“Elsie says you were asking about Mr Fitzgerald?” Gladys asked, with a glint of gossip in her eye.
“Well…” Donald got no further before Gladys ignored him. It had been a rhetorical question, which certainly didn’t need any word from him. If they needed his input then Gladys knew Elsie would provide all they needed. His role was merely to sit and listen and occasionally buy another round of drinks.
“Well…” Gladys said continuing on from where Donald had started. “… I was there this morning putting the finishing touches to the flowers for tomorrow’s wedding service and reception… personally I think they’ve gone overboard, sometimes less is best but you know what they say… the customer is always right… anyway we were titivating the table bouquets and making sure the top table looked perfect, when I overheard two of the staff talking about Mrs Bouchet.” She saw the look on Donald’s face that might have been mistaken for an accusation of eavesdropping.
“Oh don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t earwigging their conversation, they were talking just like we are now… I mean I couldn’t help but overhear what was being said. Anyway, it turns out that the woman has been married before and Mr Fitzgerald will be her third try at happiness.”
“Third?” One of the ladies, a spinster who’d been sat quietly listening to the melee of gossip and chatter, said indignantly as she wondered why it was that some women just seemed to attract men, whilst she… well she never had. Gladys shot her a look that warned the gathering to keep quiet when she was addressing the gaggle of women.
“Yes Doreen, apparently her first husband just disappeared. They were down here on holiday by all accounts… and here’s the weird thing… they were having a meal at Henri Bouchet’s restaurant when the husband just got up and left and was never seen again! Well not by his wife anyway.”
Donald who had been watching a fly walk across the grubby ceiling whilst the lady’s chattering had crept in one ear and then had sailed right out of the other, froze and stared wide-eyed like a goldfish feeding, at Gladys.
“When did all this happen… did they say?” He asked much to the surprise of the others. In all honesty they’d sort of forgotten he was there.
“Oh a while ago now. I think they said something about the date but I can’t be expected to remember every minute detail.”
“Try!” Donald asked rather too loudly before realising he’d overstepped the mark. “Please Gladys… it could be important.” Donald caught the landlord’s eye and ordered another round of drinks by way of an apology.
“Well… I think they said it was a three… no about two years ago.” Gladys said hesitantly, as she looked round her friends for help. “Or was it last year?” She added with a vague look.
“Go on Glad, finish your story.” Elsie urged, giving her new lodger a stern look of rebuke.
“What was his name?” Donald ignored their staring, condemning eyes and continued with his own agenda.
“Cox… he was called Tom Cox and she was Rachel Cox… but they never found him… the police that is, he just vanished. Of course there was talk at the time of alien abduction but the police poo pooed that but then what do they know?
They searched everywhere of course, even the hotel… did I say that was the other weird thing, the couple were staying at the Atlantic View for a few days, they’d come up from London for a short break.” Gladys sat back and downed the rest of her second whisky.
“If you ask me Gladys the place is cursed.” Elsie rained on her friend’s parade and tried to take the limelight from her. “I mean, how else do you explain all the bad luck that nice Mr Fitzgerald has had? Do you know he stopped me in the street the other day to ask how I was keeping… me! A true gentleman, wouldn’t harm a fly that one. She’s very lucky to ensnare him I think, but then I’ve always thought she was a bit of a femme fatale that one.” The landlady proclaimed with a certain amount of bluster, as if she was a close family friend. They all did it… they all played up their own importance. After all that was part and parcel of the gossiping game.
“What do you think Donald?” Elsie asked her newest lodger but if she expected thanks and interest for their help, she was disappointedly met with a wall of silence and a blank expression, as Donald tried to comprehend what it could all mean. Tom Cox… was he, could he be Tom Cox and could the woman who was about to marry Fitzgerald be his wife. If she was then she’d know who he was… she’d recognise him for sure.
“Donald! I said what do you think?” Elsie tried again.
