The Maggie Bainbridge Box Set

by Rob Wyllie

  She gave him an angry look. 'I don't believe it. Not my Robert.' My Robert. He'd heard that one before.

  'Aye, that's exactly what I thought, not my Magdalene. But it's true. And I don't know about you, but I'm not going to stand for it.'

  'But you're all the same you men. Use us for sex and then throw us away when you get bored. We had fantastic sex you know, the night before he dumped me. He never could have any cause for complaint in that department. I was a bloody fantastic shag all through our marriage. Anything he ever wanted, and I never had a headache, not like some women.'

  Confused, Jimmy eventually cottoned on to the fact she was talking about her ex-husband. And now she was in full flow.

  'He was a pig you know,' she said, taking no trouble to hide her bitterness. 'And Robert's a pig too. You're all pigs.' He was taken aback by the ferocity of this woman's anger. Her rejection had clearly opened a wound that didn't look as if it was going to heal anytime soon.

  'And look at me. I'm still attractive and sexy, aren't I? James, do you find me sexy? You do, don't you?'

  'Mum!' Her daughter's embarrassment was so acute you could almost taste it.

  'Well, aye...,' Jimmy said, 'you're a very attractive woman Felicity.' And as mad as a box of frogs he thought, but he didn't say it.

  'That's it mum, I'm going.' Rosie was on her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder, her eyes burning with anger. 'Some other time, ok?'

  'Rosie, please...' Felicity reached out a hand, trying to grab hold of the bag, but with a deft flick, her daughter swung it out of her reach, before hurrying off towards the door.

  Now she was speaking so loudly that everyone in the atrium could hear her. Jimmy suspected that was her intention. 'You see, he's turned them against me. Her and Yazz. All of them. Fucking daddy is so wonderful and perfect, that's what he's got them believing. But if only they knew the truth, they would think differently, believe me.'

  He gave her what he hoped was a sympathetic look. 'Kids eh? It must be awful for you, I can understand that, everything that's happened. But you know, you have to move on, there's not really any other option.'

  God where had that come from? Jimmy Stewart, the relationship councillor.

  'I don't want to get over it,' she said bluntly. 'I want him to suffer, the way I'm suffering. For the rest of his damn life. Fuck him. And fuck Robert Trelawney too.'

  He looked up to see a smartly-suited man approaching them at speed. On his lapel, the badge read 'George Konstantinou, General Manager.' When he spoke, he was smiling but his tone was grave.

  'I'm sorry madam, but we do not like to hear foul and abusive language in the hotel. I'd be very grateful if you could think of our other guests when you are speaking. Otherwise, and with the greatest reluctance I assure you, I will have to ask you to leave.' Talk about lighting the blue touch-paper. But just as Mrs Morgan was about to say something, and probably something both foul and abusive, Jimmy jumped in. He stood up and held out a hand, screwing up his eyes to read the badge. 'Mr Konstantinou, is that right? I'm James McDuff.' He spoke slowly, his gentle Scottish lilt apologetic and mollifying. 'Sorry, we were all getting a little bit excited back then but we're good now. Look, my companion and I are booked in for lunch, so maybe you could get someone to point us in the direction of the restaurant? It's under Morgan I believe. Table for two. And it would be good if you could find a nice private spot.' When next he saw Maggie, he'd make sure she knew that he had bloody taken one for the team.

  It seemed to be enough to satisfy the manager, who was smiling again, this time with evident relief. He didn't want a scene, not here in his spectacular atrium in full view of his customers, and so he was grateful for this man's intervention. 'Certainly sir, madam. I'll take you there myself. Please, come this way.'

  It also seemed to have had a temporarily calming effect on Felicity Morgan, who, standing up, had taken Jimmy by the arm and was already snuggling up against him, if not quite cheek-to-cheek, then not far off it.

  'This will be so lovely, and so unexpected. And now I'll be able to tell you everything about me. And you can tell me about your bitch of a girlfriend. I want to know all about her.'

