Vengeance

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Her investment was still more than any of ours. Besides which, she was trying to build a new life for herself. She’s lost that now, and I’m going to do all I can to help her get it back.’

  ‘And what about your son? Or has he ceased to feature in all this?’

  ‘Don’t ask stupid questions, Ruby. Now either help or go.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere till I’ve made you see sense,’ she cried. ‘Why you’ve got to go and live there when I got a perfectly good home . . .’

  ‘I love her, Ruby,’ he yelled in exasperation. ‘Have you got that? I love her and I want to be with her. Tom does too. End of story.’

  ‘What is it, you gone soft on whores all of a sudden?’ she sneered.

  She gasped as Laurence rounded on her savagely. ‘So help me, Ruby, if you were a man I’d lay you out for that,’ he seethed. ‘Now get out of here! Go now before I do something we’ll both be sorry for.’

  Had he not actually manhandled her out of the door Ruby might have stayed the entire day getting under his skin, but even when she’d gone Laurence’s temper didn’t diminish any. The fact was that a part of what Ruby had said was true. He could be putting his custody of Tom into jeopardy by going to live with Kirsten. But for Christ’s sake, it was where Tom wanted to be, it was where he wanted to be too. The trouble was though he knew already that the press were going to have a field day over this custody battle and it wouldn’t be his worthiness as a father that would be on trial, it would be Kirsten’s motives and morals. But perhaps there was something he could do about that. It was a long shot, a real long shot, but what choice did he have?

  ‘Shit, Laurence,’ Campbell groaned, ‘are you aiming to get me fired, or what?’

  ‘Dermott, you and that rag of yours have all but ruined her life, and you’re going to ruin mine too if you don’t do this. So come on, man, I’ve given you the scoop that we’re living together now . . .’

  ‘For five days?’ Campbell said incredulously. ‘Now how come no one’s picked up on that yet?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care. Now come on, Dermott, let me hear you say that you’re going to do the decent thing for once in your life.’

  Campbell regarded him for some time, absently breaking bread over his plate as he considered the situation. He wasn’t in much of a mind to do anything to help the Kirstie Doll, why should he, she’d never done anything for him? But on the other hand as resentful as he’d felt towards Laurence these past months he couldn’t deny that he had a strong affection for the man. And neither could he forget how Laurence had once helped him out when times were hard. If the truth be told he wasn’t entirely averse to doing what Laurence was suggesting since it might be a way out of Dyllis Fisher’s clutches and Laurence would very likely feel obligated enough to give him a job once Dyllis fired him. The real hitch though was that Dyllis couldn’t be relied upon just to fire him, she’d find some other way of repaying him for his disloyalty and he didn’t even want to think about what it might be.

  ‘Look,’ Campbell said as a waiter poured more wine into their glasses. ‘I’m going to be straight with you, Laurence, Dyllis Fisher is aiming to blow Kirsten right out of the water any day now. I don’t know how, exactly, but she’s saying she can prove that Kirsten was behind Anna Sage’s death.’

  Laurence’s face turned pale, his mouth was a tight line of fear and frustration. ‘Then you’ve got to stop her, Dermott,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t. She’s a law unto herself, you know that. No, no, hear me out,’ he said as Laurence started to interrupt. ‘I don’t know what she’s making of what happened to Jake Butler, but you’ve only got to read the papers to see that she’s trying her damnedest to pin that one on Kirsten too. Now I don’t know if there are things you aren’t telling me here, Laurence, but if you do know anything about what went on on those two sets then . . .’

  ‘Dermott, I know as much as you do. As much as Kirsten does, or any of us. The police are satisfied that there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths.’

  ‘But are they? Are you sure those files are closed?’

  ‘If they weren’t we wouldn’t have been able to leave New Orleans.’

  ‘OK, then Dyllis is aiming to open them up again. She’s going to get Kirsten, Laurence, and nothing you or I do is going to stop her.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Dermott, you can’t seriously believe Kirsten had anything to do with those deaths?’

  ‘It’s not what I think that counts.’

