by A B Morgan
It seemed Abigail Nithercott did indeed attend Clare Gray’s office for therapy. This would give Ella an opportunity to reignite their acquaintance and supply Konrad Neale with the evidence he was seeking. Proof that what snippets Ella had told him were not the ramblings of a madwoman, and in fact were confirmation that Abigail Nithercott was the stalker he was seeking out.
Having rested her bike against the side of the log cabin, Ella entered the waiting room. She could hear Clare’s voice, a telephone conversation.
‘No, Niall, you misunderstand. The fact that she wasn’t knitting doesn’t mean I’ve cured the dreadful woman. I thought I’d made some progress in the last three weeks but... as I said, this case is far more complex than you led me to believe.’
Ella closed the external door behind her loudly enough for Clare to hear.
‘Take a seat, Ella. I won’t be long.’ The disembodied voice came back clearly enough despite the intervening door being closed. ‘Help yourself to a drink.’
‘It’s fine. No hurry,’ Ella replied lifting her head, hoping to catch the gist of the conversation Clare was having with Dr Jameson. He was the only one it could be on the other end of the phone.
Assuming the sound of a running tap would reassure Clare, Ella poured herself a large glass of water, then crept closer to the partition wall to listen at the door. Clare sounded tense.
‘Today, she was more immaculate than ever before, not a hair out of place, make-up perfect and the false smile plastered on for effect, but there was a fire in her eyes and a cold determination in her manner that I’ve never seen before.’
Ella needed confirmation. A name.
‘I wish she had.’ Clare ‘ummed’ briefly before continuing, ‘Niall, she should’ve stayed under the care of a psychiatrist or at the very least be seeing a clinical psychologist. This is beyond my remit; way beyond.’
There was a pause followed by a strangled laugh at something amusing Dr Jameson had said.
‘No, she hasn’t taken up crochet instead. If only…’
Ella pressed her ear closer against the cool varnished wood.
‘Niall, please listen. She seems to have developed an obsession for a man, and, before you ask, I’m pretty sure he’s real and not a figment of her imagination. What she described was not an infatuation – not as such. More a driving belief that someone she hardly knows is in love with her. Whoever he is, he made a couple of guest appearances at charity events and seems to be one of the few people on Guy Nithercott’s list of pet celebrities who noticed her existence.’
Ella released a nasal sigh at how enlightening this conversation was.
‘No,’ Clare could be heard saying with great emphasis. ‘Dalliance isn’t the right word. I don’t think the man involved has a clue. Abigail is completely infatuated and convinced they are destined to be together. He sends her special messages. How it works in practise I’ve no idea. From what I can gather, they’ve barely exchanged more than a few pleasantries.’
With her breathing getting heavier due to the excitement, Ella held a hand against her own mouth, and closed her eyes, intent not to miss a single syllable.
‘If anything,’ Clare said, ‘she’s verging on the psychotic. In fact, she became quite confrontational in the session today. I pushed hard for information and she became suspicious and accused me of harbouring sexual desires for the same man.’
There was a lull. Ella assumed Dr Jameson had something more to say before Clare continued once more. ‘I know. She was so volatile it shook me up. Must be losing my touch.’ Another short pause. ‘Thanks, Niall, got to go… my next client is waiting.’
Ella stepped back, grabbed the nearest magazine from the occasional table and sat on the Chesterfield couch, pretending to be interested in that month’s copy of Horse and Hound.
‘Hello Ella, do come through,’ announced Clare as she peered round the door. ‘I thought bicycles were more your favoured mode of transport,’ she said, her eyes darting to the shiny cover of the periodical as it skidded across the small table.
Ella had to smile at that one. ‘Oh, I thought I’d get my head round a few more country pursuits,’ she fibbed, and prodded at her own doughy midriff. ‘To be honest I prefer cars, but they don’t help burn off the calories.’