  Chapter 22

  The eighteen-twelve from Euston to Glasgow Central doesn't call at Oxenholme-for-Windermere, so waiting customers are told to stand well back from the platform edge. Wise advice, because no-one would want to be blown off their feet by the shock-wave of a Pendolino roaring through the station at over a hundred miles an hour. Or fall onto the track as it approaches from the south. At nine o'clock on that dull November evening, there hadn't been many passengers around, with the last northbound stopping train, a local for Penrith and Carlisle, not due for at least another forty minutes. So as a result, witnesses to the tragic event were thin on the ground. That is to say, non-existent.

  The driver hadn't seen or felt anything, hardly surprising when four hundred tonnes of solid steel runs over fifty kilos of flesh and bone at a three-figure speed, and his train was already pounding up to Beattock summit over the border in Scotland before the message was relayed through to him. It was left to the station manager, doing a final sweep of his domain in preparation for closing up for the night, to make the stomach-churning discovery. Twenty minutes later, an inspector from the British Transport Police turned up to take charge of the incident. A quick call to the ops centre in Preston established that the northbound service could be switched to the top end of the southbound platform, well away from the mangled body of Liz Donahue, allowing service to continue with minimum disruption. By two o'clock the next morning, the incident medics had all they needed and the body, or what was left of it, was carted away to the mortuary.

  ◆◆◆

  Jimmy was surprised but pleased when he glanced at his phone to see who was calling him this early. It was barely six-thirty in the morning, but already he was up and dressed, and thinking back on his bizarre lunch with Felicity Morgan. There was a lot to report to Maggie when he got into the office. The bill for a start, thankfully taken care of by his dining companion, which had run to a ridiculous four hundred pounds, inflated by the bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal she had insisted they ordered to accompany their meal. Her husband had been a pig and now it seemed Robert Trelawney was a pig too, that had been the thrust of the dialogue, or rather monologue, because she had done all the talking. Luckily, the ordering of the champagne had allowed him briefly to steer the conversation onto money, and she confirmed what they half-knew already. She had been sought out by the journalist Gary McGinley, who asked her what she knew about Brasenose Trust's network of shady offshore companies, set up to avoid the scrutinising gaze of nosey tax authorities. When she told him she knew nothing about it, and found it hard to believe his allegations were true, he had given her his evidence. Which explained why she was now looking for another seventy million quid from her ex.

  'Hi Liz,' he said breezily. 'Must be important if you're calling me at this god-forsaken hour.' But it wasn't Liz on the other end of the line.

  'Jimmy, it's Ruthie. Do you remember me? Liz's wife. Liz Donahue.'

  Remember her? She'd hardly been out of his thoughts in the last two weeks. But there was something in her voice that caused his heart to pound, and instinctively he knew he was about to get some terrible news.

  'Of course I remember. What's happened Ruthie?'

  'She's dead Jimmy. She's dead.' He could hear her muffled sobs and another female voice urging her to take a sip of her tea.

  'Christ, I'm so sorry. What happened, can you tell me that?'

  'An accident, a terrible accident. At the station. Last night. They don't know exactly what happened, but she fell in front...in front of a train. The police are here now. Oh God Jimmy, I don't know what to do.'

  And then suddenly it struck him. This woman whom he had met only once, had chosen to call him no more than what was it, eight or ten hours after the tragic death of her wife. Why? Why of all people, had she called him?

  He spoke as
softly as he dared so that she could still hear him. 'Ruthie, what do you mean, you don't know what to do?'

  'She wasn't here. She wasn't here when I got back from work. And it was her turn to cook on Wednesdays and she never ever missed it. And it was cannelloni, her favourite. She wouldn't have gone out without telling me.'

  His mind was racing as he ran through a list of possibilities why Liz hadn't been at home to cook her wife dinner. She could have popped out to a convenience store in search of a missing ingredient. Or maybe, perhaps more likely, something had come up at work, a big local story that needed to be followed up right away. But in that case, there would have been a message. Had to pop out. Big story. Back in an hour or so. All my love xxx. Or something along those lines. But according to Ruthie, she had left no message, and in any case why did she end up at Oxenholme station? It wasn't inconceivable that something so big would come up that she needed to travel to London at short notice, but surely she wouldn't have done that without letting Ruthie know. No, there was only one logical conclusion. Liz Donahue had been abducted. And then murdered by person or persons unknown. Now there was urgency in his voice.

