Twisted

by Lynda La Plante

  Lena got up from the table and went over to the sink. There were numerous pans left on the draining board, as if she had used a separate one for each of the ingredients. She almost threw her dinner plate into the sink as she turned to face Deirdre.

  ‘Two-faced bitch gave Marcus details of my earnings, not just present ones but projected ones – he knew every single account. When I met with his divorce lawyer I was totally and utterly stunned he knew so much about my business.’

  ‘I’m sorry – that must have been dreadful to find out.’

  Deirdre got up, intending to put her plate in the dishwasher.

  ‘Leave it, just leave it, Agnes can clear it all up in the morning.’

  ‘I don’t mind tidying up,’ Deirdre said.

  ‘I just told you to leave it!’ Lena snatched the dish and threw it into the sink. Turning back to face Deirdre, her face was twisted with anger. She was so tense and angry her fists were clenched and Deirdre was starting to feel very alarmed by the way she was behaving – from being very friendly she had become abusive and threatening.

  ‘I have faced the truth about my husband: he’s a loser, a bisexual leech dependent on his rich friend to pay his legal fees. He was only here because he had nowhere else to go and it was not for Amy, not for me, but for himself.’

  ‘I am sure your husband wanted to be here for you at this very trying time.’

  ‘Trying, TRYING? Have you any idea what it’s like to spend day after day waiting for news, hoping and praying she will come home?’ she cried, and swept out of the kitchen, leaving the counsellor not exactly cowering, but nevertheless very unnerved. Deirdre followed the sound of banging doors coming from the master bedroom. She tapped and entered but Lena appeared not to even hear her as she was dragging clothes from the wardrobe and hurling them onto the bed.

  ‘Lena, I think we need to sit down and talk things through calmly,’ Deirdre suggested.

  ‘I have to select what I am to wear for the television broadcast. I want everyone to know what a disgusting deviant piece of shit Marcus is; he is going to pay for walking out on me today.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be a very good or productive attitude to take, Lena. This will be your opportunity to ask the public to assist in any way possible in tracing Amy. If you are antagonistic or belligerent about your husband, it might not do your image any good, and I am certain it will not help find Amy.’

  Lena made no reply; she was unzipping her trousers and kicking them away, and then pulled her sweater over her head, throwing it to one side.

  Deirdre could see clearly the many thin red circular scars on both arms. Down the inner thighs of both legs were strange butterfly-shaped red scars, from her knees up to her crotch. It was obvious that Lena was self-harming.

  She took a dressing gown from the hook behind the bedroom door and held it out to Lena.

  ‘Slip this on, Lena, and we can talk through what clothes you will feel confident to wear, but as we don’t have a time schedule as yet, we can maybe choose a few and put them to one side.’

  Lena nodded and allowed Deirdre to hold up the dressing gown as she slipped her arms inside the sleeves. To the counsellor’s relief she quickly calmed down, and then she began to refold the clothes she had flung across the bed. Suddenly she gave a soft low sob and turned to Deirdre, holding in her arms the maroon cashmere sweater that they had used for the reconstruction of Amy’s last sighting.

  ‘Amy and I both bought one – look, it’s got these pretty frilled edges on the sleeves, with the matching maroon ribbon threaded through. I let them take this for the girl who acted as Amy when she was last seen on the Fulham Road; she was wearing hers but I have not been able to even really look at it.’

  She gently stroked the soft wool and then held it to her face.

  ‘Please don’t let her be hurt, I ache all the time as I miss her and want her to come home.’

  Deirdre gently put her arms around Lena and really felt for her as she cried with such heartbreaking muffled sobs, repeating over and over that if Amy were never coming home she would not want to live.

  As a Victim Support counsellor Deirdre had dealt with numerous tragedies, giving parents and loved ones a means of knowing they were not alone in their grief. She knew from her training to never get too personally involved, but to be a consistent calm presence. Deirdre could relate to the anguish of Lena’s situation. She also felt exceptionally angry towards Marcus Fulford, who was not helping his wife – to the contrary – and she thought his behaviour deplorable.

  ‘I’m here for you, Lena, I’m not going anywhere, and I won’t leave you.’

