Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1)

by Sue Nicholls

  Tearing the corner off a cheese doorstep with his teeth, he considered what he had read. The evidence against Max was convincing. With information gleaned from Paul during their sessions, the so-called counsellor had assumed a different persona for each of the two women he seduced. In Fee’s case, he had become Will, an offshore engineer on the oil rigs, working a shift pattern, away for two weeks at a time. A clever ruse that no doubt made his subterfuge easier and would appeal to career-minded Fee.

  Sam’s own mother, Twitch, was artistic and on the morose side. When entrapping her, Max said he was a social worker called Luke. He was able to make this very convincing since he had once been a Social Worker. He could also wield a paintbrush and contrived to bump into Twitch at a local art class.

  Sam put down the remains of his sandwich. Max’s plot was very elaborate. The money motive that led him to marry Fee was easy to understand, but it was less obvious why he had targeted Twitch. How would he benefit financially from Twitch’s death? Sam thought back to his childhood with Fee and Nanny Gloria, wondering how they had managed, financially. Fee stopped working when Mum and Millie passed away. The story went that she resigned to help Nanny Gloria at home. That meant that her income would have been lost, but Sam did not remember any drop in their living standards. Did Gloria sell her house and come to some financial arrangement with Fee? No, she did not. Sam recalled travelling by train to meet Gloria’s new tenants. And there was no mention of shared ownership in Fee’s will. So how, then? Did their dads pay maintenance? Probably, but it could not have been much. Throughout his childhood at Crispin Road, he did not remember a shortage of money. They had had a new kitchen fitted after Millie’s death. Fee and Gloria chose a proper cooker, with safety features.

  Then he remembered Nanny Gloria’s evidence in Paul’s trial. Fee had life insurance! Perhaps the other mothers had their own cover too. Millie’s insurance would have paid out to Twitch and Fee. Twitch’s money, including her share of Millie’s, would have been passed to Fee. Once married to Fee, Max would have inherited all that and be the beneficiary of her life cover and the property in Crispin Road. A powerful motive for a man with a gambling habit.

  Sam dropped his crust into the bin, ran his plate under the tap and took an apple from the fridge, thinking again of Nanny Gloria’s adage, ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away.’ She was such a force, and despite his sadness at losing his mother, he was grateful for Nanny Gloria. Her warmth and firmness had given him security when everything in his life was chaotic. Her death, aged ninety-six, had been harder to take than Twitch’s. Her little sayings still influenced his behaviour today: Never go to sleep on an argument (chance would be a fine thing). If you can’t find a bin, put your litter in your pocket and take it home. Never take the car if you can walk. So many pieces of good, unasked for advice. Sam wished Nanny Gloria were here now. He would be glad of a sidekick. He chuckled at the concept of Nanny Gloria as his sidekick. She would wag her finger at him if he went out in the cold without his coat, or, heaven forbid, let slip the F. word.

  He disposed of his apple core. It was not late, but he wanted his bed, so he arranged Kitty’s mail into a pile - a separate pile from his own ‘filing system’. His and hers, he thought on his way to bed.

  He was in a deep slumber when a shrill ring jerked him into consciousness. Damn. Now, he would struggle to get back to sleep. He groped on the dusty floor and opened one eye to peer at the screen. Josh. Did he never go to bed? Then he remembered it was not yet ten at night, so he switched the phone to speaker in the darkness and croaked, ‘Hi little brother. What time do you call this?’

  ‘Have you seen Dad?’ Josh’s thin voice vibrated from the device.

  ‘Not today, no. Is something wrong?’ Sam switched on his lamp and squinted in the brightness.

  ‘I doubt it, but it is odd. I dropped in to see him after work and the house was empty. It’s not like him to go out in the evening. I tried his mobile, and he didn’t pick up.’

  Sam remembered the dating app and said, ‘I don’t imagine there’s anything to worry about. Have you checked with Mick?’

  ‘He’s vanished too.’

  Sam laughed. ‘I bet they’ve gone for a pint. I shouldn’t worry. Dad was fine last time I saw him. Tell you what,’ he reached for water in a glass by his bed, ‘Why don’t you check with Anwen. She was at Dad’s, cleaning, this afternoon. Have you got her number?’