  'Ruthie, what are the police saying? Have you told them that Liz wasn't there when you got home?'

  She sounded confused, which he thought was hardly surprising given what had happened. 'What? Oh yes, there's a policewoman here at the moment. Should I tell her?'

  'Yes, tell her, definitely. And ask her to get her sergeant or an inspector involved. It's important, really important.'

  'Ok,' she said, uncertainty in her voice, 'but why?'

  'Listen Ruthie, is there anyone you can stay with up there? Someone you can trust one hundred percent?'

  'I...I don't know. Maybe Helen at book club. Her husband's a farmer, perhaps I could go there for a few days. Or I could go back to mum and dad's in Leeds.'

  Jimmy thought for a moment. 'No, I don't want to alarm you Ruthie, but it's probably better not to stay with family right now. Helen sounds like a good bet.'

  'Ok Jimmy,' she said, her voice wavering, 'and Jimmy, do you think this had got anything to do with the story she was working on? That's why I called you, I thought it might.'

  'I don't know. It's possible.' It was more than possible, it was a bloody certainty, but he didn't want to say that right at that moment. 'Look, just get in touch with your friend, but please, don't tell anyone else. I'm going to get up to see you as soon as I can. I should be able to get there this afternoon. Tell me, how much do you know? I mean about Liz's big story.'

  'She didn't tell me everything I don't think, but I know quite a lot.'

  Suddenly, there was another voice on the end of the phone, the tone prim and abrupt. 'Sir, this is police constable Fairburn. I don't think the young woman is in any fit state to continue with this, and in any case this is now a police matter. Thank you.' And that was it. End of conversation. The policewoman was right, of course, it was a police matter now.

  But then, with a sinking feeling, he remembered that case Frank was working on. Two kids who died in the same way. Two kids who minutes before their deaths, and posted suicide notes on their Facebook timelines. He wasn't much into social media, but he did, reluctantly, follow a few friends and acquaintances. With trepidation, he touched the icon to open the app. There it was in his timeline. Just six hours ago, a posting from Liz Donahue.

  I'm sorry, I just can't go on.

  Maybe it was a police matter, but Jimmy was certain of one thing. He needed to be on the next train to Oxenholme.

  Chapter 23

  Ruthie had arranged that her farmer's-wife friend would meet him at the station, and he would stay with them at their remote farm near Cartmel Fell for the duration of his visit. The train was just a few minutes late into Oxenholme, and as he stepped off onto the platform, he saw a woman wave then hurry along to him wearing a wide smile. In appearance, she was exactly as he expected, around forty and quite tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in faded jeans and a navy sweatshirt, with a mass of curly reddish hair held back by a mottled headband. She was attractive but he couldn't help thinking her husband would have first and foremost saw her as good breeding stock.

  'You must be Jimmy Stewart,' she said, smiling. 'At least I hope so. You certainly fit the description.'

  He held out a hand. 'Guilty as charged. And you must be Helen.'

  'Yes, that's me. I'm just parked outside, follow me.'

  She led him down the exit stairs and along a short underpass which led out to the road down to Kendal. A battered Subaru occupied the first drop-off space.

  'This is us,' she said, blipping the remote locking. 'Sorry it's a bit messy inside. Combination of kids and sheep.'

  'How many do you have?' he asked, tossing his bag into the back and settling into the passenger seat.

  She laughed. 'Sheep, about eight hundred, kids about five at the last count. Four girls and a boy. The girls came first and Bill insisted we kept going until we got a boy. The men are a bit old-fashioned up here in that regard.'

  Keeping going wouldn't have been any hardship for Bill with a wife like you, he thought, but he didn't voice it.

  'It must be quite tough, farming up here I mean.'