  ‘Will you pray with me?’ The woman’s voice was like a child’s and hardly audible.

  They knelt together side by side; Lena had her hands clasped together in prayer and her eyes tightly closed.

  ‘Please God, bring my Amy home safe and sound, Amen.’

  Chapter 34

  The next morning DI Reid was anxiously awaiting the toxicology reports on both Simon Boatly and Harry Dunn. The incident room were all aware of the possibility they might have been poisoned, but DCI Jackson, much to Reid’s relief, had not let the error over the poison mushroom recipes in the journal be known to the team. Reid had contacted the vet who had dealt with Boatly’s dog Wally and was somewhat relieved when the vet said blood tests had confirmed the dog had eaten rat poison.

  There was still no sighting of Amy, and even the crude time-wasting calls had diminished to a few ‘sickos’. The mass of publicity had drawn a blank, and DCI Jackson was forced to reassess the next stage of the inquiry. The death of Boatly and Dunn was an obvious concern, but without the toxicology evidence to prove they had died from poison it was a waiting game, or, as Jackson described it, ‘a fucking unexploded time bomb’.

  Jackson was in a quandary, but at least he was now taking Professor Cornwall’s diagnosis seriously, and was aware that Amy Fulford might be alive, albeit under another identity. He also had to consider that she had planted the poisons before disappearing, and had since been abducted or killed. Everyone agreed on one disheartening fact: they were probably looking for a murderer, dead or alive.

  The exclusive interview Agnes had agreed to do was not as yet published and she was at work at nine as usual. She found the kitchen untidy and wine glasses in the TV room, so she set about rushing around to get everything in its habitual perfect order.

  She collected the dry-cleaning shortly after eleven and returned to the house. She left the items in their plastic covers and took the jackets and trousers that belonged to Marcus, and the maroon sweater that was Lena’s, upstairs and hung the sweater in Lena’s bedroom wardrobe. She put Marcus’s things in the space where Lena had already hung his new clothes.

  Agnes had just returned to the kitchen when Marcus called to say he would not be returning home for a while but was remaining at Boatly’s house in Henley. He asked about Lena and she was able to tell him that she was well and working in her office. No sooner had she replaced the phone than DI Reid rang and she put him through to Lena’s office. Agnes decided to listen in to the call in case there was something useful she could sell to the press.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Fulford. I’ve spoken to the television producer and they want to pre-record the interview rather than go live, and if you are agreeable will do it tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I look forward to it, Inspector Reid.’

  ‘Good. I’ll have a police car pick you up at nine a.m.’

  Lena asked Deirdre to come and give her more advice on which outfit to wear. The counsellor obligingly sat herself down on the bed as Lena went to the wardrobe to pick out some clothes.

  ‘I have always taken care of my clothes – my mother taught me to always replace them onto hangers after wearing them, and always dry-clean cashmere; she loved cashmere, so soft against your skin, and I love that sometimes I can smell my perfume lingering; she always had a sweet lilac essence and . . .’

  She noticed the dry-cleaned maroo
n sweater in its plastic cover and took it out, frowning.

  ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘Your wardrobe,’ Deirdre said, fearing Lena was losing it.

  Lena passed it to Deirdre, then took out the identical one and held it up. ‘I showed you this before, the police used it in the reconstruction, so where did the dry-cleaned one come from?’

  Deirdre had a sinking feeling in her stomach as Lena was fingering the sweater and visibly becoming more and more agitated. She snatched the dry-cleaned one from Deirdre and hurried down the stairs, shouting for Agnes.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’ Lena’s voice was high-pitched as she held up the dry-cleaned sweater at her housekeeper.

  ‘From Mr Fulford’s dirty clothes he brought over from the flat, I didn’t really even look at it, I just bundled everything together that needed to be cleaned and took it to the dry-cleaners.’

  ‘Don’t you understand the importance of this, Agnes? If Amy was last seen wearing it then how did it get to be with Marcus’s clothes? It means she was not wearing it when she disappeared or . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she looked fearfully towards Deirdre.

  ‘She must have gone to his flat.’

