IN THE SHADOW OF STRANGERS: A wealthy man is about to change her destiny …but it’s a secret.

by Wendy Reakes

  “No, just leave her now. She may cause a scene and that would be worse. Good god, of all people.”

  Yvonne caught them looking at her and made her way through the mourners who were drinking tea from Marjorie’s best Villeroy & Boch china. “Darlings,” she said, puckering her lips and kissing them both in mid-air. An excessive amount of Chanel No.5 filled Katherine’s senses. “A great loss to us all, darlings.” Yvonne put her hand on Marjorie’s forearm, in the same place Katherine had just removed hers. The gesture was a condescending one as opposed to Katherine’s, made out of love and concern. “How are you bearing up?” Yvonne asked.

  “We were sorry to hear about you and Frank,” Katherine said.

  “Huh!” Yvonne spat. “What’s there to be sorry about? The man’s scum, darling. You know he left me high and dry. Never trust a fella, Kath babe. They’re all scum.” Then, as an afterthought she said, “Except for my Ben of course. He was a real gent, my boy.” Yvonne looked like she was going to cry. “Speaking of which, what’s going to happen to Ben’s share of Lance’s estate?”

  Marjorie spluttered as she sipped from her glass of sherry. Suddenly she began to laugh, uncontrollably, hysterically and very uncharacteristically. Yvonne stepped to one side as Katherine took the glass from Marjorie’s hand and patted her back. “Are you all right?” she whispered. It was all Marjorie could do to stop herself from laughing more. Everyone was staring as tears rolled down her cheeks, her mouth fixed in a permanent smile as if her mouth was paralysed.

  Yvonne looked at everyone staring with a look of disgust on her face. “What a way to behave,” she said. “It’s indecent.” She reached for a glass of sherry from a passing waiter as Jane and Katherine guided Marjorie to the study to compose herself in private.

  “Get her some water, Jane,” Katherine said as she gentl;y forced Marjorie into a plaid wing-back chair.

  Marjorie dabbed her eyes and brushed her linen handkerchief under her lashes. She was shaking as if she was freezing cold. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said with her lips trembling. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “It was that idiot woman. She’s enough to make anyone nuts.”

  “Oh, was I that bad?”

  Katherine realised her mistake and tries to redeem herself. “No, of course not! I was just speaking hypothetically,” she said smoothing Marjorie’s sleeve.

  “She sent Lance a letter you know. A couple of weeks ago!” Marjorie sniffed. It was about the past mostly and an embarrassing read, to be truthful.” Marjorie cast her eyes to the crumpled linen handkerchief in her hand. “But, apart from all of that, she said that she was going away somewhere because she feared for her life, that Lance was the only one she could trust to take care of her side of things, if by any chance, something went wrong.” Marjorie took Katherine’s hand. “She said she suspected Frank Warner killed Ben.”

  Katherine felt the colour drain from her face. “That’s ridiculous. The woman’s crazy. Things like that don’t happen in real life.” She tossed her head and threw her hair back over her shoulders. I can see the headlines, ‘Stepson killed by stepfather’s bomb!’ “No, I don’t think so,” she finished.

  “Someone killed him, Katherine.”

  “Let’s drop it, Marjorie. I can’t think about that at the moment. I’m more concerned about you. This has been such an ordeal.”

  Marjorie suddenly straightened her back as if she was determined to shake away all thoughts of Yvonne Warner. “Look, dear, I wasn’t going to mention this today, but after Ben died, Lance made a provision for you in his will.”

  “For me? What is it?”

  “Money!” Marjorie said. “A lot of money, in fact! Two-hundred-thousand pounds.”

  Katherine gasped as she moved from the floor to the chair next to Marjorie’s, at the side of Lance’s antique mahogany desk. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were going to say an ornament or trinket.” She glanced at Lance’s empty chair behind his desk, imagining him penning his last will and testament and including her name. She was deeply moved and honoured that he had thought of her that way. “Why!” she whispered.

