“I know… it was a shock to me too, but we both knew it was on the cards… it’s our destiny, we were meant to be husband and wife and nothing can stop that.” Rachel paused purposefully, “Well nothing but the grim reaper.”
“You are… you’re barking mad. Perhaps you should see a doctor, get some medication.” Patrick polished off his drink and stood up as if he was about to leave.
“Medication? What like Flunitrazepam? Or should I say Rohypnol?”
The mention of the drug stopped Patrick in his tracks. His mind raced around trying to remember where he’d heard the name of the drug before and then the obvious slapped him round the face and screamed into his ear… the paper had called it the ‘date rape’ drug. It was the same drug that had been used in the gruesome slaying of Sally Bishop in the hotel room in Bath.
“What have you done?” Patrick demanded, as he strode menacingly towards Rachel, who cowered backwards, fearful of what Patrick was going to do until she suddenly remembered her trump card… the ace up her sleeve.
“I killed the little tramp Patrick… I got rid of her for you and for me. She’s out of our lives now for good.” Her eyes pleaded with Patrick for his understanding. She didn’t want to threaten him but if he wouldn’t listen to reason she’d have no option. “Now we can get married… they’re all out of our lives, so there’s nothing to stop us.” When she said it like that it sounded completely normal, as if it was the sort of thing that every fiancée did just before they announced their impending nuptials to their surprised fiancée.
“Nothing to stop us… but I don’t love you Rachel. I’ve never loved you… it was just sex and we both enjoyed it, but it’s over now. Done, complete, finished… however you look at it, you and me we’re history. There’s going to be no fairy-tale wedding.” Patrick swore through gritted teeth. His eyes bulged in their sockets, as he struggled to retain his composure… but deep down all he really wanted to do was beat the stupid fucking woman until she stopped breathing.
“And if you don’t stop harassing me Rachel I’ll march you down the police station myself and tell them just what you told me.”
Rachel absorbed Patrick’s threatening glare and beat it back with one her own.
“Oh I wouldn’t do that Patrick, not if I were you.” Rachel stood up and stood face to face with her betrothed. “And don’t ever threaten me again.” Patrick edged closer to Rachel’s face until their noses were almost touching.
“Or you’ll do what… shoot me? Poison me?” He spluttered through clenched teeth.
“No. I’ll simply get you arrested.” Patrick pulled away and screwed his face into a bemused strange look. Rachel sat down and offered him the seat opposite. If they were going to be man and wife it was only fair that they shared everything and had no secrets from each other.
“Let me explain. We… that’s you and me, are going to get married…” She held up her hand and cut off the protest before it could start. “… then my dear we are going to live out our lives in wedded bliss and you are going to dote and pamper me every day for the rest of your life and if you so much as look at another woman or think about sleeping with another member of …OUR staff, then I will ensure that you are found guilty of your pathetic friend’s sordid murder.” Rachel watched, as Patrick’s bemused look turned into one of utter bewilderment.
“Forensic evidence… just in case you are wondering how.” She put Patrick out of his misery. “You see the police have the killer’s fingerprints and a copious amount of his DNA, all that they are missing is a match on the National DNA Database.
Now the good news is that the profiles are kept on the database indefinitely until one day some poor bugger is arrested over a petty misdemeanour… let’s say drunken driving or perhaps beating his loving wife and because he’s been arrested and charged, he automatically has his DNA and fingerprints taken and checked against the database… and that’s when the red lights start flashing and the sirens begin wailing because all of a sudden there’s a perfect match and they’ve inadvertently found the person responsible for the unsolved, gruesome murder of a whoring slag, in a hotel room in Bath.”
Slowly but surely, the reality of what was happening began to sink into Patrick’s brain, as his mind absorbed the facts, processed each one in turn and came up with the only logical conclusion that fitted everything he’d been told… he’d been shafted, fucked and set up from the start.
All of it had been methodically planned by Rachel and like some stupid moronic sap, he’d walked right into the trap and watched haplessly as it snapped shut behind him. How she’d done it he wasn’t sure but she had… she’d planted his fingerprints and DNA at the scene and like the Sword of Damocles, she’d left them hanging there just waiting for some reason to take her scissors and snip the cord.
“What the hell have you done?” He spluttered, as he ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry… you’re worse than Dickens. Christ compared to you, he is… was a saint.”
“Well, I’ll take any compliment that’s going but I couldn’t have done it without you being such a dumb schmuck.” Rachel offered the sop with one hand, then snatched it back with the other and slapped Patrick around the face with the insult for good measure.
“Oh and I can see from the look in your eyes what you’re thinking… just kill the bitch and have done with it… that I’m afraid would be your second mistake. You see I’ve already written a full confession out and lodged it with a solicitor. If I die inexplicably or as a result of some horrible accident, they have instructions to take it straight to the police. I’ve explained all about the little game we played with the drugged woman and how you shot her twice using the pillows as a silencer… I’ve even told them what the champagne was that they found at the scene… and its year. A fact that’s never been released to the public or the press. So they’ll have to investigate and arrest you… QED you’ll be found guilty of her murder.”
“It’s perfect.” Patrick muttered in horrified admiration. “Utterly perfect.”
