements as be
fore. You remember?’
‘I remember.’
She rang off, then the following day she collected the money that he had left once more at the Ritz, after which she never contacted him again.
But within a day or two she found that the pleasure of receiving money with such little effort had worn off, as had the sadistic satisfaction she had experienced as a result of causing so much pain. The only aspect of blackmail which she had not enjoyed had been the potential risk to herself, which would, of course, always be present if she persisted in threatening her own lovers, of which she had many.
It was not long, however, before a different method suggested itself. She had a wide circle of friends, mostly former school companions and their husbands, and, when they met, there was always a lot of gossip about who was sleeping with whom, because they were indeed a promiscuous set. So she sat down one day and wrote a list of the pairings which were currently being talked about by her friends. Her plan was to follow a similar method to the one she had developed over Edward, always threatening the errant husband with telling his wife of his affair.
Blanche had no need of the money she would make from this venture, for not only was she from a wealthy background, she was also a successful businesswoman, who owned a chain of exclusive and expensive boutiques, which made her self-sufficient, even without resorting to her newly acquired occupation. But her motivation was always the sheer pleasure she could derive from making other people’s lives a misery. The fact that her friends’ husbands were well-heeled and would not miss the odd thousand pounds that keeping their wives ignorant of their peccadilloes would cost them made it easier for her, of course; ironically, that should surely have neutralised the pleasure she felt as a result of taking their money. Within a few weeks she was blackmailing no fewer than six men, who inexplicably were willing to pay up to avoid their wives being made aware of what they were doing.
A few years later, however, when she was enjoying tea in Fortnum and Mason’s with Clarissa, her friend startled her by saying, ‘Isn’t it an awful shock about Letitia’s husband?’
‘Why? What happened to him?’’
‘He committed suicide.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know. What happened?’
‘I understand he was cheating on Letitia…’
‘That’s not usually fatal. He’s done that before!’
‘I know, but it appears he shot himself, and there was a note found beside his body that he’d written before killing himself.’
‘He could hardly have written it after killing himself! What did it say?’
‘The note said that he had been carrying on with another woman, and then he had received a number of telephone calls threatening to tell his wife if he didn’t pay a sum of money…’
‘How much?’
‘I don’t know. But he went on to say that he couldn’t afford to pay, and that he didn’t want his wife to find out about his affair.’
‘That doesn’t make sense! Killing himself is one sure-fire way of guaranteeing that his wife does find out!’
Clarissa was a little nonplussed by Blanche’s curious response, but carried on with what she had been going to say anyway. ‘He said in the note that he acknowledged that he and Letitia had been going through a bad spell, and as a result of that he’d started a liaison with another woman, and then someone had begun to blackmail him, and the blackmail was the last straw, so he decided to end it all. Isn’t that awful?’
‘Did he say who the other woman was?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt it. But fancy somebody blackmailing him! I can’t understand how anybody can do such a thing!’
‘It’s something men who cheat on their wives lay themselves open to.’
‘I suppose so. But could you do such a thing? I know I couldn’t.’
‘I’m sorry, Clarissa, I’m going to have to scoot – I’ve got somebody coming in to repair the dishwasher at five o’clock.’
With that, she got up and left, leaving Clarissa more and more puzzled by her reaction, and leaving her to settle the bill for tea and champagne too!
When she got home, she got out her list of prospective victims, crossed Letitia’s husband off the list, and thought no more about it – or him.
A little later that evening she started to examine the prospective victims’ list seriously, and finally settled on Donald McCormack, the husband of Jeannette McCormack, better known by her maiden name of Jeannette McGrath, a successful and popular actress, who had also been at school with Blanche. Donald too was an actor. He and Jeannette had only been married about ten months; they had met while acting in a play, in which they played a compulsively adulterous couple, a role which they appeared to find difficult to escape from. From such details as Blanche had been able to discover, there was a distinct possibility that she could blackmail both of them rather than just the one; it was only the fact that Jeannette had long been familiar with the sound of Blanche’s voice, however, and the consequent likelihood of being identified if she did telephone Jeannette, that caused her to restrict her target to Jeannette’s husband.
She easily found out the identity of Donald’s current companion, an actress named Gigi Caldwell, and resolved to ring Donald that very night. So, at some time between one and two in the morning she dialled his number, and was surprised by what was awaiting her.
‘Who the hell’s calling me at this ridiculous time of night?’ said Donald.