  “He wanted you to finish your restaurants. You already told him the Coach cost seventy thousand so he wanted to give you twice that to refurbish the other two, and then some. And you are his son’s widow. Ben would have got considerably more if he’d out lived his father.”

  Katherine thought about the Coach and the waiting projects on the other two pubs. “But this means I can get started on the other sites right away.” She sees a look of concern in Marjorie’s eyes. “What is it?”

  “There’s something else. Again, I wasn’t going to mention it today but…well the fact is, Katherine dear…the truth is…” Marjorie was building up to something and Katherine knew it wasn’t going to be good, just by the look in her eyes. She looked embarrassed, actually.

  “What?”

  “It’s this Frank Warner business…” Marjorie said slowly. “What Yvonne was saying about him…It’s Jane and Lucy, you see. Jane’s career is about to take off and I can’t allow anything else to interfere in their lives, they’ve already been through so much…what with Ben and their father…”

  Katherine was confused. She couldn’t grasp what Marjorie was getting at. “What are you saying?”

  Marjorie’s tears were rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t see you anymore, Katherine,” she said, “I’m sorry!”

  Katherine stopped breathing. She felt like she’d been kicked in the chest and now her heart was broken.

  She could hear Marjorie’s voice calling after her as she raced out of the door, past the mourners in the hallway and out onto the driveway. She tore down the street where her car was parked on a leafy avenue. Her hands shook so much she could barely hold her keys. She climbed in and desperately pulled on the seatbelt. She put her foot on the accelerator and pulled out of the parking space. Then, when she was far enough away, she slammed on the brakes and rested her head on the steering wheel, letting those mournful tears fall.

  Chapter 66

  “Brian, we’re in,” Jack Taylor said.

  Detective Inspector Brian Watts spoke on the other end of the phone. “That’s good news. I appreciate this, Jack.”

  “I hope so, mate. Billy’s a good man. I don’t want anything happening to him.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him. He just needs to keep his ear close to the ground.”

  “I don’t know how you can be so sure that he would hear anything you can use. He’s a lorry driver, not Sherlock Holmes.” Jack was suddenly wondering why he’d agreed to get involved in an undercover operation that would expose Frank Warner as a criminal and murderer. As for Billie, it had nothing to do with him. “He’s going in there to work, that’s all. Okay, Brian? Besides, it could be months before he finds out anything and he may not even pick up a wine run.”

  “Then months it will be. The point is, we’ve got someone on the inside, Jack. Anyway, I know what you drivers are like. You’re like a bunch of old ladies when it comes to a bit of intrigue. If anything’s going down, he’ll find out soon enough!” D.I Watts was more than happy with the arrangement. To put a real driver in instead of one of his own men was crucial to his plan. If he pulled it off, which he would surely do, he’d have Frank Warner strung-up so fast his feet wouldn’t touch the ground. Then they can throw away the key. “I’m sorry it had to be Manchester but that’s where Warner’s bought his new transport company.”

  “That’s not a problem. Billy hasn’t got family down here anyway. He’s from Liverpool so it looks natural enough that he would look for a job with a Manchester firm. I just wish you’d put one of your own people in, that’s all,” Jack said.

  “I told you, I couldn’t do that. Warner could probably smell old bill a mile off. It had to be someone authentic. The risk is too great.”

  “Well, okay. I’m keeping close contact with Billy over the next few weeks, so I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”


  “You do that. Appreciate this, mate.”

  “Yeah, right!” Jack said before he hung up.

  In September, four weeks after Billy was appointed as a driver for Frank Warner’s transport firm, he was given an assignment. He rang Jack immediately.

  “I’m going out tomorrow, to Bordeaux. I’m supposed to pick up a wine shipment on Tuesday; three hundred and fifty cases. I’ve got to drop it at a café in Shepherds Bush at 5 p.m. on Thursday.”

  “Okay! Forget everything else and just do your job. Let the police do theirs. Go steady, Billy.”

  Jack telephoned Brian Watts. “We’re on,” he said. “But you’re going to have to move fast.”

