The Price of Retribution

by Sara Craven

  ‘And what cod psychology books have you been reading, Miss Desmond?’

  ‘I don’t need to read anything to know that she’s terrified of your so-called “respected trustee”,’ Tarn retorted. ‘I don’t know what threats he’s made to keep her quiet about their affair—apart from locking her in here for the duration, but they’ve certainly worked.’

  She drew a breath. ‘And if what happened just now is a result of your treatment, heaven help the rest of the poor souls being kept here.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Sometimes, I wish I could call on divine intervention. Usually I have to rely on common sense. Which I signally failed to use in this particular case.’

  He gave a brief harsh sigh. ‘But that stops now, because there are a few things you need to know about your foster sister. Firstly, she is not in this institution simply because she miscalculated the number of illegal pills involved in her supposed suicide attempt. She had already agreed to accept out-patient treatment here as an alternative to serious legal proceedings against her.’

  Tarn was suddenly rigid. ‘On what possible grounds?’

  ‘There is a choice.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Theft, drug dealing, wilful damage, assault and, of course, stalking. There was talk of a restraining order among other measures.’

  The words were like blows, thudding against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe. She said hoarsely, ‘I don’t believe you. Evie wouldn’t do those things. She couldn’t…’

  ‘She could, Miss Desmond, and she did. You’ve been working abroad, I believe, so you’ve been out of close touch with your family for quite a while.’ He paused. ‘But you were clearly doing well, and that, we feel, was part of the problem. Eve also wanted your earning power and what went with it. But as you know, she had no real qualifications and found it hard to find work that paid decent money or indeed hold down a job at all.

  ‘However, she eventually managed to obtain employment with a highly reputable cleaning firm.’

  Tarn said faintly, ‘The MacNaughton Company?’

  He nodded. ‘The very same. At first she worked in their office cleaning section, where her performance appeared satisfactory, then, at her own request, she transferred to the domestic field, where she worked for some very wealthy clients, not all of whom, I fear, were as careful with their possessions as they should have been. And as your sister was permanently short of money, she succumbed to temptation, and began to steal from some of them.’

  He frowned. ‘There was no actual proof, of course, but a couple of them took their suspicions to MacNaughton and Evelyn was dismissed.’

  ‘But she was living at home,’ Tarn protested. ‘She couldn’t have been that badly paid.’

  ‘She wasn’t,’ said the Professor. ‘But by this time, she’d moved into a flat she could not afford, so she needed an alternative source of income. And eventually, because of her MacNaughton connections, she found one.’

  She stared at him. ‘But I don’t understand any of this. Surely Caz—Mr Brandon—was paying for the flat.’

  He said with a trace of impatience, ‘My dear Miss Desmond, I doubt whether at that point he was even aware of her existence, although that was soon to change,’ he added grimly.

  ‘Not—aware?’ There was a hollow feeling in the pit of Tarn’s stomach. ‘I don’t understand. He—they were lovers. Engaged to be married. You must know that.’

  ‘No,’ the Professor said more gently. ‘I’m afraid all that was pure imagination on her part. She saw him while she was working at Brandon, fell for him and created a fantasy in her own mind, which she built up when she began cleaning his apartment until it reached danger levels, and beyond.’

  He shook his head. ‘Evelyn has never had a relationship with Caz Brandon, Miss Desmond. She has been lying from the start to everyone—most damagingly to herself.’

  He paused, then added heavily, ‘But also, it seems, lying particularly to you. Her hated rival.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TARN felt numb and deathly cold, as if she was seeing the Professor through a wall of ice. His words seemed to sting at her brain.

  She said, stumbling a little, ‘You’re saying she hates me? But why? She only found out about what I’ve done to Caz just now, so it can’t be that.’ She swallowed. ‘Surely it’s not because I went to America—and have a career? She’s jealous of that?’