She followed Clare into the pine consultation room and placed her rucksack on the floor, zip wide open, tucking it under the chair using her heels. Today was the day she would put her technological skills, or lack of them, to the test. She’d practised with Mal, over and over again until she could almost fit the monitor to a BT phoneline socket, in the dark. It was a doddle. However, in the here and now, she needed to find a way to distract Clare long enough to carry out this relatively simple task. Without it, she and Mal stood no chance of capturing the information needed.
‘Sorry to keep you, I had a call I needed to make.’
Ella eyed the office phone on Clare’s desk. She knew exactly where it was. She’d taken good note of it on her two previous visits. She also knew Clare didn’t make use of a mobile phone during working hours, and that she didn’t hold with social media.
‘What if the phone goes during one of your therapy sessions, doesn’t it cause a few interruptions?’ Ella asked.
‘No, I have it set to divert straight through to recorded messages. It doesn’t even ring.’ Clare sat down opposite. ‘Anyway, how are things going with you? All settled in with Barney and Annette Ribble at the garage?’
The sessions always started this way. Light conversation about life in Lower Marton and how Ella was adjusting to her new-found freedom.
‘I’m winning in the weight loss competition, although I suspect Barney isn’t taking it seriously. Netty is incredibly determined so we’re encouraging each other. She’s such a giggle.’
‘And the shop? I hear you’re a hit with the locals.’
Ella nodded enthusiastically. ‘Old June was a bit of a grouch when I first moved in, but that’s just how she is. She puts up with me. I like having something to keep me busy, so I’m happy enough serving behind the counter or filling the shelves. Pays my rent.’
In truth Ella had taken to serving in the small convenience store at Ribble’s Garage like the proverbial duck to water. It wasn’t too onerous and helped increase her confidence in dealing with people, including June the incumbent part-timer who had a face like a prune and delighted in being curt and miserable towards everyone. She didn’t discriminate.
The villagers were remarkable in their friendly welcome and it was only a matter of days after her arrival before she was invited to join the rock choir at the village hall, a book club, and the WI of all things. She politely declined the latter but willingly went with Lorna or Netty, or both, to every single exercise class at the busy village hall. So far, she‘d been to Zumba, Pilates, Dance-a-cise, and her favourite, on a Tuesday evening - Rock and Roll Night with Johnny Sequins, the world’s worst DJ, spinning the vinyl on an old set of decks. In the last three weeks she’d laughed more than she had in two years at St Cuthbert’s and she felt alive again.
‘Any luck with more permanent work? I know you said last time, you were keen to have more structure and be self-sufficient rather than rely on benefits.’
This was a stumbling block for Ella. She spent time sifting diligently through the available jobs online, in the local newspaper and those sent from Job Centre Plus in Bosworth Bishops, and frankly the decent options were scant.
Resolved not to take a backward career step, she shied away from anything involving bingo calling. A few years ago, she’d worked in the Old Music Hall Bingo Club and managed to get herself fired for being too radical and not adhering to the company dress code. Admittedly her mood was rather elated at the time, with early signs of hypomania adding to her rebelliousness, but it had been fun to break the rules. Nevertheless, the world of bingo would have to manage without her.
During a lengthy phone chat, her old friend Ada was keen to suggest that Ella could go back to waitr
essing, but the shifts were risky in terms of her mental health.
Mal’s insistence on forming their own business partnership was the best prospect so far. Other than that, there was a small pile of possible jobs compared to the larger heap of those rejected on grounds of unsuitability or distance. Going everywhere by bicycle or bus created its own limitations in the depths of the English countryside.
‘The dynamic and lucrative future career still eludes me,’ Ella said with a lift of one shoulder. She looked up at Clare, who was taller by far.
‘And apart from that, how would you say your mood was?’
This was a standard assessment question. Clare would be looking at her, gauging her appearance, speech, demeanour, and making a judgement about her mood. Was she positive, cheerful, bright, articulate, assured? Or was she too pressured in her speech, over-confident, impulsive and disinhibited, all of which could indicate pending problems with elated mood – and if left unchecked it could so easily lead to mania. Mania was almost uncontrollable and something Ella had to avoid. Non-negotiable. It was the reason she ended up in St Cuthbert’s.