  Chapter 67

  Seventy or more hours later, Billy brought his shipment back to English soil. He was in Shepherd's Bush by five o’clock Thursday night. The café was closed.

  Billy jumped out of his cab leaving his vehicle on double yellow lines with his hazard lights flashing. He rang the bell to the café, twice but no one came. Then, from around the back, four men appeared, each pushing an empty sack-truck.

  Billy unlocked the back of the trailer and wound down the tail-lift. He jumped in with one of the men and they both started stacking boxes from inside as the other three men loaded the sack-trucks, four cases a time. Then they wheeled them around the back of the café.

  An hour later, Billy helped load the final four cases and followed the last trolley around the back. His load was in the yard, stacked ten-a-piece. “You can go,” one of the men said, signing Billy’s delivery sheet.

  Billy got back into his cab and started up the engine. He moved off slowly, just as four white transit vans pulled up in his place, against the pavement outside the café. Billy watched as the first van backed into the yard while the other three remained on the curb. As Billy hit red lights, he came to a stand-still and watched in his rear view mirror, as the first van pulled out and the second reversed into the yard in its place. Then, when the lights turned green, Billy moved on, his eyes fixed on the road in front, out of sight of the four men, the four vans and the café.

  DI Watts sAt on surveillance in the four-manned unmarked car across the street. Around the corner, another unmarked car waited for his direction. He spoke on his radio to alert two more vehicles. He hadn’t planned on the load splitting, so now he had to pull in more men and two more cars.

  The traffic on the Shepherd's Bush roundabout was still heavy, still picking up rush hour traffic, still holding everyone up. He knew the back-up cars wouldn’t get there in time. He had no choice but to take the first transit and follow that. He spoke on his radio and instructed the second car to follow the second van. The other two vans would have to be picked up as soon as the other two back-up cars arrived.

  Watts and his three officers stayed calm as their car followed the first white van. It moved through lanes, up streets, and headed north on the M40. Keeping the van in sight, he spoke on the radio to check the whereabouts of the other cars. The second unmarked car was keeping a close tail, heading west on the M3. The other two back-up cars weren’t far off. They’d been told to keep their sirens off and now they were dodging traffic, discreetly and quietly trying to reach the location.

  Watts kept his radio close to his ear waiting for updates. The chances were the last two vans had already left. He was right. They were long gone. D.I Watts kept his head. If all else failed, he’d still have the first and the second vans. He just needed to bide his time.

  Nearly three-hours later, the van in front turned off the M6 onto the M62 sign-posted Liverpool. They followed at a discreet distance as he spoke on the radio. The second car was in Exeter, still on the tail of the second van. After scouting the area, the last two cars had definitely lost the last two vans. It was confirmed. It was over. They could go home.

  Watts and his men in the unmarked car followed the white van towards the city centre, turning right as the van in front turned right into Aigburth. They pulled over on the opposite side of the road as the white van pulled up outside a Fruit & Vegetable emporium on the main drag. They watched the driver jump out. They saw him look from left to right and go to the entrance of the shop.

  The shop was closed for the night. It was nearly nine o’clock and it was dark. A face appeared at a side door. Watts and his men watched as the man at the door and the driver unlocked the van from the back. They started hauling boxes out, and as soon as the first four boxes hit the shop floor, Detective Inspector Brian Watts and his men moved in.

  The two men in the shop raised their hands when D.I Watts flashed his badge. They watched from the side wall as his men tore open cases marked Bordeaux Fine Wine. The first box, and the second, the third and the fourth, were not filled with long, highly polished bottles of dark red wine. Instead, they were filled with courgettes, highly polished, long and green.

  Watts spoke on his radio with the second car. They’d apprehended the driver. They were outside the location; a Fruit & Veg Emporium in Taunton. The cases were full of grapes; black and ripe.

  It was the end of the line.

  They’d been set up.

  Brian Watts took a walk along the pavement, kicking an abandoned cabbage leaf at the side of the emporium, grazing his size twelve’s on an uneven slab stone. He bent down to wipe away the grey coloured dust mark from the toe of his polished black shoe. He glanced back and watched his men lean the two suspects up against the unmarked car, reading them their rights.