  ‘Dermott!’ Laurence seethed through gritted teeth. ‘I’m right on the verge of losing my son here, and that sure as hell is going to happen if you don’t do something to stop Dyllis Fisher. I’m going to lose them both, Dermott . . .’

  ‘You might well hang on to Tom if you weren’t involved with Kirsten.’

  What little appetite Laurence had was obliterated by Campbell’s words, for in his heart he knew Campbell was right. But how could he even consider leaving Kirsten now if Dyllis Fisher was about to do what Campbell had said. Not for a minute did he believe that Kirsten was guilty, but the battle to prove her innocence was going to be vicious, drawn out and very public. And what judge in the land was going to award him custody of Tom with all that going on? Campbell really was his only hope and somehow he had to persuade him at least to try to do what he could to bring this lethal vendetta to an end.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know I’m asking you to lay yourself on the line here. I know that Dyllis Fisher will do everything she can to stop you ever working in Fleet Street again, but . . .’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right about all of that, but Dyllis Fisher aside, Laurence, I’m gonna look pretty stupid retracting everything I’ve said about Kirsten in the past. Who’s ever going to believe a word I write after that, if, as you say, I get to write again?’

  ‘It could make you look pretty big going to print admitting you’ve misjudged someone and want to set the record straight. Jesus Christ, it’ll be a first.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just doesn’t.’

  ‘Then how does it work, Dermott? Tell me, because I need to know. For the sake of the two people I love most in this world, I’ve got to know.’

  ‘Well,’ Campbell said after long moments of deliberation, ‘there might be a way. I’m only saying might, mind you. And a lot of it will depend on the Kirstie Doll herself. And before you knock my head off, OK I’ll never call her that again.’

  ‘Dermott, if you can help us out over this then Kirsten herself’ll be the first to tell you you can call her what the hell you damned well like.’

  Dyllis Fisher was sitting alone in her penthouse office overlooking the Thames. She had just learned of Dermott Campbell’s meeting with Laurence McAllister and what Campbell was intending to do. He had to be stopped, of course, which he would be, for he knew far too much about her persecution of Kirsten to be allowed to go to print. The trouble was he wasn’t intending to do it in her newspaper, he was going to use another byline and do it for someone else. Well the man was a fool if he thought he stood any chance of getting away with it. He had to know already that she’d fire him, so clearly that wasn’t bothering him quite so much as it used to. What she had to do now was find a quick and efficient way of silencing him . . .

  Her eyes slowly opened wide. Her laughter started quietly then died as she concentrated. Didn’t she, thanks to the deaths of Anna Sage and Jake Butler, now know of the most perfect way of silencing Campbell? And didn’t Kirsten Meredith have just the most perfect motive for wanting to do away with him?

  Everything was falling into place so neatly that even she, who was rarely surprised by the way the twists and turns of fate often played so deftly into her hands, could hardly believe it. She would get rid of Campbell and at the same time she’d eliminate all possibilities of the real killer getting in the way by doing something so foolhardy as confessing. In other words she’d kill two birds with one
stone and lay the whole thing at Kirsten Meredith’s door.

  Of course it was all going to take time to set up, to manoeuvre everyone into the right place at the right time which meant that she might just not be able to stop Campbell going to print. But did that matter? She could always pre-empt his story with one of her own. One that was as true as it was damning. Her teeth clenched behind the curve of her smile. She’d waited a long time to go to print with this, she’d been right to wait.

  ‘Put me through to the news desk,’ she said into the phone a few minutes later.

  ‘Your car is waiting downstairs to take you to the Lord Mayor’s dinner,’ her secretary answered.

  ‘Good. Now put me through to Phillip Mackintyre.’

  31

  The pram was moving fast down the street. Her hands were gripping it so tightly her knuckles were white. Her eyes were glazed, the baby was screaming. Cars sped by, puddles showered her legs, people leapt out of her way. She crashed into a bus stop, dented the pram, jolted the baby and her album spilled on to the pavement.