  ‘That’s only part of it,’ the Professor said quietly. ‘She has always felt you were her father’s favourite, and resented it. Both she and her mother apparently looked on you as an outsider—a cuckoo in the nest.’

  Tarn bent her head. ‘I think I always knew that. But he—Uncle Frank—was so good to me, and I knew he wanted me to make sure they were all right. So I tried to do that for his sake.’ She spread her hands helplessly. ‘Yet Evie wrote me all those letters detailing her affair with Caz. Why did she do that?’

  ‘It was all part of the illusion. She needed to prove she could outdo you in one area at least. To make you jealous as well.’

  ‘You mean—this whole horrible thing is my fault?’ Her voice broke.

  ‘Certainly not.’ His tone was brisk. ‘Your mistake lay in believing your foster sister was still the child you’d grown up with, and were fond of, and you can’t be blamed for that.’ He paused. ‘Even though you’ve undoubtedly been culpable in other ways.’

  Tarn thought of the newspaper photograph, with Caz’s face drawn and haggard, and winced at the pain which tore through her.

  She said in a low voice, ‘And for that I’m being well and truly punished, please believe that.’

  She paused, taking a deep steadying breath, because there was so much more she needed to know. ‘What exactly did Evie do? To Caz, I mean?’

  ‘Went through the things in his flat. Took some shirts, some underwear, a pair of shoes to keep at her own place, to bolster her fantasy that they were in a relationship.’ He sounded almost matter of fact. ‘Removed and probably destroyed photographs that appeared to relate to other women. Read his desk diary then followed him to social engagements, blagging her way in.’

  Tarn tensed, feeling a swift wave of nausea as she remembered how she had first forced herself on his attention. ‘Oh, God, that’s so awful.’

  ‘It gets worse.’ The Professor pursed his lips. ‘While she was working for MacNaughton, she’d had the keys to his apartment copied. When she was still unable to gain his attention in the way she wanted, she tried to hack into his computer, and when that failed, she took a hammer to it. Wrote messages in lipstick on his mirrors. Slashed a valuable painting.

  ‘Eventually she began approaching him in public and making scenes, until finally, in a restaurant, she threw a glass of wine over his companion, who was not, and I quote, the dirty bitch he was screwing—but a visiting editor from Canada.’

  He frowned. ‘By that time the police were involved, of course.’

  She bit her lip. ‘I—I suppose he had no choice.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Brandon didn’t begin it.’ His voice was reassuring. ‘Miss Griffiths was already under investigation over the supply of illegal drugs. The husband of one of her former MacNaughton clients had become concerned about his wife’s odd mood swings and found some pills hidden in a drawer.

  ‘He showed them to his brother, a doctor who raised the alarm, and the wife confessed that she’d been obtaining private supplies of this particular tranquilliser from her former cleaner. At extortionate expense, naturally.’

  Tarn shook her head. ‘This is unbelievable,’ she said, half to herself. ‘How on earth could Evie—Evie—possibly have got hold of such things?’

  ‘She’d been targeted by a dealer, of course,’ said the Professor. ‘While she was still working for MacNaughton and had access to bored, rich women who found their doctors unsympathetic to their problems. The ideal set-up from his point of view.’ He paused. ‘And from hers, especially as by this time her financial problems were pressing. In order to g
ain access to the kind of places Mr Brandon frequented, she needed an entirely new image—a wardrobe she couldn’t afford.’

  He shook his head. ‘In such places, she was naturally able to find new contacts needing sleeping tablets, diet pills and tranquillisers. People who didn’t ask questions or worry about the cost. Being young and pretty, she built up a remunerative business, but unfortunately she got greedy, and imposed a private surcharge of her own.

  ‘However, when her supplier found out, things became—difficult for her.’ He added flatly, ‘Mr Brandon had offered to drop the stalking and malicious damage charges against her if she agreed to have therapy, but she was desperate for somewhere to hide, and this seemed the ideal sanctuary. So she deliberately staged the suicide attempt, knowing she’d be offered immediate residential care, but misjudged the dose.’