  He forwarded Anwen’s contact details to Josh.

  61 MAX 1994

  Millie, Millie, Milleeee. I’m going to have such fun with you.

  Max sat at his table-for-one and watched the vivacious, petite woman through fake, gold-rimmed glasses. Around him, the restaurant, Feast, was alive with chatter and the chink of cutlery on china. He forked a piece of sea bass into his mouth. The food was good. Millie, it seemed, took her career seriously, and her little restaurant ran with calm efficiency. Service was smooth and helpful without being obsequious. Paul had told Max that Millie was once married to a black guy called Mick. But she had walked out on him because Mick and his mother tried to prevent her opening this place. The girl had the selfish spirit and talent to ensure she achieved her dreams, but what of the damage she left behind? She was sexy and intelligent, and Max decided she would give him a good romp. After that, he would take great pleasure in punishing her for her misdemeanours.

  The scheme had occurred to him when passing Dukesbury Mansion in Lymchester, about thirty miles from Chelterton and Millie’s restaurant. The old house was undergoing a stylish renovation. The architect had retained its Georgian style but achieved a sleek modern look with doors and pipework in brushed steel. Max was curious to see what had been made of the interior.

  A sign on the verge, advertised the selling agents as a London company associated with high end properties. More interesting was the existence of a show flat ‘Ideal as an out-of-town escape but with a stylish city look.’

  Max pulled up at the curb to study the board. It seemed to be aimed at the London market, at cash rich parents seeking better schools and more space. At the bottom was the number of a local estate agent, the key-holder. He took a snapshot of the sign and drove back to work, where later, between clients, he called the agent to make an appointment to view.

  Now, he was waiting in a parking bay at the rear of the property, impressed that the care and eye for detail at the front continued here, where it mattered less.

  A dark blue sports car nosed down the side of the building and parked a few spaces from his own. Its door swung open and a black stilettoed shoe emerged, followed by the stockinged leg and slender body of a forty something brunette. Her glossy hair swung over her shoulders, and her cherry-coloured lips already formed a welcoming smile.

  ‘Mr Rutherford? Janice Loveday.’

  Max accepted her cool hand with a look that hid his disdain as the woman’s sharp, artificial nails dug into this palm. While she stalked beside him, her heels scratching the tarmac, Janice explained what he had already worked out, that the building was divided into four exclusive flats. ‘Two with two bedrooms and two with one. Designed for the successful businessman or woman.’ Janice recited and glanced sideways at him saying, ‘I’m thinking of buying one myself. Not sure if that’s a selling point.’

  Max met her eyes and summoned up a flirtatious tone. ‘Definitely a selling point.’ He pulled out a business card and passed it to her. ‘Perhaps we could meet for lunch next week to discuss that.’

  She gave him a wicked look and slipped the card into her bra. Max grinned and ogled her cleavage as invited.

  Inside, the show flat was everything he had hoped: Leather sofas, small, modern kitchen, most of the emphasis on a large luxurious bedroom and en-suite bathroom with jacuzzi.

  When he left her, Max was confident that Janice understood his interest in both the apartment, and herself.

  The following Tuesday, he hung around outside the agency until most of the staff had left for lunch. When all but one had departed,
he pulled open the door to meet the gaze of a young guy at a desk.

  ‘May I help you, Sir?’ The lad rose to greet Max His eagerness to grab a potential sale while his colleagues were out of the office, was clear from his expression. At the same time, Janice bowled in from a back room.

  ‘Don’t worry, Justin; Mr Rutherford and I are old friends.’ She beckoned Max into the rear office and offered him a seat, saying, ‘I won’t be a moment,’ and disappearing through another door to ‘powder her nose.’

  In Max’s experience, he now had a good ten minutes, and after making sure Justin was occupied, he strolled across the room to a series of hooks, hung with bunches of keys that had been labelled with the names of the properties they belonged to. Max glanced again at Justin and slipped the keys for Dukesbury Mansion into his pocket.