Blanche ignored his question, and continued with her plan. ‘I’m surprised you’re not with Gigi Caldwell,’ she said.
‘I’ve been with her all evening, and who the hell wants to know? Get off the bloody line!’
‘I don’t suppose your wife knows about Gigi, does she?’
‘Of course she bloody does! Keep your filthy nose out!’
‘I bet she doesn’t know about all the others!’
‘Of course she does! Jeannette and I have no secrets from each other, not even who either of us is currently sleeping with! So go away!’
And Donald slammed the receiver down.
Was Blanche discouraged by this hiccup in her plan? Not in the slightest, for, she calculated, there was no point, and no profit either, in blackmailing a partner of a genuinely ‘open’ marriage. Of course, she had no way of knowing if he had been telling the truth or not, but she simply shrugged her shoulders and consulted her list of potential victims again, in which all those whom she knew to be errant husbands were marked by an asterisk.
Her eyes immediately lit upon one asterisk in particular, against the names of Hermione and Jason Spencer. As was the case with most of the female names on this list, Blanche had been at school with Hermione, although they had never been truly close. Jason, Hermione’s husband, had been for the last nine years or so the Conservative Member of Parliament for a constituency in suburban Surrey, an area which was known for its constant rejection of any idea which did not have its roots deep in the nineteenth century, if not earlier. Certainly, Blanche thought, Jason’s constituents would disapprove of his adultery, even if they would also be rubbing their hands with glee if they learned of it.
But first she had to do a little research. Fortunately Isabella, one of her closest school chums, lived in the same area as Hermione and Jason, and was one of Jason’s constituents, so Blanche phoned her and virtually invited herself to go and spend the following weekend with Isabella, when she proceeded to ply her with endless questions about her MP, whilst, of course, keeping her motivation secret.
‘If you’re so anxious to find out about Jason,’ said Isabella, ‘I will invite him and Hermione to dinner on Saturday evening.’
As it happened, Hermione and Jason had no prior engagements, and so Blanche found herself more than amply rewarded for her brazen cheek in inviting herself to Isabella’s for the weekend.
At Isabella’s suggestion, Blanche actually arrived early on Friday evening. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages,’ she had said, ‘and Alistair won’t be back from his business trip until
Saturday morning, so we’ll be able to enjoy a girlie evening together and catch up on what we’ve both been up to.’
In fact ‘girlie evenings’ were not really to Blanche’s taste, but she went along with the idea because a private conversation with Isabella appeared to be more promising for her secret plans than a formal dinner with her intended victim, for she would be able to ask her friend the sort of direct questions she would not be able to ask Jason on the occasion of their first meeting.
Isabella’s idea of a ‘girlie evening’ involved a light supper and a considerable amount of wine, which suited Blanche’s purposes admirably, although she deliberately refrained from even mentioning Jason’s name for the first hour of their conversation, which had begun with Isabella telling Blanche about her husband Alistair’s job as a hedge fund manager, and in particular about his latest business trip to New York, before exploring more promising territory in the form of gossip about their former schoolmates and their current partners, of which, to Blanche’s delight, Isabella seemed to know most of the gory details.
This provided Blanche with the perfect opportunity to begin talking about Jason and Hermione in the same kind of intimate detail, and Blanche jumped at the chance, while concealing the intensity of her interest by her casual, languid tone. ‘By comparison with most of our old school friends,’ she started, ‘Jason and Hermione’s marriage must be extremely boring, I suppose…’
‘Not on your life,’ Isabella responded, ‘you don’t know the half of it!’
‘Oh, all right then, tell me about it.’
‘Well, I don’t know anything for certain, and I wouldn’t dream of saying anything to Hermione about it – she probably doesn’t know anyway – but there’s been plenty of gossip at the local Conservative Club about the way he treats his female research assistants…’
‘Who, I would expect, are not exactly the matronly type…’
Isabella guffawed. ‘Absolutely not! I think they’re all mini-skirted dolly birds. I wouldn’t dream of wearing a mini-skirt when he’s around, I’ll tell you!’
‘Has he tried anything on with you then?’
Isabella looked shocked. ‘Oh, no! He wouldn’t dare!’
The unkind thought that went through Blanche’s mind was that he wouldn’t be tempted by Hermione even if she were wearing a mini-skirt, but she thought it better not to express it. ‘Oh, I was thinking of wearing a mini for dinner tomorrow evening!’
At Dead of Night Page 16