‘I’m happy enough, Clare. No signs of anything untoward. No use of flowery vocabulary, no uninterruptable speech, my sleep is good. That’s the key; sleep is my barometer.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Clare loosened a little, smiling. ‘And of course, stress. Be careful to avoid unnecessarily stressful situations.’
This seemed like as good a cue as any, so Ella reached for the glass of water she’d placed on the coffee table and let it spill as if by accident onto the wooden floorboards, aiming its contents towards the office desk area.
She jumped up.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, do you have a cloth?’
Being closer to the door, Clare leapt to her feet and left the room. This gave time for Ella to plunge a hand inside her rucksack to retrieve the small expensive monitor and connectors. She fell to her knees and headed on all fours under the desk where she placed the items close to the target socket.
‘Here, let me,’ Clare said as she returned with a tea towel in her hand.
‘No, I’ll do it,’ Ella replied, handing her the empty glass. ‘Lucky I didn’t break anything. I’m so sorry.’ She began to dab at the water.
‘I’ll get you a refill.’
Given the time she so badly needed, Ella spread the cotton towel on to the spillage and got to work plugging in the telephone monitoring devise. It was done in seconds.
When Clare re-entered the room, she was none the wiser, and Ella, exchanging a soggy tea towel for a glass of fresh water, was soon back in her seat. Underneath her calm exterior, she was secretly bursting to tell Mal how well she had done. Connection successful. One bug duly planted. One step closer to finding out how best to meet up with Abigail again, contrived or accidental, anything would do.
She and Mal had a business meeting with Konrad Neale and Lorna the next day and they were expected to report their progress, which was relatively minimal until a small news story appeared in a national paper. Had it not been for Ella’s voracious appetite for reading anything and everything, it could so easily have been missed.
A twenty-two-year-old woman had been tragically killed in a road traffic incident and the subsequent investigation was inconclusive as to the cause. No other vehicle was involved, and Isla Renfrew was declared dead at the scene. The photograph accompanying the short report was good enough to set Ella on a search to find out more about Isla Renfrew and opened the door to a most complex and revealing family story.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Summoned
Logan avoided formal meetings when possible, he hated having to wear a suit and tie. On this occasion the unexpected request to attend Guy Nithercott’s office didn’t come in the form of a polite invitation so much as an order.
Never before had he been summoned into the rather surreal presence of the head of Global Enterprises and it was a worrying development. He’d seen him from afar, been introduced at a recent charity event at which Guy Nithercott and his wife put in a brief public appearance, but apart from that Logan saw very little of the man. There were the usual pictures in the press, the occasional news interview, coverage of his attendance in the pit lane before the British Grand Prix, but on the whole Guy Nithercott remained a mysterious figure. Even Kat couldn’t be drawn on details, despite spending hours with the man.
Logan couldn’t throw off a sense of impending disaster, which began during the thorough frisking by security on arrival at the London offices of Global Enterprises. He then waited endless minutes in a marble clad vestibule before being given instructions.
‘Never offer to shake his hand,’ he was told by a spherical and officious man called Cartwright. ‘He won’t acknowledge it if you do. He doesn’t make physical contact and you should avoid any attempt to do so towards him.’
‘I remember,’ Logan replied, recalling with embarrassment how he’d been snubbed at Nithercott Hall in front of the only photographer – the official photographer for marketing purposes only. ‘I wish someone had warned me before now,’ he said.
Cartwright ignored the comment. ‘Enter the room, give a verbal salutation in the usual manner and then sit in the chair directly opposite the desk.’
‘Can you give me some idea what this is about?’ Logan asked.
Cartwright shot him an uncharitable look over the tortoiseshell rims of his glasses. ‘I would’ve thought that was rather apparent, Mr Peplow. The terms of your contract make it quite clear.’
With hollow legs, Logan entered the office suite when instructed. There was not a window to be seen and he subconsciously struggled to maintain a regular breathing rhythm, or perhaps it was the seriousness of the moment making him so jittery. Either way Logan was the most nervous he’d been since the truth about his affair with Kat was about to be made public, forcing him into confessing all to Suzanna his wife.