  It took a couple of days to secure his own copies of the keys. Then, on their first date, in a wine bar, he bought glass after glass of red wine, watching Janice’s face grow progressively more puce - not an attractive look. When nature called, Janice left her handbag beside her chair and staggered to the ladies. Max checked he was not being observed and buried the keys deep inside the commodious object, hiding them under makeup bags, purse, tissues and other inexplicable items.

  After that one date, Janice concocted an ‘appointment’ and took Max to her semi-detached house, where she treated him to athletic and desperate sex. Very satisfying for them both. Afterwards, as she searched in her bag for lipstick, she let out an ‘Oh,’ of frustration.

  ‘Everything OK,’ Max asked, sitting on the bed to tie his shoelaces.

  ‘I’ve got them.’ Janice dangled the keys at him. ‘I’ve been yelling at everyone for losing them. They’re the keys to Dukesbury Mansion.’

  Max laughed. ‘You won’t be popular.’

  She gave him a guilty look, ‘I might slip them back on the hook and keep quiet.’ She dropped the keys back into her bag, saying, ‘We should go. I didn’t lie. You are a client and we have had a very enjoyable meeting.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Max stood up and pulled her to him for a long kiss.

  ‘So,’ she gave him a crooked smile, ‘To make this ‘meeting’ entirely successful you could tell me you’d like to go ahead with the purchase.’

  ‘True, but I have to talk to my accountant, and, if I were to buy, I would want to make an offer.’ He wagged his finger at her. ‘Don’t think you can seduce me into paying the full asking price.’

  ‘Dammit.’ Janice gave a mock look of anger and stamped her foot.

  Max grinned. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll give you a shout in a week or two.’