  He heard one of his men talking on the radio, “Get Billy the driver out…”

  Detective Inspector Watt’s thoughts were private as he wiped the dust off his hand onto his jacket. Frank Warner must have someone on the inside; someone who knew their every move. He assumed the first two vans had been already loaded with the courgettes and the grapes.

  It was all a sick joke! Frank Warner had played them like idiots. The man was low life, a murderer, a crook…But even he, D.I Brian Watts, had to admit Warner was a lot cleverer than he’d given him credit for. Now, even with the crimes, the suspects and the witnesses…even now, he still had nothing.

  He spat in the gutter at the side of the pavement.

  “Proof zilch!” he muttered.

  End of Part Two

  Part Three

  Chapter 68

  1999

  She was looking at herself in the mirror in the corner of the workshop. Madge, her tailor, was tucking up the hem of her jacket with pins protruding from her lips and a pensive frown on her face. “Are you sure you want the hem of the skirt a little longer, Katherine?” she muttered. “On the knee…? When you have such lovely long legs, you could afford to go a lot higher.”

  “I’ve had it with the shorter length,” she replied. The whole ‘power dressing’ thing is over for me. I’ve got nothing to prove anymore and besides, I feel more comfortable with a longer length. “I’m going demurely into the new millennium.”

  She’d found Madge and her tiny shop down a back alley in Bristol. It had been a chance meeting. One day she’d admired one of her manager’s suits. The cut was divine and she told him so but she joked that she couldn’t understand how he could afford such luxury on the money she paid him. He told her about Madge. “She’s got a dusty old shop which nobody seems to frequent. She’s a master tailor. Her father taught her and she inherited his shop when he died. Her suits are superb.” He scribbled her number down. “If you’ve got a boyfriend who wants his suits made for next to nothing, give her a call.”

  Madge, real name Margaret Kolinsky, was Polish. She was a tailor and a seamstress with absolutely no business acumen whatsoever. Her shop, located down the alley, had a couple of seventies-style dummies in the window and the inside was gloomy and uncared for, like stepping back into the seventies itself. Her workroom at the back was cluttered with rolls of fabrics and cotton reels and she had an enormous cutting table in its centre with a sewing machine at one end. In the corner, next to a blackened window looking out onto another brick alley, was a torn silk screen,
a stand-alone mirror, and a small wooden platform which Katherine was now standing upon.

  When she met her for the first time, by appointment only, Madge had been cautious. She normally only made suits for men, she’s said, but Katherine had persuaded her to make her a one-off. She made her a fitted navy blue pin-stripe jacket with a short slim-line skirt. It was Katherine’s favourite suit and I still wore it, even now. That was two-years ago and since then she’d commissioned Madge to make all her business suits: twelve two-pieces a year; six for the winter and six for the summer.

  “It looks good.” Madge stood back to observe the suit, removing the pins protruding from her mouth. “Right then, Katherine. I’m going to adjust the lapels a bit and then we’re finished.”

  Katherine smiled at the reference to the lapel. She remembered the time she’d walked into Don Banks Brewers when she’d enquired about buying the Coach. She’d had no lapel then. She had to pin her visitor's badge on her handbag because the clothes she had been wearing wouldn’t accommodate it.

  “There, that should do it.” Madge peeled off the light grey jacket from her shoulders.

  As she began to get dressed she recalled two years before in 1997 when she went back into the Don Banks Brewers building for a second time, but that time was by invitation.

  “Ms. Killa?” a voice had announced behind her. “I’m Mr. Bank’s personal assistant, Shelley Bride.”

  She didn’t flinch when she realised who she was. Katherine looked at her face to see if there was any resemblance to the girl who had sat at the reception desk six-years earlier, but there was none. She was dressed like her, in a suit, with a striped waistcoat, a tight white cotton shirt beneath and four-inch stacked heels. We’re all power mad, thought Katherine as she followed Shelley Bride to the lifts.