by A B Morgan
Contents
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
This book is dedicated to my brother Simon,
with thanks for all the years of brotherly love and encouragement.
And a special thank you to my good friend Cherry
for uttering the words ‘knit one, purl one, stab one.’
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
St Cuthbert’s secure forensic unit
Ella Fitzwilliam pulled the bingo ball from a flap at the base of the rotating cage and called out its number. ‘Garden gate, number eight.’ The nine women in the room didn’t respond other than to cast their eyes over the cards laid on the tables in front of them. Each woman held a fat nib marker-pen poised in the air. All apart from the lady seated at the back wall. She was knitting. Clack, clack, clack.
Waiting for a response, raised murmurs reached Ella and she held a finger in the air, seemingly fooled into anticipating a winning shout. ‘Any luck? No? That’s a shame. Today’s exciting prize, for a full house, is a box of chocolates. Yes, they’re cheap ones, but they are chocolates nevertheless.’
There was movement to Ella’s right. Through the glass panel of the door she could see a man’s face, silver haired, scarred and inquisitive. ‘Brilliant,’ she whispered to herself in weary resignation. ‘He had the balls to show up after all. Just what I bloody-well need.’ Behind him stood the familiar outline of Consultant Psychiatrist Dr Sandra Yellnow, rigid, smiling and false.
The man staring at Ella was depressingly recognisable, it was Konrad Neale – a TV journalist hugely popular with the British public. Ella did not admire him. Not in the slightest. Rather, he was on a small list of people who kept her awake at night as she plotted complex evil revenge. To her he was a self-serving egotistical bastard who’d thoughtlessly exploited her. Purposefully, she avoided looking at him and instead reached for another bingo ball.
‘Kelly’s eye, number one.’ This amused her. Konrad Neale only had one eye and he always wore a patch to cover the missing one, making him strangely attractive despite the facial damage to his once symmetrical good looks.
She waited while three of her fellow patients dabbed at their cards. There was no point in rushing through the game; most of the players were so doped up on medication they could barely think. Indeed, Hairy Celeste had already fallen asleep and was dribbling from the side of her mouth, straggly hair flopped across her bingo card.
Crystal and Meg, an inseparable duo, were checking each other’s numbers. ‘Piss off. That’s mine,’ Crystal insisted, sliding the oblong card away from Meg, who made a vain attempt to hold it in place.
‘No, that’s my card.’
‘Not now it’s not. Got a problem with that, or are you gonna strangle me in my bed like you did to your kids?’ Crystal was the more conniving of the two; whereas Meg was dragged along with whatever the latest scheme was, trying to avoid becoming a victim of Crystal’s vile retribution for any mild breach of her rules – rules that shifted and changed as frequently as the tides.
‘Get on with it you fat bint,’ Crystal yelled at Ella, who by now was lost in unpleasant reverie about her own plight, such thoughts triggered by the sight of the man at the door. It was bad enough having to take drugs that made her dopey and pile on the pounds. But finding herself incarcerated for killing a man who deserved it, was made considerably worse by the famous Konrad Neale, who’d accusing her of things she did not do. He made her out to be a maniacal double murderer, telling the whole of Great Britain in one of his most fabled documentaries – “Table Eighty-eight and the Two Fat Ladies”.
And the wanker of year award goes to …
Ella shook herself. The constant ticking of the knitting needles from the back of the room had started to annoy her. She threw an irritated look at the cause, a pasty-faced lady who stared from slate-grey eyes into nowhere. The woman had only been there two weeks and already most patients were calling her a snotty bitch.
‘Three and Two, thirty-two.’
‘Shut up, Geoffrey. I can’t hear the friggin’ numbers,’ Meg shouted to herself. She frowned. There were no men in the room. St Cuthbert’s Hospital was for women only.
Much to Ella’s amazement, Meg coped daily with the voice in her head and only very infrequently did she cry out, begging him to give her some respite. Today was one of those more testing days.
Dr Yellnow popped her elfin head around the door and made a sharp announcement, her Canadian accent so familiar to everyone in her care. ‘Ella, please let someone else take over as caller, I wish to see you in room three. You have a visitor.’
A groan went up, causing Hairy Celeste to stir. She wiped her slimy mouth with the back of her hand and raised her head to enquire about the protest. Crystal was the first to object. ‘No, Doc, that’s not fair. Ella’s the best. She’s professional, everyone else is crap.’
‘Yeah and if we do the calling, we lose out on the prize,’ Meg whined in singsong Rhonda Valley tones, nudging Crystal.
Dr Yellnow screwed up her nose. ‘That’s not really my problem. If you speak to her nicely, perhaps you could persuade Abigail to do the calling for you. She’s not playing along.’
All eyes turned to the pallid woman still resolutely knitting.
‘That toffee-nosed skeleton? She never plays along. She won’t even speak to the likes of us mere mortals,’ Meg said. ‘Ella, you ask her. She talks to you, mind.’