Cartwright took a seat to his far left and held a notepad and pen at the ready. The man they’d come to see had his back turned and was staring into an impossibly large fish tank recessed into the wall. A glowing pale turquoise light spilled across the carpet, Guy Nithercott’s outline appearing as an elongated wafting shadow on the floor.
Logan stood until Guy took his seat behind a solid oak desk. Uncluttered and functional like the rest of the office, it was wide enough to make Logan automatically feel inferior. Guy’s chair was an imposing one.
Returning the gaze from his employer’s unfathomable eyes he was directed to sit. Despite the fact that he’d heard the man before, the flattened speech pattern remained unnerving. How could someone so detached from emotion create such fearful authority? There was no polite preamble or enquiry as to health. Guy Nithercott got straight to the point.
‘I gave you fair warning, Mr Peplow. You should’ve been honest with me about your intention to participate in an interview for Channel 7. You were not.’ He didn’t blink. ‘The first part of that documentary series was aired yesterday evening at nine o’clock and you didn’t have the good grace to advise the organisation you work for as to the content of your contribution. What do you have to say?’
A tightness gripped Logan’s chest. He thought back hurriedly to what arrangements Waveney Bisset put in place for the interview recordings at studios not half a mile away.
‘Sir, as far as I’m aware, my agent Mr Bisset cleared the interview through Mr Cartwright here.’ He glanced to his left. ‘I received nothing to say I was not permitted to participate.’
‘Is that correct, Cartwright?’
After the briefest of delays, Cartwright replied, ‘Yes, sir. It was rather rushed as I recall. You approved the interviews in principle and in fact sent a letter to the studios that same day, for Mr Peplow’s attention. A gift I believe.’
‘In principle, Mr Peplow,’ Guy said, pronouncing each syllable precisely.
Logan swallowed hard. ‘Yes, sir. My agent also supplied an outline of the documentary. As it had nothing to do
with my work for your company, he led me to believe I’d the go-ahead without any specific requirement to withhold information.’ He stumbled on. ‘Other than what is required of me by my contract with Global Enterprises of course.’
Puzzled by all the fuss, Logan searched for the slightest flicker of reaction in the face opposite, but every inch of translucent skin remained motionless. The man was rarely seen to smile, if at all, and lacked any humour whatsoever – a concept alien to Logan.
In fact, he found it hard to hide his dislike of the androgynous person at the head of one of the largest organisations in the world of sport and entertainment. Guy Nithercott made his skin crawl. However, he also paid well and provided Logan with the chance of a career aligned so closely with his love of rugby union that any unpleasantness in the character of the CEO was an acceptable compromise. Or at least it used to be.
‘Did any of your agent’s communications indicate who would be the person interviewing you?’ Guy suddenly switched his scrutiny. ‘Cartwright, were we at any time informed that Konrad Neale was involved in this documentary?’
‘No, sir, we were not. Mr Bisset also failed to inform us of the name of the series which would suggest we were deliberately misled, sir.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, Cartwright.’ Guy continued to stare ahead, holding Logan in his unwavering sights. ‘What a serious blunder on your part, Mr Peplow. Fortunately, as an inquisitive soul, Cartwright here went to considerable trouble to double check what it was you had embroiled yourself in. Needless to say, I disapprove wholeheartedly of the way you’ve undermined this company’s faith in your discretion and integrity.’
Logan felt the blood in his limbs grow cold and drain down to his feet. Breach of contract, loss of employment, lawsuit, and ruination were on the cards. He stammered a response, which to his own ears sounded puerile. ‘I… it wasn’t my fault… I never intended to…’
The stillness in the room was unbearable as Guy took time to contemplate. This forced Logan to shift position in the uncomfortable chair. It was far too low for his massive uptight nerve-ridden frame, and his knees stiffened. His thighs were threatening to cramp. Pushing down on the arms of the chair, he raised himself slightly to alleviate his restricted position. Guy Nithercott, however, sat like a cold marble statue and didn’t move until he spoke again.