“I know. I have to admit that I’m rather pleased with it myself.” Rachel giggled gleefully as she rubbed her hands together as if trying to keep warm. “Oh and one final thing don’t take the coward’s way out and commit suicide… I couldn’t possibly live without you and that would be such a terrible waste when we both have so much to live for.” She held out her hand and waited patiently for Patrick to do the same. Like an automaton, he willingly stretched out his hand and curled his shaking fingers around Rachel’s. His mind had already succumbed to his fate, now his body simply followed suit… he was trapped and there was no way out.
PART SEVEN
“She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, and therefore to be won.”
William Shakespeare, Henry VI Part 1
PANDORA’S BOX
June 2010
For any number of reasons, of which avoiding an embarrassing showdown was just one, Donald decided not to stay at the Atlantic View Hotel. Dr Atkinson had suggested that instead booking into a small, quiet bed and breakfast, might be the best for everyone.
“If not for your own sanity Donald, then do it for those who may know you or might even be related to you. Think how you would feel if someone you thought long dead just walked back into your life without a by-your-leave.”
But in the end, sparing the feelings of people he might or might not remember hadn’t been the overriding reason for avoiding the hotel, the real reason had much more to do with the one hundred and seventy nine pounds bed and breakfast price tag, which he’d been quoted by the very sweet receptionist for the St Agnes suite.
“Or if you prefer sir, we have the Atlantic View Suite at three hundred and twenty five pounds per night but that price does include our full Cornish breakfast served at the comfort of your own table in the suite, which if I could just add, has the most breath-taking views of the coastline.”
Donald had wanted to tell the girl that
it was the price that was breath-taking not the view but in the end he’d simply thanked the girl for her time and instead found a very pleasant little boarding house on the edge of the town, which offered a homely atmosphere and a full English breakfast for the all-inclusive rate of just eighteen pounds per night. He’d been a little confused at first between a Cornish and English breakfast, but his polite enquiry reassured him it had nothing to do with the quality or the quantity of the food.
The owner of the Victorian house, which stood proud above the town and the harbour, was a retired hotelier from Blackpool who’d travelled to the South West in search of love and happiness, but instead had settled for an occasional passing acquaintance and a sort of befuddled contentment. Her rotund frame, smiling face and flowery apron produced an instant homely effect whenever she opened her front door and greeted her guests for the first time upon their arrival, whilst the soothing aromas of baking breads and cakes completed the welcome, as they stepped into the boarding house and carried their bags up to their rooms.
Donald had been fortunate. One of Mrs Trubshaw’s regular gentlemen had been forced to cancel his booking at short notice, which meant that he’d had the honour, rarely given to a first time guest, of being allocated the front bedroom, which had the best views over the town and the rugged coastline beyond. Of course it had its downside if you were a regular, all-year round visitor… for in the winter, when the storms blew in from the west, the old Victorian sash windows shook and rattled under the continual bombardment from the violent winds that blew in from the Western Approaches, causing most guests to have any number of sleepless nights.
“Now there you are.” Mrs Trubshaw said triumphantly, as she placed the large plate of bacon and eggs down in front of Donald and then gave it a final twist so that he could see the full effect. It was a little trick she’d picked up in Blackpool and her regulars seemed to like it… well, no one had yet said they didn’t.
The breakfast was displayed on the large oval plate in the guise of a beaming, happy face. The two perfectly ‘sunny side up’ eggs provided the eyes, the numerous strips of streaky bacon the mouth, two halves of a large fried beef tomato the cheeks, a flat field mushroom for the nose and two chipolatas for the breakfast’s eyebrows.
“It’s a ginger nut, as my grandson calls his friend at school.” She added, standing back to admire her artistic skills.
“What?” Donald said and then realised his rudeness. “Sorry, I meant pardon… what does that mean Mrs Trubshaw?” He looked up from his plate to her smiling face and then back down to the mountain of food.
“Ginger nut… it’s the hair. I’ve made the hair out of the baked beans and they’re ginger in colour. Now you’d better get on and make a start but watch out for the plate… I don’t like to put food on a cold plate and it’s very hot.”
Donald’s finger, like a wasp to a pot of jam, was fatally attracted to the plate’s edge. The pain shot up his arm and told his brain that the kindly landlady had been correct… the plate was stingingly red-hot.
“Told you to be careful.” She added smugly. “Now I’ll go get your toast.”
“But… ” Donald tried to say that he hadn’t ordered breakfast… that he never ate much in the mornings but stopped before the second word had left his lips. Instead, he resolved to make a modest remodelling of the plate’s face and hoped that it would be sufficient to not cause his landlady any offence. Taking his life in his hands, Donald cut into one of the eyebrows and pushed it forcefully into the right eye, whose yellow eyeball exploded under the attack and ran down and around the plate’s cheek like a child’s tears streaming over their soft white skin. Fearing an instant heart attack, as the pools of fat clogged artery after artery, Donald indifferently pushed the forkful of death into his mouth. The taste sensations that followed assaulted his body and sent a… mmm … dribbling from his mouth.