‘Would you do it?’ Ella asked gently, pointing at the cheap bingo set.
‘No, thank you, I’m here for assessment, not to entertain the inmates.’ The voice was breathy, her pronunciation precise. Abigail ignored the swearing, the double digits aimed skyward, and the general haranguing, preferring to knit her way out of an awkward situation. It seemed to work; the group shunned her once more.
Dr Yellnow left the disgruntled gaggle to argue amongst themselves. Ella knew she was expected to do the same but made a quick suggestion before reaching for the door handle. ‘Meg, you do the calling, you’ve done it before, and anyone who wins will share the chocolates with you. How about that?’
> Crystal stood, scraping her chair across the floor. ‘No. She’s shit at calling. Can’t even do the rhymes for the numbers, she makes it all up. Two little fags eleven is absolute bollocks. I’ll do it, and anyone who wins can give me fifty per cent of the chocolates. No negotiation.’
With a heavy heart, Ella reached out and pulled the door open. The detestable Konrad Neale was waiting for her.
CHAPTER TWO
What’s she doing here?
Konrad stood at the door, watching Ella for several minutes before she seemed to notice his presence. It gave him time to take in the scene; a stark utilitarian room for social activities and entertainment. Was this it? Bingo for the mentally ill played with about as much gusto as he usually dredged up when settling his accountant’s bill.
Looking at her closely, he realised the unflattering clothing did Ella no favours and it was apparent she’d gained more weight since he’d last seen her. She’d gone from plumptious to bulbous in the space of two years and it saddened him. Like the players, she too wore the weary face of enforced cooperation. Only one of the women had taken care in her appearance, the rest were grey unkempt figures. Indeed, the only colour on display was a tomato-red bandana, holding Ella’s thick mane of chestnut hair away from her rounded face. It represented the last vestige of her old, more vibrant, self.
Dragging his gaze away from Ella for a second or two, his attention drifted to the back of the room, where his eye locked onto a painfully thin woman beavering away, knitting needles flashing. She was different to the other patients: neat, contained, and imperious.
He stiffened and remained rooted to the spot until Sandra Yellnow finished giving instructions to Ella, took his elbow, and directed him away.
‘The lady doing the knitting, the one you called Abigail, is that who I think it is?’ Konrad asked as they stepped into a featureless room some fifty yards along a desolate corridor.
‘I’m afraid I can neither confirm nor deny the identity of any of my patients.’
He was being given a stern look, but his need to delve persisted. ‘Right. Only I have to ask, I’m afraid. You see, I can’t be within the same building – if it is her.’
‘Mr Neale, if you’re angling for a scoop, you are in danger of being barred from this unit. Now take a seat while we wait for Ella. Count yourself fortunate that she’s agreed to see you at all, and you’d do well to respect the rights of our other patients by focussing on the reason behind your visit today.’
Konrad was wrestling with nerves, not purely about meeting Ella, but about how he was going to pull off the biggest media coup the UK had seen in many a year.
Abigail Nithercott. What’s she doing in a secure psychiatric unit?
This sort of news couldn’t possibly stay secret for long. It pitted him against the clock, but he was determined to nab the exclusive before anyone else got wind of it. There’d been rumours about Abigail, but her troublesome mental health was now on show for him to see.
Perspiration sprang onto his upper lip and his stomach turned a few unexpected flips. Placing his elbows on the table, he noticed a fine tremor in his fingers caused by adrenalin. He linked them together and looked around the depressing airless room twiddling his thumbs.
Thinking, plotting and planning.
Dr Yellnow stood propping the door open. She would have a lot of answers to his burning questions, but he knew he couldn’t ask her anything more without scuppering his chances of finding out the facts.
Had Abigail Nithercott finally cracked? Had she come unglued and at last confessed to killing her in-laws or, even better, accused her husband Guy of the same?
While he waited, Konrad engaged in one of his fantasy moments in which he approached Dr Yellnow, grabbed her by the throat and shook her until she told him exactly what he wanted to know. ‘Did Abigail murder Dominic and Beulah Nithercott in their beds? Did Guy have a hand in their deaths? Well? Did he?’ he would’ve asked. If only it were that easy to get the answers.
He re-grounded himself as soon as he heard Ella striding down the corridor.
She entered the room cautiously as Konrad took to his feet. He extended a hand. She took it, making the gesture last for as short a time as possible. Clearly, touching him wasn’t pleasant and neither was being in his company.
‘You recall meeting Mr Neale before?’ Dr Yellnow asked her.
‘How could I forget?’ Ella replied, squeezing the words out.
Konrad had rehearsed a speech, but he’d been so engrossed in his own scheming he’d almost forgotten why he was at St Cuthbert’s Hospital. However, seeing Ella at close quarters, he was soon back to reality. He stumbled over his opening lines. ‘I’ve come to say…er, to apologise.’