  Hurriedly she bent to retrieve it, pushing the photos back inside and rushing on. She didn’t know where she was going, she couldn’t think, the baby was crying so hard she couldn’t hear.

  Images were dancing before her eyes. Laurence and Kirsten laughing. Laurence and Kirsten loving. Laurence and Kirsten succeeding. The future yawned like a cavern before her, swallowing her into its blackened depths. Fear and resentment burned her heart, desperation whipped her mind. The echoing, sinister sounds of the baby chimes rang in her ears, drowning the screams, twisting the sobs in her throat.

  She reached the park, wheeled the pram inside and sat down on a bench. The drizzling rain soaked her, curious stares incensed her. She was so afraid she was choking on it. She’d killed two people, she was going to kill more. Kirsten, she had to kill Kirsten. She snatched the album from the pram. A frenzied panic blazed in her eyes as she stared down at the mud-spattered pictures of Kirsten. Of Kirsten and Laurence. Of Kirsten and Tom. Of Kirsten and Jane. Of Kirsten’s family . . . But it wasn’t Kirsten’s family, it was her family. Laurence and Tom belonged to her . . .

  She got abruptly to her feet throwing the album into the pram. It hit the baby’s head. She didn’t care. Let the baby scream. Let it bleed, let it know pain the way she was knowing pain. She wasn’t going to comfort it. No one ever comforted her . . .

  It was past eleven o’clock by the time Kirsten returned home, fighting her way through the torrents of wind and rain. It had been a long and tiring week, fraught with tension and fear as the legal processes of winding up the film and preparing for the custody battle ground mercilessly on. Jane especially had started showing signs of strain which was why Kirsten had taken her off to a movie, just to get her out of the house for a while and perhaps take her mind off things. A few minutes ago Jane had caught the last bus to go off and spend the night with her parents. Tom was with Thea and Don and Kirsten was trying not to mind about how much she was going to miss him just for this one night. But maybe Laurence had picked him up on his way home and already in her mind’s eye she could see the two of them stretched out on the sofa in front of the fire waiting for her – and very likely fast asleep.

  But, as she ran around the corner into Elm Park Gardens she saw that the house was in darkness. She hurried to the door, her umbrella being buffeted by the wind, her feet drenched by the rain. After what seemed an endless search she managed to dig her keys from her handbag and all but fell in through the door. As she poked her umbrella into the stand she reached out to flick on the light.

  ‘Damn!’ she muttered when nothing happened, trying to remember where she’d put the spare bulbs, and picking her way carefully through to the sitting room she attempted to turn on that light. Still nothing.

  She’d never been particularly afraid of the dark, power cuts had been so frequent in France she’d got used to them a long time ago, but for some reason, the mysterious loss of power in her own house, right here in the middle of London, when the street-lights outside were working, was unsettling.

  She turned towards the kitchen, trying to remember where she’d put the candles when suddenly she turned rigid. At first she wasn’t too sure what the sound was, but as her ears strained into the silence she was aware of a gentle whirring sound.

  Then suddenly a deep, resonant voice echoed out of the darkness, floating around her and settling over her heart in a paralyzing layer of fear.

  ‘Who is it?’ she cried. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Kirrrr-sten.’

  ‘Laurence!’ she called, a horrible buzz starting in her ears. ‘Laurence is that you?’

  ‘Kirrrr-sten.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she choked. ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’

  She was backing across the room, stumbling into furniture her heart thudding violently through a gale of terror.

  ‘Kirrrr-sten.’

  The wind and rain beat against the windows, hammered against the door, howled wantonly down the chimney. It was as though she was drowning in a maelstrom of baleful sound . . .

  She clasped her hands to her ears at the very moment that her foot caught on the corner of the sofa. In her panicked state she thought someone had tripped her and screamed as she crashed awkwardly on to the cushions.

  She waited, breathlessly, her heart crashing against her ribs, her stomach heaving with sickening dread. Swaying tree shadows careened across the room, a sudden crack of thunder punctured the appalling silence.

  She heard a noise at the front door and threw herself wildly across the room. ‘Laurence!’ she gasped hoarsely, ‘Laurence!’