  ‘Something has just come up,’ Reid said, barely stopping to knock on Jackson’s office door. ‘It appears the sweater we believed was worn by Amy the last time she was seen has surfaced. The Victim Support counsellor just rang to say it was in a suitcase amongst clothes Marcus Fulford took to his wife’s house. He’s staying in Henley at Boatly’s and if the sweater is Amy’s then—’

  Jackson interrupted. ‘She went to the Mayfair flat, exactly as she told Serena Newman she was going to do! I want him rearrested and questioned – he has been bloody lying from day one.’

  ‘I agree, but let me first get the full story before we maybe jump the gun, I’m going over there now.’

  ‘Shit, I don’t like this – go on, move it, and get back to me ASAP.’

  That same morning, Marcus and Grant had been requested to attend Boatly’s lawyers in Kensington regarding the contents of the will. They were both excited about the meeting, wondering exactly what they’d been left. By the time they arrived it was almost twelve and they were led into the prestigious offices by a dour-faced secretary who informed them that Mr Boatly’s lawyer would be with them shortly. The office had a vast polished round table, with leather carved chairs, and the walls were panelled with oil paintings of various stern-faced men who all appeared to have the surname Sutherland on polished plaques beneath their portraits. After fifteen minutes a fleshy pink-faced man in an immaculate pinstripe suit entered, carrying a large leather-bound file. He introduced himself as Alistair Sutherland and greeted them with a fleshy soft handshake, gesturing for them to be seated. He spent a considerable time sifting through the mound of documents before he laid flat the final will and testament of Simon Boatly. In his pompous aristocratic voice he explained that his firm had taken care of the Boatly family for many years. He had endeavoured to contact all the beneficiaries, which had taken a great deal of time as many were deceased or living abroad.

  ‘Right, gentlemen, let me proceed.’

  Marcus was almost beside himself waiting to hear whether or not he was a beneficiary but he managed to remain calm and respectful. Grant kept on glancing nervously towards him; he was wondering if the bits of jewellery they had both pocketed might be included and if there would be any repercussions.

  It seemed like an interminable time as Sutherland listed the beneficiaries’ names, deceased as well as living, from second and third cousins to aunts and uncles, and charities. Eventually he said that the entire estate was valued at twenty-five million. Certain specific items were to remain in the Boatly family, but the rest was to be sold to provide the lump sums allocated to the listed beneficiaries.

  ‘To my dearest and closest friend Marcus Fulford I leave three million pounds on the condition he divorces his wife and looks towards a career he wished to pursue during his days as my lover, but never accomplished whilst married.’

  Marcus almost fainted; his heart was beating so rapidly, he had to clench the sides of the carved oak chair to stay upright. To Grant he had left twenty-five thousand, thanking him for the affection and care he had been given in their short time together. They could both could barely hear let alone take in the lengthy explanation from Sutherland as to how and when the monies would be paid to them. They couldn’t wait to get out of the stuffy office and shout out loud in the street, Marcus more so than Grant as three million was like being given a new lease on life.

  Reid listened as Agnes repeated exactly how she had removed the clothes, including the ‘smelly’ maroon sweater, from Marcus’s suitcase and taken various items to the dry-cleaners.

  Lena was very subdued, her head bowed, her hands clasped together. She obviously knew what the discovery meant, and yet showed no visible sign that Marcus could have been involved in any way, or that there could be a more sinister meaning. Deirdre however was very aware how high the stakes were, and knew by the way Reid acted that this was a very big development.

  Shortly afterwards, a team was sent to Henley to arrest Marcus and bring him back to the station. It was almost six when the police arrived at the Old Manor to find both Marcus and Grant exceedingly drunk and celebrating. The confused and inebriated Marcus was led out in handcuffs and he passed out in the back of the patrol car; they had to support him into the police station. It was decided that until he was sober they could not question him and he was left to sleep it off in the cell.

  Early the next morning Deirdre heard a scream and found Lena in the kitchen with the newspaper open, tears streaming down her face as the headline screamed out, FATHER ARRESTED FOR MURDER, and then there were numerous photographs of Amy, and the exclusive interview with the housekeeper Agnes Moors.

