Raising his hand to shield his eyes, which were already half closed against the brightness, he’d just about made out the walkway when the clouds suddenly closed ranks and completely obliterated the piercing sun’s rays. Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred eyesight, Donald saw in an instant what he’d missed previously.
Standing in between two of the columns, was the blond haired girl, who like some quick change artist in a vaudeville act, had donned a red coat… a red, hooded coat that made Donald shiver.
“Who are you!?” He shouted angrily at the cloaked figure. “What do you want from me? ...Why did you kill my friend?” He implored.
Ignoring his pleas, the girl turned away, pulled down her hood and in one swift movement tossed the blond plaited wig high into the air, from where it fluttered back down to the ground like a winged sycamore seed. Without uttering a word by way of explanation or revealing her true identity, the girl waved her farewell and then vanished, whilst Donald stood opened mouthed and watched wig drop down into the garden below.
Finding the walkway empty, Donald quickly searched the surrounding gardens before running back to the front of the crematorium, where the rest of the clinic’s staff were waiting for him. He found Dr Atkinson standing patiently by the side of the car. Her reassuring smile, which was meant to offer Donald some degree of comfort, evaporated in an instant. Something she knew was troubling him and rather than help him get over Ingrid’s death, she feared that the time in the remembrance garden might have only compounded his feelings of guilt and helplessness.
“Donald what’s the matter?” The doctor asked sympathetically.
“Did you see the girl… the girl in the red coat? She was in the garden just now, she was wearing a blond wig to make her look like Ingrid.” The doctor’s vacant expression told Donald all he needed to know.
“She was in the garden, just now.” He knew it sounded far-fetched. “I swear to you. I don’t know who she is or why she is doing this but she was there and it proves that Ingrid was murdered… she would never have jumped under that train, you have to believe me… Dr Atkinson please…”
As he sat in the rear of the car and watched the countryside roll by, Donald couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps the girl was nothing more than a lost memory… someone from his past, someone that he’d wronged or hurt somehow and if that was the case then the shocking truth was that he’d been responsible for Ingrid’s death but worse still was the possibility that if he didn’t discover who he really was, the same fate might befall Martha.
Unable to shake the heavy burden of responsibility, by the time they drove through the gates of the Wolvercote Clinic, Donald’s feeling of guilt and desolation had reached boiling point, forcing him to face the inevitable consequence of his injuries… there was nothing more to be gained from talking. If he was ever going to find the truth about himself and assuage the guilt of Ingrid’s savage murder … if he was going to do all that and finally get back to Martha, then he knew that Cornwall was the only place where his ultimate salvation might be found.
~~~~~
In the two and a half hours it had taken Patrick Fitzgerald to drop his latest package at the station and call round to the restaurant to collect Henri’s grieving widow, Rachel had concluded that she would need to take out some form of insurance policy on Patrick. The man had been correct in his cruel assessment of her situation… there was little to tie him into any of the murders except the jealous, bitter word of a spurned woman, and once Patrick’s barrister had spoken with the police and Crown Prosecution Service, she knew that charging him with murder or conspiracy to murder would be as likely as an Eskimo selling Mr Softee ice-creams to the crowds at a reindeer derby.
Her dream of becoming the next Mrs Fitzgerald had also been dealt a death blow, as the realisation had dawned on Patrick that he no longer needed Rachel. If she was lucky, the best that she could hope for was the occasional quickie, when Patrick wasn’t fucking his latest young bimbo or making the most of his new single lifestyle… a lifestyle which ironically she had fashioned and murdered for him.
The obvious answer would have been just to have shot the bastard where he stood with Clarence Dickens’s own Walther and hoped that the police tied his death into Dickens’s own murder in some sort of sordid and inexplicable gang fall out, but then she would have lost the man she loved and that was more unthinkable than sharing Patrick with every whore and money grasping bitch he brought home.