“I only buy locally grown produce, you know. Everyone says it better for you and the planet of course. Now here you go love, I’ve done brown and white for you. Mr Jones does a lovely bloomer and the flour is all milled down here you know. Now you’ll be ready for another pot of tea I’m guessing.” Mrs Trubshaw waddled off to brew another pot of scolding hot tea, leaving Donald with an open mouth and a trail of egg yolk dribbling down his chin.
By the time she’d returned with the tea and two fresh cups, the plate had been swept clean of food and Donald was just soaking up the last remnants of the death-inducing grease with yet another piece of the white toast. With a final flurry he popped the soggy charred bread into his mouth, pushed the plate away and leant back in his not so comfortable dining chair.
“Mrs Trubshaw… that was without doubt the best breakfast I have ever had the privilege of eating. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat another morsel… ever!” He closed his eyes and momentarily forgot why he’d come down to this little corner of heaven.
“I knew you’d like it. I could tell you were the sort that loved a good hearty start to the day… now what have you got planned?” Saying that she sat down next to Donald and started to pour out two cups of her equally fine breakfast tea.
The question shocked Donald from his greasy Nirvana. Just what was he going to do today? …that was a very good question.
“How long have you lived here Mrs Trubshaw?” He asked taking a sip of his fresh tea.
“Sounds ever so formal that does… since you’re now a sort of regular, why don’t you call me Elsie, everyone does and it makes me feel less… old, if you know what I mean.” She gave Donald a knowing wink, which sent an alarm bell ringing in his head… God he thought that was the last thing he needed right now… an amorous landlady.
“Right, so Elsie… how long have you been down here?” He asked hesitantly, as he straightened his chair and moved further around the breakfast table, but the landlady wasn’t so easily thwarted and with all the dexterity of a chess grand master countered his move, as she considered her answer.
“Ten… no fifteen years now. Can you believe that fifteen years and before that I was… well that would be telling you how old I am and a young lady never discloses her age to a young man now, does she?” Elsie slapped Donald’s leg playfully with her hand and chuckled.
“No, I guess not. So I guess during the last fifteen years you’ve got to know most people and heard almost all of the gossip?” He asked hopefully, with his own boyish smile.
“I think it’s safe to say that people confide in me and I like to think that I’m a good listener… yes.” Elsie admitted with a pride that only another ardent gossip monger would recognise.
“I thought so, that’s why you might be the best person to help me… what can you tell me about the Atlantic View Hotel?”
“Anything you want but if you’re thinking of staying there, I’d feel obliged to warn you that it’s covered with a shroud of tragedy… death stalks its corridors and haunts that gorgeous Mr Fitzgerald.” Without waiting for Donald to reply and thinking that the dishes and beds could wait, Mrs Trubshaw continued her tale of woe with a quick glance over her shoulder.
“Actually it was his wife and their friend who’d been staying with them whilst he recovered from some sort of road accident… in Spain it was I think or was it somewhere else?… anyway it was warm and he was involved in a hit and run accident. You know he used to own his own bistro in the town, lovely place by all accounts but pricey… the deaths are still unsolved of course. The police don’t have a clue.” She ran through her story without apparently taking a breath and as if to confirm her lack of faith in the local constabulary, raised her arms in disbelief.
“Sorry you’ve lost me Mrs… Elsie, perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me everything you can about the hotel, the Fitzgeralds and their friends.” Donald’s request was greeted with a broad grin, as Mrs Trubshaw realised that she’d just hit pay dirt with her new guest.
“Perhaps that might be a good idea, after all I’ve nothing much to do today… tell you what, why don’t y
ou come through to the lounge. It’s more comfortable than the dining room and I’ll make us both a fresh cup of tea. Or perhaps you fancy something stronger? I don’t normally but if I’m going to tell you everything I know, I’ve a feeling I might need fortifying at some point… if you know what I mean.” The slap on his leg, like the click of the hypnotist’s fingers, snapped Donald from the nightmare that was playing on a constant loop, over and over in his head… and he suddenly remembered Dr Atkinson’s wise words…
“The road to a full recovery might be long and hard Donald, with many ups and downs along the way. In the end you might think the journey too high a price to pay for the memories.”
“So you see, what goes around comes around or as my Jim, God rest his soul, used to say in such situations… the wheel is come full circle. He was a great one for his books and literature was my Jim you know. He was always quoting Shakespeare… had something for every occasion. Everyone who stayed with us was always amazed at what he knew. Yes, he was a special man was my Jim and there’s none that can say different.” The landlady’s eyes glazed over as she remembered her dear departure spouse for another couple of moments before dropping back into reality… “Anyway, I reckon that’s probably why they’re getting married. It’s fate and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it, even if we wanted to.” Elsie relaxed back onto the sofa and breathed out a sigh of relief. Even for her experienced tongue that amount of talking had plum worn her out. She’d not stopped in over three hours but in that time she’d managed to give a complete potted history of nearly everyone in town.
“In the end though Mr McGovern… he was the insurance investigator I told you about who stayed here for a couple of nights, didn’t discover anything sinister about Mr Bouchet’s accident and it all became hypothetical when he was involved in the tragedy out at the Fitzgerald’s house.
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