“I think I must go and see this Mrs Cox and talk to her.” He said with such a monotone voice that all the ladies immediately seemed concerned for his wellbeing.
“But you can’t Donald… that’s not possible.”
“I’ve got to. I might be Tom Cox… that woman might be my wife.” He said almost disbelieving it himself.
“Don’t be silly Donald, you can’t be Mr Cox… that’s what I was going to tell you. Tom Cox was killed… in South America or somewhere like that. It all came out at the inquest, the coroner declared him dead on the basis of the letter Mrs Cox had…”
“No! That can’t be right. The time fits and you said it yourself, he just disappeared and then there’s the connection to the hotel and the Fitzgeralds and the helicopter.” Donald rubbed his head, as the pain started to throb in his temples.
Without thinking, he drank the rest of his beer and stood up a little too quickly, for someone teetering on the brink of having drunk too much. Staggered slightly under the effort to regain his balance, he plonked himself back down on the hard chair and rubbed his eyes.
Mrs Trubshaw seeing the colour drain from his face called over the landlord and ordered a large brandy for him and another round for the lady’s lunch club.
“Thanks Jim, put it on his tab will you.” She said with just the right amount of concern. The landlord knew better than to argue and decided he’d fleece someone else before the night was out if the man objected. There was no way he was going to be out of pocket for a complete stranger and anyway by ten o’clock in the evening the yachting fraternity usually didn’t know whether it was day or night, let alone whether they were being charged for ten drinks or twelve.
“Here Donald drink this.” Elsie said offering him the glass. Like a robot on smack and now completely confused by the revelation, Donald grabbed the glass and without stopping to draw breath poured the golden soothing liquid down his throat.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you err…” Gladys was now unsure as to what she should call the man… was he Donald or Tom? “… You can’t see Mrs Bouchet, even if you went round to the hotel. She’s not there. She went off this morning to some swanky spa hotel for the night… bad luck apparently to stay under the same roof as the groom and let’s face it, anything that helps the wedding go without a bang, has to be good.”
“What time is the wedding tomorrow. I have to see her before the ceremony… I have to know the truth.”
“It’s one o’clock in the hotel and we’ll all be there… to give you moral support.” Gladys stated knowingly, as the keeper of all news that was pertinent to the impending nuptials.
“That’s right we’ll all be there, won’t we ladies?” Elsie prompted and like the hags sat around the guillotine with their knitting, they all moved their heads in a synchronised nod.
“Yes that right… we wouldn’t miss this wedding, not for all the tea in China.” They cackled in unison.
~~~~~
Rachel had woken early on the day of her wedding. She’d planned to take full advantage of the spa’s treatment rooms before leaving, starting with a champagne breakfast and culminating with a visit from the hotel’s resident stylist. At eleven o’clock, bedecked in the Versace wedding outfit, which she’d bought whilst on a surprise weekend in London that had been thoughtfully paid for by Patrick, she’d climbed into the Bentley and left her temporary hideaway.
Sitting in the rear of the car, she felt the reassuring touch of the small Walther aut
omatic, which she’d taken from Clarence Dickens and which she’d tucked into the specially adapted wedding garter.
Of course, the small firearm wasn’t the first item that would normally be associated with a blushing bride-to-be… It’s presence that morning had everything to do with the threats, which Patrick had received from one of Clarence Dickens’s associates, who seemed to have got it into his head that the Fitzgeralds owed the criminal organisation a substantial amount of money and if an immediate settlement wasn’t forthcoming, then some form of retribution would be taken on the couple and whilst the wedding as such hadn’t been mentioned, Rachel had decided to take no chances… after they’d tied the knot the thugs could have part or all of Patrick but not before she’d married him.
How she’d explain carrying the illegal firearm to the police, should she ever have cause to use it, she couldn’t imagine, but at least she’d be alive to think about such a problem.