No, this time her insurance policy needed an additional clause, one which quite clearly stated that should Patrick Fitzgerald ever cheat on his wife in bed or in business then she, Rachel Fitzgerald, would play her ‘Go Directly to Jail for Life’ card.
The solution ironically was supplied on a plate by no less a person than Patrick Fitzgerald himself. He’d unwittingly provided both the means and the method, as well as thoughtfully giving Rachel the opportunity to implement her plan.
The means had been presented when Rachel found the fake Mrs Bouchet’s name and address in Patrick’s wallet. The method was the tried and tested bullet to the bitch’s brain after a lover’s quarrel. Whilst the opportunity was presented by Patrick’s insatiable libido, which meant that with little or no stimulation he could become rock hard and ready to fuck… even in his sleep and totally unconscious.
After going over the plan time and time again in her head, Rachel was finally presented with the opportunity to test its efficacy after Patrick had stayed over for the night and taken a couple of the sleeping pills, which the doctor had prescribed to help him forget Helen’s gruesome death and catch up on some much needed sleep. The sex had been disappointing but watching Patrick drift off into a deep sonorous sleep had been the final straw. Fortunately and fundamental to the success of her scheme, Patrick had unconsciously risen to her sensual massaging and then exploded his climax into her mouth.
She’d repeated her expert fellatio as many times as possible during that night and each time Patrick had duly obliged in delivering the evidence she needed, but better still was the fact that in the morning he’d been none the wiser. His only comment, as he’d appeared for breakfast had been to curse his doctor and his bloody pills…
“That bastard charged me an arm and a leg for his consultation and his quack remedy you know…” Patrick remonstrated as he stood in the deserted restaurant kitchen. “And what happens… I wake up more fucking tired than when I went to sleep!”
Following that first trial run and once Rachel was sure that everything would work like clockwork, she decided to implement her plan and take out her next husband’s life insurance policy.
She’d placed the call to the fake Mrs Bouchet from the telephone in Patrick’s study, whilst he was fast asleep under the influence of the ‘useless’ sleeping tablets. The time and the place had been carefully designed to coincide with one of Patrick’s ‘business trips’ to Bath, which Rachel knew was merely an excuse for him to meet and fuck as many women as possible… women with whom he had no ties, nor wanted any.
The night before he left on the planned ‘business trip’, Rachel had lured Patrick to the flat above the restaurant with the promise of some Beluga Royal Caviar, all washed down with a vintage bottle of Bollinger, which she’d found in Henri’s cellar. After feasting on a cocktail of champagne, Sturgeon’s roe and sex, Rachel had implored Patrick to stay the night and leave early the next morning and feeling duly satiated, he’d merely popped a couple of his pills into his mouth and fallen into a deep sleep.
Dead to the world, Rachel lost little time in arousing him to attention and with all the skill of a parlour maid milked his body until he could come no more, but unlike in the practice runs, this time the creamy liquid had been too valuable to merely swallow and enjoy… this time every drop was judiciously collected in a sterile bottle and immediately stored in the fridge until the following morning.
With Patrick waved off to Bath, Rachel had followed hot on his heels and took the non-stop train from Penzance to Bath and the
Hilton Bath City Hotel, where she’d booked and paid for the room in advance with Clarence Dickens’s credit card, which she’d borrowed from his wallet. She hadn’t used it since that murderous night but it had seemed a waste to dump it along with his body into the Atlantic.
“The name?” The receptionist had asked over the telephone.
“Mrs Helen Fitzroy.” Rachel had replied with a degree of irony. “The name of the guest will be Mrs Helen Fitzroy and I’m booking the room on behalf of a Mr Clarence Dickens… their old friends.” Rachel had added as an afterthought.
“Old friends?” The receptionist had replied not quite hiding her disbelief and contempt for the caller but she wasn’t paid for her high morals, so what the hell.