The last time he’d seen her she couldn’t have been more different. He’d been witness to her arrest and he knew the reason she was detained on a section of the Mental Health Act. It was hard to imagine she was capable of killing a man. But he’d also met her when she was the vivacious, stylish girl who’d so impressed him with her bubbly personality and resolve. How cruel her illness had been to her, and how degrading the treatment.
The public had been enthralled by her story, and he’d capitalised on it for his own ends.
‘I received your letter,’ Ella said. ‘I’m not clear why you’ve decided to visit me in person and I’m not sure what you’re hoping for.’
He decided to be honest. ‘My wife insisted a face-to-face apology was in order, and to let you know, in person, that I’ll be making a public announcement detailing my own shortcomings and making known my apology to you.’ He inhaled deeply, scratching at his temple. ‘This may sound a little crass, but would you consider giving me a formal TV interview? It’s important for viewers to hear your side of the story.’
Ella indicated a chair. ‘May I sit?’
Konrad berated himself. In his haste to blurt out an apology he’d forgotten basic manners. ‘Of course. Would you like us to speak in private?’ he asked.
Having received approval from Ella, Konrad stared at Dr Yellnow, expecting her to take her leave, but she didn’t. ‘Dr Yellnow? Please, some time alone with Miss Fitzwilliam, if I may?’
‘If you insist,’ came the reluctant reply. ‘Should you need to attract a member of staff, please make use of the panic bar.’ The psychiatrist pointed to a metal strip around the walls. ‘Just hit it with the palm of your hand and someone will come running.’
Konrad saw Ella wheel her eyeballs in contempt. He didn’t speak again until the doctor closed the door and could be heard making her way along the echoing corridor.
‘So, how are you doing since we last met?’ Konrad asked. His voice quavered because at that moment an idea struck him. Ella could be his passport to the investigative journalists’ hall of fame. She could furnish him with all he needed to know about Abigail Nithercott. The media storm would be biblical. Martin Bashir’s interview with Michael Jackson would wither into insignificance compared to this magnificent offering.
Ella shot him a pitying glance. ‘There’ll be a nurse outside,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid, help is at hand. Besides, I’m not planning on battering you to death if that’s what you’re worried about.’
By coughing into his hand, Konrad bought some time to think. He wasn’t afraid of her, but this was a most unsettling scenario. No film crew at his side, no prepared script, no back up, and no witness to what he was about to say, but God was it exhilarating!
‘Look,’ he said, both hands splayed flat onto the table to give the impression he was being open. ‘I made a massive mistake and I need to find a way of rectifying that. I want to help you.’
Ella angled forward in her seat. ‘Better late than never, I suppose. What did you have in mind? A documentary about what it’s like to live in a psychiatric unit surrounded by mad women and psychopaths? What it’s like to know that when you have a mental illness no one ever believes you’re innocent even when proven innocent? Maybe you’d like to hear what it’s like bei
ng at the mercy of an incompetent consultant psychiatrist? How about that for starters?’
‘Is that what you want?’
Please, please, please be what you want, he thought, as sweat sucked his shirt into the small of his back.
‘No of course it’s not,’ she replied curtly. ‘Be the subject of yet another of your tacky documentaries? God forbid.’ Ella tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘What I really want is for someone – not you – to investigate that so-called psychiatrist Dr Sandra Yellnow, and make sure I get transferred to prison.’
Konrad was thrown. ‘You want to go to prison?’
‘Yes, Mr Neale. I was sentenced in court like any other criminal, but because I’m under a hospital order with restrictions, there’s no time limit on how long they can keep me here. In prison I do my time then, ta-dah! they release me, penance paid. But not in here, no, because in here…’ she said poking a finger at the vinyl floor, ‘… in here the consultant, a bunch of do-gooders and the Ministry of Justice decide if and when you can be discharged. Do you think I look mad enough to be kept locked up and treated indefinitely? Do I deserve to be here for ever?’
He saw angry tears; he saw a woman who was desperate, but not insane. ‘You don’t look mad to me. Certainly not as deranged as the last time I saw you.’
‘But you are not a forensic psychiatrist, Mr Neale. So, unless you can find me someone who can actually help to challenge my section, then I suggest you bugger off and leave me to fester.’
The last thing Konrad wanted was to alienate Ella. At the very least he owed her an apology. But in truth she merited more than a “sorry” for the way he led the viewing public to believe she was a homicidal serial killer. She wasn’t. She was a decent person; unlike many he’d come across in his professional career. His wife Lorna had become quite preoccupied by Ella’s predicament and she, for one, would never forgive him for offending the woman he wanted to make amends with.
He softened his voice and ramped up the sincerity. ‘Ella, if the public have chance to see the real you, hear your version of the facts, and learn about how unfairly you’ve been treated, then that can become a powerful force for change. The television company will fund research into the legalities of your detention. We’ll even investigate your doctor if you think it will help.’