Patrick though had refused to take the threats seriously. With a misplaced sense bravado, he’d explained to Rachel on more than one occasion that there was no evidence and certainly no documents to support the loans or the joint business ventures, as he colloquially called the money laundering. In fact the only person other than himself who really knew what had taken place was Clarence Dickens… everything else, he’d boasted, could only be guess work, based on supposition.
“But what about Dickens’s bookkeeper, if anyone knows how much money Dickens had and where it went to, he must or why else would Clarence keep him in the job?” Rachel had pleaded with Patrick when the first threat had been telephoned through to the hotel.
“Christ he’s probably siphoned more funds from Dickens than we have. My bet is that he’s wants to hush everything up… you know don’t rock the boat just in case you fall overboard yourself.”
“Maybe… but if I were him and I’d been stealing from Dickens and two scapegoats suddenly stuck their heads above the parapet, I’d be thinking that maybe they would be the ideal pair to take the blame for all the missing funds… have you thought about that?” Rachel’s barbed reply didn’t have any effect on Patrick though and he wasn’t about to give anything back to anyone except Dickens, and he was dead… end of story.
“If we show any weakness Rachel, we’ll be finished and I for one don’t intend to start married life as a pauper… if they start anything I’ll call the police and let them sort out the intimidation.” Patrick had been adamant. But Rachel hadn’t shared his sudden love of the police.
“What and have Inspector Langford snooping around sticking his nose into our business? Are you mad or is it that you’ve just conveniently forgotten about Henri and Helen’s deaths? …Personally, I don’t think he ever really believed the notion that they killed each other in some great crime of passion. It’s just he couldn’t prove otherwise and so had to drop the investigation but if you go running to him with some tale of intimidation by Clarence Dickens or his associates, you’ll be opening up a right can of juicy worms and that’s something we can no more afford than having a car pull us over in the dead of night because someone wants a ‘little chat’ with you and me… remember last time? And if you’ve manage to wipe that night from your memory, don’t forget the police are still holding your fingerprints and DNA on file, just waiting for a match to pop up… I would have thought that alone would have kept you miles away from Langford.” The look in Rachel’s eyes had been meant to shock Patrick out of his complacency but if she’d learnt anything about him, it was that sometimes he needed to be pushed to the edge of the precipice before he realised how far he might fall.
“Come on, how much room do you need you silly bugger?” The driver of the wedding car cursed in a manner that was slightly louder than he had intended, as the black Range Rover increasingly filled the Bentley’s rear view mirror.
“Pardon?” Rachel asked politely from the rear seat.
“Sorry Mrs Bouchet, I was talking to the idiot in the car behind us.” He said, as his eyes played a form of hide and seek with the car’s rear view mirror. Without thinking, Rachel turned around and was confronted with the unmistakable shape that she’d last seen on the journey back from Truro after the inquest into her husband’s death. With its blackened windows, she was unsure if the car was part of some devilish plot perpetrated by Patrick to rid himself of his bride-to-be or merely a modern motorised version of the Flying Dutchman with a vengeful Clarence Dickens behind the wheel. Whatever the reality, the sight of the malevolent spectre paled her bridal blushed cheeks.
“Are you alright Mrs Bouchet?” The driver asked, as he carefully monitored the changing demeanour of his passenger. Moronic drivers harassing his every move he could take in his stride, but anxious brides throwing up all over his pristine cream carpets was something to be avoided at all costs. He’d been caught out before and the acidic bilious mixture had always left a pungent, disturbing aroma that took weeks to dissipate.
“Yes thank you William, I’m fine. I was just surprised to see the car so close. All I could think of was having an accident and missing the wedding.” She smiled weakly and tried to put some sense to her vivid imagination. Of course it wouldn’t be Patrick, she decided, he wouldn’t dare, not with the evidential minefield she’d laid to protect herself and that left only one sensible conclusion… it had to be someone associated with Dickens’s organisation. Then the awful sickening truth hit her. That was it, they didn’t want to kill her, just kidnap her and hold her for ransom… force Patrick to sign over the hotels, their assets and he’d do it because she’d made it impossible for him not to. If he didn’t comply with their demands and they did kill her, the solicitor would hand the confession she’d lodged with them to the police.