Rachel’s next call had been to the woman who was to be the stooge of her plan… the disposable asset that no one would remember or pay too much attention to and certainly someone who’d leave no one behind who might care about what had happened to her.
“Mr Fitzgerald says that under no circumstances are you to leave the room or talk to anyone.”
“Why?” The fake Mrs Bouchet had asked warily.
“I couldn’t say. I’m merely Mr Fitzgerald’s secretary. All I know is that you are to check in under that name and stay in the room until he sends someone to collect you.” Rachel had sounded very convincing but quickly decided to bait the trap with a little more honey. “Look it’s not for me to say but I’ve also arranged diner and a private session at the Spa for you both with champagne… the works. Personally, I think he’s a little smitten with you. But remember, I haven’t told you anything, just go to room 536 and wait there.” Rachel had been pleased with her performance. Now all she had to do was spring the trap and snare her next husband.
She arrived at the hotel a little after two in the afternoon and went straight up to room 536. It was only when she’d knocked on the door that an element of doubt had crossed her mind but as she heard the chain being slipped off the door, her heart beat rose with the excitement of what she was about to do. She hadn’t thought about it like that before but now as the door started to open, she suddenly realised that she actually enjoyed the buzz of killing and the stench of death, much more than could be considered normal.
“Mrs Fitzroy. Helen Fitzroy?” Rachel said, as the door opened fully to reveal the woman who had played her supposed doppelganger for so long.
“Yes?” The woman replied hesitantly. She’d expected a man, not a woman.
“Patrick sends his apologies but says he will be about an hour late. But looking on the bright side he sent this over with me and asks that you relax a while longer and enjoy the bubbly. It’s expensive and a taste of things to come… I was told to tell you. Do you mind?” Rachel asked, as she pushed passed the woman and walked into the suite.
She’d taken an instant dislike to the poor deluded slag, who was slightly younger than herself and had a smaller, firmer body than she did… all in all she imagined that the woman ticked all of Patrick’s boxes and a few he didn’t know he had.
“Shall I open the bottle now, Mrs Fitzroy?” Rachel asked politely.
“Why not. If I’ve got to wait a little longer, I may as well enjoy myself.” The woman had thought about offering Rachel a glass but had decided against mixing with the hired help… it might send out the wrong message should Patrick ever propose to her.
Rachel gently popped the cork and with her back shielding the glass, slipped the Rohypnol into the champagne. The Flunitrazepam had been remarkably easy to come by in the pubs around Truro and in the end she’d been spoilt for choice as to who she gave her business to.
“There I hope you enjoy that… not many people get to taste a Bollinger 55, I know I haven’t.” Rachel said with a smile, as she handed the glass to the woman, who smiled back with all the grace of someone thinking… ‘And you’re not about to start now you bitch!’
By the time the woman had finished the second glass and it had fallen from her drugged fingers, Rachel had prepared the hotel room, as if it were a film set and she was just about to shoot some porn film. Tables overturned, the bed clothes pulled on to the floor, the bath left running, the champagne bottle spinning aimlessly on the side table with the glass she’d brought with her and which had Patrick’s fingerprints all over it, laid carefully next to it. With the woman sprawled on the floor, Rachel began to strip her conscious but lifeless body in the roughest way she could. The dress was ripped from her breasts and her pants torn from between her legs. Using her gloved hands, she then set about beating the woman’s face until finally with all the emotion of an iceberg, she placed the two large cushions over the woman’s head, positioned the Walther between the pair and callously shot the escort in the head.
Once to kill her, twice for effect and then a third time because she’d enjoyed herself so much. Happy with her work, she then applied the DNA icing to her death cake.
Standing back and feeling sexually charged, she looked at the morbid tableau that she’d created and smiled. Now all she needed was a half decent police investigation and a semi-competent forensic scientist and Patrick Fitzgerald’s DNA would be found all over the woman’s body and clothing. The gun they’d probably be able to link to another unsolved death involving an associate of Clarence Dickens but the DNA would be a mystery to them. It wouldn’t match any that they held on file and the fingerprints on the champagne glass, which Rachel had brought with her, would be clear but unidentifiable… It would be the perfect smoking gun to hold to Patrick’s head, and it would be her finger on the trigger.