  He smiled grimly. ‘You assumed when she spoke of being frightened that she was referring to Mr Brandon, but you were wrong.’

  ‘But her diary,’ Tarn said desperately. ‘She talked about him there too. You must have read that for yourself.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The references to “C”, which you interpreted as Caz, but which was actually her former partner in crime. A man who lived in the flat above hers called Clayton. Roy Clayton.’

  Tarn stared at him in horror. ‘My God, I met him once, when I cleared out her things.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can understand why she was scared,’ he said drily. ‘A thoroughly nasty piece of work. He even managed to get a message to her in here reminding her that she owed him money, and warning her to keep her mouth shut.’

  Tarn gasped. ‘But how could that happen? Security’s so tight.’

  ‘Unfortunately through a member of the kitchen staff, who believed quite sincerely she was passing on a love letter from a boyfriend, and has since been dismissed.’

  Tarn got out of her chair and went to the window, pushing it open and gulping deep breaths of sunlit air. Behind her the phone rang, and she heard the Professor murmur a few quiet words before replacing the receiver.

  When she could speak, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I know that I’m keeping you from your work. But, you see, I keep telling myself that none of this is true. That it’s just a nightmare and I’ll wake up soon. Please tell me I’m right.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Desmond. It’s all too real.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She turned slowly. ‘And Evie—what will happen to her now—and in the future?’

  ‘A lot will depend on the assistance she gives to the police investigation over the drugs racket. But I shall do my utmost to ensure she remains here. As Mr Brandon so quickly and generously recognised, she needs help rather than punishment.’

  He gave a sharp sigh. ‘Unfortunately, she is still using her delusions about him as a shield and an excuse for the rest of her behaviour. I am only sorry that you believed her and were drawn in.’

  Tarn forced a smile. ‘She—seemed to need me. That was my delusion. Perhaps it always has been.’

  ‘But at least you won’t be fighting against your return to reality, Miss Desmond, so your recovery should be swift and complete. And you’ll find your own life is waiting for you.’

  Tarn turned back to the window, her throat tightening. ‘I’m afraid your prognosis is wrong, Professor. I was stupid and gullible, and because of that I’ve deliberately wrecked my life and thrown away the only chance of real happiness that will ever come to me.

  ‘All I have left now is my career, and, believe me, that’s no comfort.’

  Her voice choked into a sudden uncontrollable sob and the sunlight blurred as the floodgates opened and she began to cry at last, tears pouring helplessly down her face, scalding her skin and burning in her throat.

  A box of tissues was placed silently beside her on the window ledge, and a moment later the sound of the door closing told her the Professor had left the room.

  She was thankful for it. She didn’t require sympathy, counselling or criticism. She needed only to be alone to mourn the self-imposed destruction of her life. To face up to the fact that she’d been a fool and worse than a fool to take Evie’s story at face value, or to think her concern and affection for her foster family had ever been reciprocated, at least by the female members.

  And above all, she wanted to rage inwardly with grief and despair over the eternal emptiness ahead of her. Knowing—accepting that she had no-one to blame but herself, and would have to live with that for the remainder of her life.

  Realising that Caz would never again take her in his arms. That she would have to forget the seductive warmth of his mouth, and the murmur of his voice as they made love. That she could not turn in the night and find him beside her.

  That she would be—completely alone.

  She yielded herself up to the storm of her misery, head bent, hands braced against the wall, her whole body shaking, gasping and choking, hearing herself making harsh, painful noises in her throat like a small wounded animal as the weeping tore her apart.

  For an endless time, it seemed at the beginning as if she might never be able to stop, but, very gradually, the first desperate agonies of her remorse began to subside, leaving an aching emptiness in their place.

  When at last she straightened, she had managed to establish a modicum of self-command, enough, anyway, to take a handful of tissues and began to blot her eyes and remove the worst ravages of grief from her face.