“Look there’s a layby down here. I’ll pull over and let the idiot get passed and then we can get on our way in safety. We have ample time and I’ve not had a bride miss her wedding yet.” William declared confidently.
“NO! For Christ sakes don’t stop!” Rachel screamed frantically from the rear seat. She knew that meekly surrendering to the thugs and throwing herself on their mercy wouldn’t work. Their only chance would be to keep moving and get to the hotel as quickly as possible.
“What I mean William is that I’ll be fine… just keep driving and don’t stop for anything. I don’t care what he does, you mustn’t stop I… I don’t want anything to go wrong… please.” Rachel softened her tone as her eyes pleaded for the chauffeur’s help.
“Don’t worry Mrs Bouchet you’re in good hands, just sit back and try to relax. Look there’s a bottle of fizz in the cabinet in front of you. Mr Fitzgerald had me put it there as a surprise… It’s open and chilling on ice, just help yourself, you never know it just may help to calm those last minute jitters.”
William watched his passenger pour herself the drink. He’d seen many nervous brides before but this one surprised him as she’d always seemed such a confident person. Like a hawk watching its prey, his eyes lingered long enough to see Rachel pour a glass of the bubbly and drink the whole glassful in one go. Before he could curse his own stupidity for offering his passenger the means to make herself carsick, the sudden bright flash of headlights diverted his attention and his eyes shot from his passenger to the car behind. The Range Rover had moved slightly into the middle of the road and was flashing its lights with a threatening monotony that demanded the Bentley pull over and stop.
“William! What are you doing?” Rachel demanded feeling the car’s forward motion begin to slow. In her heightened state of nerves mixed with copious amounts of adrenaline, the champagne had started to have an effect and her obsession with the Range Rover had been overhauled by the woozy feeling in her spinning head. High on alcohol and hormones, she’d not noticed the widening stretch of straight road ahead.
“I ordered you not to stop.” Rachel barked out, as if she were addressing one of the hotel’s migrant cleaners. The words had hardly left her lips before her head started to clear and the truth of her outburst hit home.
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“Actually I’m not stopping Mrs Bouchet, I’m just letting the madman behind get passed. That way he’ll get to wherever he’s going faster and we’ll get to the wedding in one piece. So if you don’t mind, just let me do the driving and if I disappoint you in anyway or we’re late, you can tear up my invoice.”
William’s mild rebuke was firm but polite and caused Rachel to slink ashamedly further down into her seat like some naughty schoolgirl who’d just be reprimanded for talking in class. Unsure what to say or do to make the situation better, she instead refilled her glass and downed the contents in one gulp … at the present rate of alcohol and angst, Rachel was less worried about Williams driving skills and more about the fact that she might be too pissed to even utter the words… ‘I do’.
As the Bentley slowed and moved slightly to the left of the road, the Range Rover pulled out and shot down the side of the wedding car until the front passenger window was level with the wedding car driver’s line of sight.
With a clear road ahead and his hands gripping the wheel as if his life depended on it, William slowly moved his head to his right and looked up and down the length of the black car. If he’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the driver, he was disappointed as the dark tinted windows created a threatening and anonymous picture, which revealed nothing to those on the outside. But if the blackened windows worried him what really scared the shit of him was the fact that every time he tweaked the Bentley’s accelerator to move away or gentle depress the brake to drop back, the black anonymous car followed suit and like some deathly shadow followed his every move.
“What is it William? What can you see?” Rachel whined from her cowered position in the rear of the car. “Why don’t you just let them get passed?” This time it wasn’t an order, this time it sounded more like a pathetic plea for her life. Unseen, she lifted her dress and removed the small automatic from her garter. The time for reason, she’d decided had vanished, now it would be everyman for themselves.
Stranger at the Wedding Page 43