  ‘Look what that two-faced bitch has done, she has stolen private photographs and given them to the press as well as saying things about me and Amy. How dare she do this to me? My lawyers will sue her and the paper. She will live to regret this, I’ll make her sorry, she is going to pay for this!’

  Lena was so enraged her whole face changed, her mouth a thin tight line, and she was virtually spitting as she swore and threatened to take a knife and cut Agnes Moors’ throat. Deirdre was quite frightened as she watched Lena pace up and down the kitchen, smashing plates and cups and anything she could lay her hands on. It was a horrible scene that went on and on, and Deirdre was worried that when Agnes made her nine o’clock arrival Lena might assault her.

  Eventually, more from exhaustion than anything else, Lena quietened and began cutting out the articles with a pair of scissors and folding them up. This done, she announced she was going to her office to talk to her lawyers, but as soon as Agnes arrived she wanted to know.

  Deirdre took the opportunity to call Agnes’s mobile and warn her not to come into work. The woman was in floods of tears, and claimed the journalist had twisted what she had said.

  ‘You have done a lot of damage, Agnes,’ Deirdre pointed out, ‘and please stay away until we have some calm here. Mrs Fulford is talking to her lawyers.’

  Agnes sobbed, and again claimed that she had not said all the things in the article, but admitted she had taken the photographs from Lena’s private album.

  ‘Listen to me, Agnes, I don’t know what the outcome will be, I am just giving you some advice, and I think you should take it and stay away until the heat has died down here.’

  ‘Will I lose my job?’ came the pleading response.

  ‘That’s not up to me, but stay away from the house for now.’

  Deirdre next thought she had better call DI Reid to explain the situation. He had only just arrived at the station, but it was buzzing, not only because of the leak of Marcus’s arrest, but also the exclusive interview with Agnes Moors. Marcus had still not been interviewed and was waiting in the cells for his solicitor Angus McFarland. It appeared he was very hung over, feeling unwell and ha
d been sick during the morning.

  Deirdre cleared up the broken china and then went to see how Lena was doing. She had locked the office door and after repeatedly knocking Deirdre eventually got a response: Lena said that she wished to be left alone.

  ‘Listen to me, Lena, I have spoken to DI Reid and he is going to try to come over to be here for you, and he needs to know if you still want to do the television interview.’

  ‘I said I would do it, and if they want me to do it, I will do it, now please leave me alone.’

  Deirdre returned to the kitchen and put the scissors away, then picked up the scraps of newspaper, rolling them into a ball and tossing them into the pedal bin. The kitchen was quickly back in order, although the phone rang constantly and her head started throbbing as she wondered if perhaps she should answer the calls, but decided against it. She knew if DI Reid wanted to make contact he would call her mobile. Hoping to take her mind off the situation, she decided to read one of the many books in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the drawing room.

  Entering the vast elegantly furnished room, with its rows of silver-framed photographs on top of the piano and on all the small side tables, she went over to the bookcase. Her eye was caught by the rows of leather-bound photograph albums, and she rested her hand against one, letting her fingers trail across the bindings until she hooked her index finger into the curved leather of one that appeared older. Opening it, she realized it was Lena’s album from when she was young and single. She flicked over the plastic covers, noting the various photographs, some in black and white, and was impressed by the neatness and the small handwritten cards denoting the place and year. She turned numerous pages until she reached the last section and was surprised to see a smiling, stunningly pretty Lena in a black university gown, wearing a mortarboard and holding a degree scroll. The note beneath it was written in black felt tip print, very small and underlined: ‘Oxford University Graduation – First-Class Honours Degree in Biological Sciences’. Deirdre had had no notion that Lena was so well educated. Turning a few more pages there were pictures of her wearing a white lab coat and with that beautiful lazy smile on her face; written in felt tip at the bottom was: ‘MSc Course, Harvard, USA’. The last page showed a serious-faced Lena standing beside a tall elderly man with a shock of white hair; he wore a crumpled tweed suit and a cravat, and beneath the picture was a caption in a different larger print: ‘Home with Daddy’.