Death by Indulgence

by A B Morgan

  44

  Later that evening

  ‘What do you mean she still can’t remember?’ Konrad boomed into the phone. Barney turned to Annette who shrugged and took a sip from a glass of red wine. The regulars at The Valiant Soldier fell silent.

  ‘He’s not a happy bunny this evening. I thought you lot were celebrating,’ Rob the landlord said as he passed a pint of beer to Barney.

  ‘We thought we would be,’ Annette replied. ‘But Eliza called to say her mother has been in a fantastic mood all afternoon during their annual girls shopping spree for Delia’s birthday. That was our first clue that Kon had neither rescued his professional backside nor enhanced his reputation. He’s keeping quiet and bluffing his way through, like he always does, but you can tell he’s wound up tighter than his ex-wife’s knickers.’ Annette leant towards Rob. ‘I have a mole on the inside at Channel 7 who says Kon’s pitch to the executives received lukewarm and polite applause. He was asked to wait for their decision, which should come by the end of the week. Dino Ledbetter seemed impressed by all accounts. But, I’m told Dastardly D.L.C. wore a smug grin, like the happy toad he is. He and his sidekick Muttley conspired together during the presentation, making comments about familiar concepts being overused and that the show needed a younger more dynamic presenter such as Stacey Dooley or Simon Reeve. Quite a-stitch up job.’

  Briefly Annette placed one finger to her lips before adding, ‘Kon doesn’t know we are party to this information, so keep schtum, Rob. He’s got to go back on Friday for the verdict and until then he’s acting as if he was a roaring success, mostly for Lorna’s benefit. She’d be worried sick if she found out, you know how bloody fragile she can be.’

  ‘So what’s the problem now?’ Rob asked watching as Konrad escaped through the main door to talk more privately in the entrance hall, away from prying ears. His protestations could be heard as the solid wooden door closed and the cast iron latch clicked into place.

  ‘Dunno. I’m not sure if he’s talking to Lorna or someone else. I guess we have to wait to find out. Chuck us a couple of packets of peanuts would you, Rob? Thanks.’

  Both glasses had been presented for refilling by the time Konrad stepped back into the public bar. He looked pensive.

  ‘Well?’ Annette asked.

  Accepting a pint of amber coloured ale from Rob, he sipped delicately at the froth on top and placed it back on the bar as he spoke. ‘That was the mighty Quinn. He seems incapable of running an investigation without my help these days.’

  ‘Perhaps you forgot to tell him the most pertinent facts when he questioned you? Saving them for your own personal use, maybe.’ She shot a look at her husband, but her reproach went unnoticed by Konrad.

  ‘It’s hardly my fault they can’t think for themselves. The thumb was the key, as was Ella Fitzwilliam, who, by the way, remains convinced that she killed Harry at Buxham’s on the night of January the third. This is just like I thought originally, but there’s not enough evidence to prove it. Other than a few hints at moving the body, she still insists that she can’t remember any more of the events that took place that night.’

  Barney frowned. ‘But I thought they found the body at the rubbish dump this morning and he’d got a broken neck, that he was done up like a parcel still wearing his dinner suit. Like she said to Malik Khan at the hospital.’

  ‘Correct, old pal, she said the same to the police but there is no evidence to show how the neck was broken or by whom. You can’t lock someone up just because they’ve confessed. More’s the pity. Loads of nut jobs own up to things they haven’t done.’ He inflated his cheeks before allowing the air to escape through a puckered mouth. ‘It’s an inconvenience I could do without. She’s no good to me if she can’t remember a damn thing.’

  ‘That poor girl,’ Annette said. ‘Fancy thinking you’ve killed someone and having no way to prove it, or disprove it come to that. How awful. She’s come out of hospital and has pretty much gone to the police straight away and they can’t help her either. What a mess.’

  ‘I think it’s deliberate,’ Konrad said, tapping his fingertips against the pint glass.

  ‘Really? You think she knows but is pretending?’ Annette asked, sitting more upright, her puzzlement making itself plain by the look on her face.