  ‘Kirsten! Kirsten, are you all right?’

  ‘Helena! Oh my God! Helena, is that you?’

  ‘Of course it’s me. Where are you? What’s happened to the lights?’

  ‘They’re not working. Oh, Helena! Helena!’ she cried, throwing herself into Helena’s arms.

  ‘My God, what’s the matter?’ Helena demanded. ‘You’re shaking like a leaf. Where’s Laurence?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kirsten whispered, trying to pull herself together. ‘Helena, we’ve got to get out of here. There’s someone . . .’

  ‘Kirrrr-sten.’

  Kirsten stifled a scream as Helena almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Fucking hell!’ Helena hissed. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Not on your life,’ Helena declared. ‘Where do you keep the candles?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Kirsten said, reaching out for the door. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

  ‘But there are two of us and only one of him,’ Helena whispered. ‘Come on, follow me.’

  Steadily they inched their way through to the kitchen where Helena stood guard at the door as Kirsten rummaged in a drawer.

  ‘Oh thank God,’ Kirsten gasped the moment she saw Helena’s face in the candlelight. Then suddenly a bolt of fear shot through her chest. The drooping black shadows were contorting Helena’s features, the eerie, flickering light gleamed in her eyes. For one blinding second the night of the voodoo ritual flashed vividly before Kirsten’s eyes.

  ‘Kirrrr-sten.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ Helena breathed, ‘we ought to get out of . . .’ her voice was choked by a strangled scream as they heard the front door open then close. Footsteps started down the hall. Kirsten’s eyes were twin pools of petrified disbelief. Helena reached out for her hand. Kirsten took it, but with the other she started to fumble in the drawer for a knife. Then they heard Laurence swear as he tried to turn on a light.

  ‘Laurence!’ Kirsten cried. ‘Oh Laurence!’ and dashing into the hall she almost knocked him over in the dark.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened to the lights?’ he said.

  ‘Kirrrr-sten.’

  ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘Sssh,’ Kirsten whispered. ‘There’s someone in here. There’s . . .’

  ‘Kirrrr-st
en.’

  Helena loomed out of the darkness, her face lit by candlelight and for one ghastly moment, as the point of the knife’s shadow plunged into the curling shadow of Kirsten’s hair, Laurence half expected Kirsten to slump against him. ‘Give me that,’ he growled and grabbing both the knife and the candle from Helena he turned into the sitting room.

  ‘Kirst . . .’

  This time the name was cut off half-way through, and Kirsten heard Laurence ejecting a cassette.

  ‘What’s been going on here?’ he demanded as Helena and Kirsten followed him into the room.

  ‘Oh God,’ Kirsten gasped, seeing him holding up the cassette. ‘What a fool! I should have realized. I thought someone was in here.’

  ‘Well obviously someone has been,’ Laurence stated. ‘How else did that get on the tape deck?’

  Kirsten turned to Helena, a nightmarish suspicion suddenly gathering horror to her heart. ‘How did you get in?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got a set of keys, remember?’ Helena answered. ‘I only used them because I thought no one was in. I was round the corner in the Arts Club and thought I’d beg a bed for . . .’ she trailed off as Kirsten started to back away from her.

  Suddenly everything was crowding in on Kirsten. So many things that just didn’t add up, that had never added up, that she had blinded herself to because she just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ Kirsten cried, backing up against Laurence. ‘It’s you who sent me those notes?’

  Helena stared at her dumbfounded. ‘What notes?’

  ‘Why?’ Kirsten shouted. ‘For God’s sake why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘The stories in the papers!’ Kirsten cried. ‘All those evil, vicious things that have been written about me! Oh my God! Anna! And Jake! What did you do to them?’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Helena yelled. ‘What’s she talking about?’ she shouted to Laurence.

  Laurence was holding Kirsten tightly, aware of how badly she was shaking, that she was nearing hysteria. ‘Ssh, ssh,’ he soothed her. ‘Take it steady now. Just tell us . . .’