If he so much as stepped out of line or looked at another woman from now until she’d tired of him, she’d make sure he was arrested for some minor offence… it didn’t matter what but Patrick never bothered about drinking to excess whilst he was driving… so that would always be a good place to start. From there she’d just let the police do her dirty work. After arresting him, they’d take his fingerprints of course and as in all cases where charges are laid, they’d profile his DNA and run it against the police data base.
Then and only then would the truth come out and be irrefutable… Patrick Fitzgerald had murdered the fake Mrs Bouchet in some drunken sexually charge rage and then fled the scene. His only alibi would be that he been with an escort in Bath… Bath! The very same city where the woman had been murdered. The woman who was in fact covered with copious amounts of his DNA.
There’d be no alibi, no excuses, nowhere to hide. It was perfect and she’d planned it all.
It had been a couple of weeks later, when Rachel had called round to the hotel to tell Patrick of her unilateral decision to marry him that she found her future husband sat in the hotel’s conservatory, sipping a double shot of brandy. His shocked expression told its own story, which probably involved news about the murdered woman in the Bath hotel.
“My God Patrick, what’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Rachel announced too loudly for it to sound like any form of real concern… but having grabbed his attention, she twisted the knife slowly.
“It’s not Dickens is it? Tell me they’ve not found the body.” She said with about as much sincerity as Messrs Burke and Hare giving a eulogy at a funeral.
The mere mention of Clarence Dickens’s name snapped Patrick from his reverie and made him look up at his visitor. He’d begun to tire of Rachel some weeks ago and had been wondering how best he could tell her to sling her hook. She was getting annoyingly clingy and that irritated him more than her voice did. After the murder of his wife, he’d tried to drop hint after hint by ignoring all her calls, but she’d simply ignored all his reasonable efforts. Now though, as she stood in front of him asking her inane questions, he knew he’d have to tell her straight… if she didn’t leave him alone and get the hell out of his life then he’d have to let the police know how he’d suspected for some time a link between Rachel Bouchet, Henri and Clarence Dickens’s disappearance. The time for subtlety had gone, now it seemed only God’s honest truth would suffic
e.
“It’s got nothing to do with Dickens but then you’ve got more to fear on that score than I have. No, this is more of a personal tragedy… now if you don’t mind I’d like to be left alone. Why don’t you call me in a… no better still I’ll call you when I feel ready.” Patrick said dryly, as he turned his attention once more to the glass of brandy and took another soothing sip.
“Well that doesn’t sound too friendly.” Rachel chided. “Especially as I’ve come to give you the good news.” Rachel sat down next to Patrick and without waiting to be asked helped herself to the bottle of Courvoisier.
“Good news?” Patrick asked the obvious question just as Rachel hoped he would.
“Yes… The good news is that I’ve decided, after much deliberation to accept your kind offer to become the next Mrs Fitzgerald.” Rachel declared trying to hold back the glee she felt at seeing Patrick’s face. “Although there is one caveat… unlike the last Mrs Fitzgerald I won’t be a silent partner. As with any marriage we’ll be equals in everything and woe betide anyone or anything that tries to destroy that.” She lifted her glass up in a mock salute and downed the entire contents in one go.
Patrick was unsure if Rachel was bad, mad or just plain sad. Marry her? That was the very last thing on his mind… The only commitment he wanted right at that moment was Rachel’s… in an asylum.
“What are you talking about? What proposal? I haven’t asked you to marry me… I don’t want to marry you. Are you mad?” He couldn’t quite believe his ears. Perhaps this was all some big joke and although he’d found her funny in the past, right now she was anything but humorous.
Stranger at the Wedding Page 40