  ‘If forensics can’t help piece together the chain of events, then police will have to decide who to prosecute for what. Did she kill Harry? Or was it Marcus Carver? Or will they both be charged with preventing the lawful burial of a body? She can’t clear her name, so wouldn’t the best way be to feign memory loss and pretend to be wracked by guilt at the possibility that she committed an offence for which someone else could be charged.’

  ‘What a load of old bollocks, Kon.’ Barney scowled at his friend. ‘You’ve convinced yourself she’s guilty and you’re making things fit your hypothesis so you can make a sodding documentary about fat fetishism more titillating by throwing a deranged buxom female murderer into the mix. Shame on you. Give us fat wankers some credit. You want to be careful, you could upset the wrong people.’

  The heavy oak door opened again and Lorna slipped in to the pub brushing fine droplets from her raincoat before hanging it from a brass hook on the beamed wall. She headed straight for Konrad and gave him a hug from behind followed by a kiss when he turned to greet her. ‘Well done, hubby. I knew you’d knock ’em dead.’

  Barney and Annette raised weak smiles as they welcomed Lorna. She failed to notice the tension.

  ‘Thanks. I quite enjoyed it when I got going,’ Konrad said. ‘They loved the theme, and I’m sure we’ll get the green light for the first show. Have you had any luck with Ella?’

  Lorna stepped back. ‘Luck? By which I take it you mean have I signed her up for your first episode. No, why would I do a thing like that? We haven’t even seen the contract yet and, besides, she’s in no state to think about giving an interview.’ She looked askance at her husband. ‘Since when did you become such an insensitive berk? What has happened to the man I married?’

  Barney, standing with hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets, snorted. ‘I was asking myself the same question.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ added Annette.

  Konrad Neale looked from one to the other of his friends, a sheepish expression arising as he did so. ‘Have I become that bad?’

  ‘Yes you sodding-well have,’ Barney said, leaning forward, his eyes never leaving Konrad. ‘You have been like a dog with a bone. Me, me, me. The famous Konrad Neale treads over the little people to get his story and please the puppet masters, and shits on the person least able to defend herself. Ella Fitz-whats-it. Why don’t you accept that Marcus Slice-’em-Up Carver did it? That’s what the police say, it’s what the papers say, and it’s what Hugh Thingy on the BBC News says and he’s always right.’

  Konrad sucked his lips tight together and glanced at Lorna who shrugged. ‘I might as well tell you,’ Konrad said. ‘Marcus Carver, with all the evidence pointing at him, has insisted that Ella was with him and Harry, in a bedroom, late at night behaving like a mad woman. He says that she attacked them both with such viciousness that Harry was killed when he fell dodging a wild blow to his head. Quinn tells me that Carver made a valiant effort at telling a comprehensive story, most of which could not be proven, but which makes sense. He panicked and went along with Miss Fitzwilliam’s plan to hide the body. They’ve released him pending further investigations.’

  ‘And where is Ella now?’ Annette asked in hushed tones.

  ‘She was with Malik Khan, police pulled them in to help with their enquiries,’ Konrad said.

  ‘What, even though she’s already volunteered information that resulted in Harry’s body being found? That doesn’t sound good.’ She rounded on Barney. ‘Maybe she’s not as innocent as we assume.’

  Lorna sank onto a barstool. ‘It’s shocking. She could be a killer but, imagine… what if Ella is not guilty? Given her mental state, how much more can she take?’

&nb
sp; 45

  The early hours of the following day

  DS Quinn couldn’t have been more forthcoming. He spouted detail after detail about Ella’s movements on the morning of January the fourth, including the address of Marcus Carver’s home.

  ‘Did you, on the morning in question, accompany a Dr - I mean Mr - Marcus Carver to The Manse, 109 Laburnum Grove, Colts Hill, arriving there by taxi from the Colt’s Hill station?’

  Ella concentrated hard, holding the address in her head. ‘I don’t know.’ The Manse, 109 Laburnum Grove, Colts Hill, she repeated silently.