  He never called.

  ~~~

  As far as Millie was aware, Max was a property developer. His plan was to take her to Dukesbury Mansion, passing it off as his own work. In the meantime, he prepared the ground. Turning up at the end of lunch service - he did not want to spend money on another expensive meal - he ordered a G and T and invited her to join him. Soon, she was fluttering her eyelashes at him like a tart.

  He had to admit she was engaging. In different circumstances, she might have tempted him. But no - this woman was bad news: selfish and irresponsible. He drained his gin, stood up and strolled round to Millie behind the bar. She straightened up and put down her drink, her eyes on his face as he approached. A repulsive smell of cooking rose from her hair as he murmured into her ear, ‘You and I could be exceptionally good together. Two businesspeople. Independent. No strings. I could make you very happy.’

  Before she had constructed a reply, he treated her upper arm to the lightest stroke and left.

  Some days later, after parking in a dark corner of the supermarket car park, away from any CCTV cameras, he collected Millie from her restaurant for their date. In his bag he carried champagne and two portions of pigeon casserole, provided by an obliging ‘outside-caterer-with-benefits.’

  His seduction was magnificent. He played it cool, teased her, refused her advances until she was panting for him. It was like commanding a willing puppy.

  Once they were both satisfied, it was late – or early. Max drove Millie back, dropping her outside the silent Feast and waiting with artificial thoughtfulness until she nosed her car from its spot behind the gloomy building.

  62 MAX 1995

  On such a beautiful autumn day, what could be better than to visit an art show at Oxford Castle? Max decided to take his bike, to road test it after adjusting his seating position. But so far, the experience had been less than relaxing. On the ring road, cars and lorries thundered past and cut him up at traffic lights, and the smell of diesel got into his nose and throat. Feeling increasingly grumpy, he took to a side road to avoid further hassle. Here, cars were parked nose to tail on both sides, and he congratulated himself that at least on his bike, he could park where he wished. Some way up the road ahead, a dark green car, a people carrier, swerved onto his lane and into a parking space. He muttered under his breath to the anonymous driver, ‘A few minutes later and you would have hit me.’

  Pushing on, he came alongside the front of this same car. The woman inside was shuffling across the car for some reason, and without looking, she threw open the passenger door into his face. Without much hope, but acting on instinct, Max clenched both brakes on and swung his bike sideways in a futile attempt to avoid the heavy metal door. With a scrape and clatter, he and the bike crumpled onto the road in a twisted mess.

  He lay on the tarmac, shaken, and the woman’s face appeared at the window, her nose pressed to the glass and a look of fear and horror on her face.

  By now he knew that he could not move. His legs were tangled in the bike frame and the weight of his body, prevented him from releasing them.

  The woman opened the door a crack and he realised he knew her; well he knew her face. This was Twitch, the wicked woman who had ruined Maurice’s life. How ironic that she should be punishing him rather than the other way around.

  By the time she had escaped from her car and helped him to his feet, he had made a quick plan and managed to tell her that he was a social worker with little money and that this expensive bike represented a major investment.

  She was mortified and without hesitation, offered to reimburse him for the cost of the bike’s repair or replacement.

  This ruination of his bike gave Max the opportunity to contact Twitch again and by this time, he had worked out exactly who his character would be. Instinct told him that she would seek a man with sensitivity. He already knew she was artistic, and of course, she had been raped by Paul. She would need to be played with delicacy.

  In a different life, Max might well have sought out a girl like Twitch. Not the depressed person she had become, but the creative, slender, and beautiful woman she must have been when she first met Maurice. Her artistry gave them something in common. Although he had never pursued a creative career, Max’s ability with a paintbrush had been commented upon by his teachers at school. Of course, his mother had poo pooed his talent. Her son would not be permitted to attract the attention that was her life blood. So Max was reduced to hiding his drawings and paintings behind a chest of drawers in his bedroom.

  When Paul mentioned in one of their sessions that Twitch had begun taking an art class somewhere, Max travelled to every college, hall, and school to find her. He was about to lose hope, when he found her in a secondary school, miles from his home, and joined the class. She was astonished to see him but seemed to accept his explanation that he liked to cycle after work, to clear his head, and had come upon the class by accident.

  He took care not to be remembered by the plummy woman in charge, or his fellow students, keeping his voice low and avoiding conversation. He and Twitch began a friendship, which although awkward to begin with, grew over time into intimacy.

  When he seduced her, on the bank of Little Callun Lake, her abandonment to the pleasure of their coupling, surprised and delighted him.

  63 PAUL

  Paul’s solicitor turned out to be not a ‘he’ b
ut a ‘she. Miss Christabel Lynch of Brocket Neville, Solicitors sat beside Paul, facing DI Poulton and DS Mann.

  Poulton was all business. ‘So, Mr Thomas, perhaps now you can explain how this witness, Mr Jerome Casson, managed to recognise you from your photograph in the paper and identified you as Mrs Owen’s killer.’

  ‘No idea, Inspector. Mistaken identity?’ He tried to put sincerity into his voice but still, he sounded as if he was lying. Beside him, Christabel gave his arm a warning squeeze. In her forties she wore black rimmed reading glasses that she popped on and off her nose as she studied first the officers, then her notes.

  Poulton sat back and threw his pen onto the table. ‘It would be difficult to mistake you for Mr Owen, I think. Your builds are quite different and your hair at that time was sandy, I believe, and cropped short. Mr Owen on the other hand was taller, 6ft, with brown hair cut on the long side.

  Paul ran a hand over his silvering head. ‘No comment.’

  The female officer, Jennifer Mann, leaned towards him over her crossed arms. ‘Come on, Paul. It will better for you in the long run if you co-operate.’

  ‘No comment.’ Paul kept his eyes on the wall behind her, his face stony.

  Officer Poulton interrupted. ‘Are you aware that your daughter, Kitty, contributed to our investigation? We have her notes relating to times and places from your past. It was she who uncovered this witness.’

  Paul’s voice grew louder. ‘I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t do that.’

  Miss Lynch murmured in his ear that he should keep a lid on it.

  Poulton rammed home his advantage. ‘I wonder what Kitty thought when she found out.’ Paul glared, and Poulton continued, ‘Perhaps you knew what she was working on. You were probably worried that she might find something to incriminate you.’ He cocked his head. ‘So, what I’m wondering is...’ Suddenly his face was about six inches from Paul’s, ‘Did you attempt to murder your own daughter?’