  'I suppose it is, but we get by. We're mainly Herdwicks and they're a hardy old breed. We've also got a dairy herd on the lower pastures near the lake and they do ok. It's hard work all right, but it's all we know. And the truth is we love it, even if we're always moaning.'

  Once they were clear of Kendal, the journey took about thirty minutes, the narrow road winding up from the Lyth Valley into the remote fells where every now and again they caught a distant glimpse of majestic Windermere, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. The farm was at the end of an unsurfaced lane about a half a mile from the road, with a traditional stone-built farmhouse and a clutch of modern corrugated iron sheds arranged round the muddy farmyard. Everything looked neat and tidy and well cared for. Ruthie evidently had heard their approach, emerging from the front door with her arms wrapped tightly around her. Even from thirty yards away he could make out the dark-ringed eyes and ashen complexion. It was just forty-eight hours since she had received the terrible news and God knows how she was coping with it. Not well, if first impressions meant anything.

  She forced a half-smile as he approached her. 'Hello Jimmy. Thank you so much for coming.'

  'Come on, let's go back inside and have some tea,' Helen said. 'It's getting chilly.'

  They sat around an old oak table in the cosy farm kitchen, heated by a cast-iron range that looked old but that Jimmy suspected was a modern reproduction.

  'So how have you been Ruthie?' He knew what the answer would be but he had to ask.

  She shrugged. 'Shell-shocked I suppose. I still can't believe it's real. I keep looking at my phone, expecting her to call. We must have called each other a hundred times a day normally.'

  Helen brought over mugs of tea and placed them in front of them. 'I'll leave you two for a while if you don't mind,' she said soothingly. 'It'll be time to pick up the kids soon.' She gave a half-smile then slipped out of the room.

  'So what are the police saying?' he asked.

  'Not very much,' she said. 'They've made enquiries at the station but nobody saw anything.'

  'What, even on the CCTV?'

  'It wasn't working. It hadn't been for a few days but they hadn't got round to fixing it.'

  That didn't surprise him, not up here, where nothing ever happened. They'd probably never had to use it in anger since it was installed, so it wouldn't have been a priority.

  'I guess they know about her post?' He hoped he could have approached the subject more delicately, but it had to come out.

  She stared at the floor. 'Yes. I don't believe it. She would never have killed herself. And you saw how she was, didn't you?'

  Was he misreading the situation, or was there an element of doubt in her voice?

  'I did, and no, I don't believe she would have. No way.'

  'We'd h
ad words you see. That morning. And we never argued, never.'

  He wondered whether he should ask her what the argument was about, but decided to leave it to her to decide. Instead he said. 'But the police are still investigating, aren't they?' he said. 'Taking it seriously I mean?'

  'I don't know. They sent an inspector around, but she just kept asking me if Liz had been depressed. I had to tell her about the argument, although it was nothing.'

  He guessed that they would be grateful for the easy way out, no doubt about it, because it was going to look much better for the clear-up statistics if you didn't open the case in the first place. Besides, people were stepping in front of trains every day, and often their loved ones hadn't had a clue that anything was wrong. Whereas people being murdered by being pushed in front of trains, he guessed that was a whole lot rarer. Except that right now, Frank was working on two.

  'Look Ruthie, my brother's a DI in the Metropolitan Police, and he's on a case right now where two young kids died... well, in exactly the same way as Liz. And those were definitely suspicious.'

  And at least one of them had a connection to Hugo Morgan and his Brasenose Trust. It seemed unlikely in the extreme, but now he began to wonder.

  'I'm going to get Frank to call your inspector, I think it might help. I didn't know Liz very well, but there's no way she killed herself.'

  Ruthie gave him a sad look, and again he wondered whether she was having doubts. After all, they said you never really knew the person you were married to.

  'Ruthie, can we talk about the story? You know, the big one that Liz was working on. How much did she tell you about it?'

  'Quite a lot but not everything. Actually, I'm not sure she knew everything. She said a few times she was just waiting for a couple of things to fall into place.'