  There was a slight cough from the man sitting on her left. ‘Do you mean that you don’t remember? Or are you implying that you decline to answer, in which case you should reply with the words no comment.’

  The weary social worker who had been dragged in to act as the appropriate adult under the requirements of PACE, had repeated this stock remark several times. Ella wished he would bloody-well sit silently to allow her to concentrate. He wasn’t a solicitor after all. She snapped at him. ‘Mr Rogers, I appreciate your time and efforts but I’m not a halfwit. I know the difference. I am unable to recall these events because of my mental state at the time. If I could remember them I would be telling the detective the facts because, strangely enough, I want to know what happened to me. Sorry to be a nuisance but please…’

  The Manse, 109 Laburnum Grove, Colts Hill,

  DS Quinn stifled a yawn. ‘Miss Fitzwilliam. You have given us nothing new to help clarify the events that took place at Buxham’s or at the home of Marcus Carver. Your recall becomes incredibly patchy regarding the evening of Wednesday the third of January and you do not recover your faculties, for want of a better expression, until approximately three weeks later. Carver insists that you assaulted him and his friend. How do you account for this?’

  ‘I don’t. How does Doctor Carver account for the fact that in my memories of that night, sketchy though they are, he is there? He is helping me do something with a dead body. Harry Drysdale’s dead body.’

  ‘I ask the questions, Miss Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘Yes, but how could I have made him do that? Why didn’t he phone the police?’

  ‘These are questions that have been put to Marcus Carver. Now answer the one I put to you please.’

  The Manse, 109 Laburnum Grove, Colts Hill.

  ‘Whose clothes were you wearing when you left Buxham’s club in the early morning of January fourth?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They were men’s clothes. I know that much. A tweed overcoat, shoes that were too big, a scarf… I think.’

  ‘Is this you in these CCTV pictures? For the purposes of the recording, I am showing Miss Fitzwilliam the security camera still photograph taken at oh-six-twenty-seven on the morning of the fourth of January this year.’

  Ella studied the footage.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘We believe it is. We also believe that you accompanied Mister Carver to his home because you were working together as a team. Did he pay you?’

  The questions continued, and Ella answered truthfully where she could. After hours spent at the police station she had what she needed. The police didn’t, and they were obliged to release her.

  She thanked the desk sergeant, she thanked DS Quinn, she thanked the uninspiring social worker, and she left as a free woman; pending further enquiries.

  Despite the hour, she didn’t go back to the hideous bedsit. She didn’t phone Malik Khan. She caught a train to Colt’s Hill station where she revived her flagging energy levels with three cups of espresso from an all-night kiosk. She switched her phone off; it was superfluous to requirements.

  The February sky was gloomy and dismal when she took a taxi to Laburnum Grove paid for with the last few pounds that Mal had given to her in loose change. It was nearing seven in the morning when she stepped onto the frosty lawn at the side of the gravel drive of The Manse.

  What had made her do that? Why walk on the lawn and not the driveway? She gazed at her sturdy black boots, cheap versions of Doc Martens. Rather like déjà vu, vague impressions of having done the same thing before, intruded. She stared at the house. The gardens were neat, stark at that time of year but the evergreens lining the sweeping borders were well tended. The glossy front door, so familiar to her, made her think about how best to approach. ‘The cleaning lady comes on Wednesdays.’ The certainty of her knowledge was disconcerting. ‘I have been here before.’

  A petite dark-haired lady arrived driving a battered Fiat Panda, her head barely visible above the steering wheel. The dented car made its way slowly around the driveway and pulled up at the rear of the house. Carrying a large shoulder bag, the driver took a key from her pocket and entered. Once inside, she put down her bag on the kitchen table and threw a tabard over her head, patting it down and placing her mobile phone into the large front pocket followed by a selection of rags and dusters. Ella had watched her through the kitchen window, unseen in her drab coloured clothing against the tangle of thorny leafless roses that lined a pathway pergola.