  Not much, she thought, an occasional sob still catching her breath, but it was a start. A first step in a long, weary journey.

  As she heard the door behind her re-open, she deliberately braced herself, her fingers grasping the window ledge as she took a deep, steadying breath.

  ‘I’m sorry to have turned you out of your office, Professor Wainwright.’ Trying to sound positive was difficult enough, but attempting to disguise the huskiness of her voice was quite impossible. ‘I—I really didn’t mean to lose control like that, but I seem to have been crying inside for so long now that I suppose it was almost bound to happen. You see I—I never thought it was possible to hurt so much.’

  She paused. ‘I know you must want to be rid of me, but before I go, may I ask for one last favour. You’ll be seeing Mr Brandon at some point, in his role as trustee, and perhaps you could find a moment in private to tell him that I’m sorry—for everything. And that I don’t expect him to forgive me, because I’ll never be able to forgive myself.’

  She hesitated again. ‘There’s so much else I want to say, but it’s probably best to leave it at that. So, will you—could you do that, please? I’d be eternally grateful.’

  ‘Professor Wainwright has been detained,’ Caz said quietly. ‘So perhaps it would be more convenient if you gave the rest of your message to me in person.’

  The room seemed to shiver and tilt, but somehow Tarn kept on her feet. A voice in her head was frantically whispering, ‘No, oh, God, please no. I’m not ready for this. I can’t bear it.’

  Only now there were no more choices to be had, and she knew it, so she turned slowly and faced him across the room, her heart thudding against her ribcage like a trip hammer.

  He was wearing denim pants and a dark blue shirt, open at the neck, and with the sleeves rolled up. He looked unutterably weary, the lines of his face deeply incised and he needed a shave.

  She fought the tenderness rising within her, and the yearning to go to him, taking his face between her hands, and kissing the grim tautness of his mouth. Because as she’d been telling herself over and over again, it was all a million years too late, and there was nothing to be done but stand her ground and endure his justified anger and whatever penance he might exact.

  She said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘It seemed the obvious place to find you. I knew that you’d be paying a last visit to your sister to tell her how well your plan had succeeded before you finally vanished back where you came from, and Jack Wainwright confirmed it for me.’ His tone was flat. ‘But I also k
new that it wouldn’t work out as you expected, and now you know it too. Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was glad she had no more tears to shed because weeping in front of him might be construed as a plea for mercy, and there could be none. They were standing on opposite sides of some great abyss and she couldn’t reach him.

  He looked at her more closely, his eyes narrowing, his brows drawing into a frown. ‘What’s happened to your face?’

  ‘I already told you. When I heard the truth about Evie, I—lost it for a while. Didn’t your friend the Professor tell you he’d left me to get over my crying jag?’

  ‘No, he came down because he had other things he needed to say to me. And I was referring to the marks on your face, not the fact you look half-drowned.’

  She lifted a defensive hand to her cheek. ‘Evie went for me when she saw the newspaper story. It isn’t serious.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I think that might depend on one’s point of view.’

  Tarn moved swiftly, restively. ‘Caz—I don’t know how the Press found out about the wedding, but I swear I didn’t tell them. I—was going to, but I changed my mind. Someone else must have done it.’

  ‘Your missing flatmate perhaps?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I—suppose so. I think she realised I wouldn’t go through with it. She’d never agreed with what I was doing before, and had argued with me about it, until she saw Evie’s supposed engagement ring. She knew of course that they weren’t real diamonds, and then she got angry too, and thought you deserved everything you got.’

  ‘Of course she did,’ he said. ‘I’d never realised before how compelling circumstantial evidence could be.’

  ‘Nor had I,’ she said. ‘Although I’m not offering that as an excuse for what I’ve done.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Caz, I don’t know why you followed me here, but please believe that there’s nothing you can say to me that will make me feel any worse about what’s happened. So won’t you accept that I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you and just—let me go?’