  It was a short while before the droning din of a vacuum cleaner began, but when it did Ella recognised it as her cue to enter. She stepped in through the unlocked kitchen door and followed the noise until she determined which room the cleaning lady was servicing. Was Marcus Carver at home? Casting her eyes across the ornate and airy entrance hallway at the front of the house, Ella spied a padded jacket slung on the bannister rail at the base of the stairs. To her this was a strong clue that the owner was indeed within the house, probably in bed.

  The sight and smell of the hall, its chandelier hanging above the reflective tiled flooring, had a peculiar impact on Ella. A flashback. In her mind’s eye she saw the door to a cloakroom, a brass handle, and she saw herself hanging a coat inside it, and a hat, a peaked cap, like a baseball cap. Unable to resist the urge to check, she listened for the continued sound of the vacuum before heading across the black-and-white tiles turning a doorknob and pulling it to her slowly. A light came on. This was the closet she remembered.

  A row of various jackets and waterproof coats hung on wooden hangers suspended on a brass rail. She flicked the shoulders of each, searching, but there was no coat like the one seen in her head. Deciding it was all nonsense and brain trickery she was about to close the door when her eyes caught sight of a blue peak on top of a row of shoes. She stepped closer and bending down she made a small gasp. ‘Ping. Golf. Harry played golf. I wore this hat.’ She put her hand to her mouth, realising that she’d spoken aloud and that, suddenly, the house was unnervingly peaceful. There was no drumming hum of the vacuum cleaner.

  Ella could not afford to be seen or heard until she had decided how best to make good her promise to Val. As there was no solid plan forming in her head at that time, she decided to make the best of staying where she was. Silently she regarded the hallway through the fine slit in the door where she had not closed it properly. The automatic light had gone off after one minute. How clever, she thought.

  In the darkness she smiled as voices echoed across the hall and she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps thudding down the staircase. Fearing discovery, Ella reversed into the far corner of the walk-in cupboard and crouched, partially hiding herself by placing an old striped beach windbreak across at an angle. Propping it silently against the wall inside and taking off her own coat, she hid inside, her hood covering her head.

  ‘Thelma. I’m going out. Lock up and don’t forget to set the alarm this time. Just the doors and windows, otherwise the bloody cat sets off the motion sensors. I’ll be back before lunch.’ The rounded vowels and public school intonation were confirmation. It was Marcus Carver.

  ‘Yeees meester Carver.’ The accent was foreign. Filipino perhaps. The timetable was clear enough, so, once the front door had slammed shut, Ella made herself as comfortable as she could. Fortunately, Marcus must have taken the jacket he had left to hand because she hadn’t been disturbed in her hideout. To rest her back, she moved to
a more comfortable position, still camouflaged in amongst the coats and shoe racks, she sat on a metal toolbox.

  It was a secure feeling, huddled in the dark, planning her moment of glory. The drug-induced depression had lifted within days of her discharge from hospital and her energy was creeping back at last. She would need it. The tablets she was supposed to take had been left in a bin on the train she had travelled in from Flemenswick. Good riddance to them. She was better off without them. They held her back, hobbled her, and undermined her ability to think creatively. Preserving her strength, she meditated. Mindful meditation. It enabled her to disengage the gears in her brain and detach from the reality of what she was about to do. She floated in her cotton cloud until awoken by a high-pitched tone and three beeps. The alarm had been set. The house was empty.

  46

  Buxham’s Club, that evening

  Barney and Annette held their spoons at the ready.

  ‘Welcome to February’s Lensham and District Pudding Club. Tonight’s menu is a tribute to winter. Yes, my pudding loving friends, tonight we eat suet!’ There was a wave of enthusiastic whoops at the announcement by the jovial and portly chairperson with jowls spilling over his shirt collar. What followed was excited chatter while the menus were handed around the table and discussed.

  Annette had been looking forward to escaping from Lower Marton and from their habitual trips to the pub. However, that particular evening the enjoyment, derived from eating until barely able to walk, had been marred by events surrounding Harry Drysdale’s disappearance and subsequent death.