by A B Morgan
Seeing the embarrassment on the faces of his visitors, Konrad stepped in to rescue them. ‘That’s quite enough, George. Mr Peplow doesn’t need to smell your aftershave on his clothes for the rest of the day.’ Konrad waved a sulky George back into the lift and shook hands with Logan. The affable welcome was interrupted.
‘Hello, Mr Neale, so pleased to meet you. I’m Katrina.’ Sashaying towards him, Kat held out her hand, and held on to his just long enough to be considered too long, leaving Konrad with a clear message about her level of interest in him.
This was not a new experience, far from it, but he’d had his fill of brainless lusty gold-diggers. Her fluttering false eyelashes, rock-hard chest and airbrushed cosmetics did nothing for him. It was the sort of woman his ex-wife turned into, and he despised her for it. He much preferred a female with intelligence and natural beauty, like Lorna or Kate Humble.
He held a poorly disguised fancy for fellow TV presenter Kate Humble, to the degree that he’d be tempted to get his wellies on and become a wildlife presenter if it meant tramping through the forests and wilderness with her. A grin crossed his face at the very thought of the delicious Kate Humble, but with important matters pressing, he put fantasy to the back of his mind and led the way down a carpeted corridor.
Once settled into the comfortable control room, drinks offered and niceties dispensed with, Konrad passed a large brown envelope to Logan.
‘This arrived for you late yesterday. Security scanned the package and it seems harmless. Some documents by the look of things, but I thought you would want to have it before we begin.’ This was Konrad’s deliberate ploy to gauge Logan’s reaction, and it was fascinating to watch the sequence of events as they played out.
Accepting the package somewhat gingerly for a rugby forward, Logan felt it and glanced at Kat.
‘Get on with it,’ she prompted. ‘We mustn’t keep Mr Neale waiting.’
‘Please, call me Konrad.’
‘I will. Thanks,’ Kat replied, inclining her head, a winning smile shining forth.
An embarrassing moment occurred when Logan failed to open the packaging. ‘Lost my strength since I gave up playing full-time,’ he joked, accepting a pen from Konrad to use as a tool. ‘Here we go.’
During the delay between releasing the contents, reading the letter and flipping open a colourful folder containing tickets, Konrad kept his once roving eye aimed at Logan. Despite this, Kat’s blatant flirtatious movements were hard to ignore; a lick of the lips, a roll of the hips and a completely unnecessary stretch of the torso which resulted in her bulbous breasts being thrust in his direction.
How cruel you are, young lady. How tempting and dangerous… but not to me. To me your efforts are pathetic and rather ugly.
All at once Logan became much less tense. ‘Excellent. I’ve been sent four tickets for this year’s Le Mans, for my birthday. Ha! I wasn’t expecting that. I’ll need to book somewhere for us to stay.’
With those words he recaptured Kat’s attention.
‘I don’t want to go to a stupid car race,’ she said, appearing offended. ‘Who sent you those?’
Logan showed her the covering letter and she immediately held her tongue in check. ‘Oh, well in that case you can’t possibly turn them down,’ she said, shooting a warning look Konrad couldn’t decipher. But in that short time he managed to catch sight of a logo printed at the top of the covering letter. Global Enterprises. ‘An admirer?’ he asked.
‘Sort of. Thanks for keeping it safe. I can’t think why it was sent here and not to our home address… or to Waveney…’ Logan was caught up in his own thoughts, which were along the same lines as the ones Konrad was having. Why was the package delivered to Marriot and Weston’s?
‘Perhaps a works outing?’ Konrad suggested, risking a show of his cards. ‘I hear Guy does a lot of business in the world of motor sport, and I understand you both work for him now. Different roles entirely of course, but it must make for interesting conversation after work.’
‘We don’t discuss anything—’ Kat was cut off mid-sentence as Logan passed her a smaller envelope. ‘This one’s for you,’ he said. ‘Not an invitation to motor racing by the looks of things.’ Logan and Kat shared another exchange of unspoken warnings.
‘No, it seems not,’ Kat muttered, sinking back into the chair as she read the invitation on a card. ‘Me, and a friend of my choice are invited to… Well, of all the cheap… how insulting.’ The next words were uttered before Logan jabbed her with a foot on her shin. ‘Jesus, is this Guy’s idea of a jo— Ouch, you bastard!’
Kat simultaneously placed one hand on her lower leg and the other to her mouth, dropping the invitation card. ‘Shit. You didn’t hear any of that, did you?’ she said to Konrad.
‘Me?’ he replied, all innocent and child-like. He passed her the card from the floor, taking less than a second to read the print at the top. ‘Didn’t hear a thing. Now, shall we press on with the task in hand?’ He made himself sound nonplussed and keen to proceed with the interview. In sharp contrast, Kat and Logan appeared far from ready for serious questions and were hastily hiding the offending invites and tickets in Kat’s voluminous designer handbag. Their obvious desire for an argument would have to wait.
‘Can we start with the lovely Katrina?’ Konrad asked, as if permission from Logan was required. ‘My editor Netty will be here in a minute, Logan. She’ll run through the questions we have in mind. Give you chance to think before you speak.’
‘That’s a good idea. I made a right cock-up of the Crimewatch Skype interview.’
‘You’ll be fine with us. Netty is as professional as you can get. I’ve worked with her for years and we’re old friends. As odd as it sounds, the preparation will make it seem much more natural.’ Konrad winked at him and took to his feet. ‘I don’t need too much of your time, Katrina, but a few words from you would be a great addition to the overall feel of the documentary. You know how it goes: we impart some facts, re-enact certain events using actors and then we interview the real victims. In this case we’re focussing on the life of celebrities and the sad fact that they will inevitably attract stalkers. What we want to delve into is the price they pay for their fame.’
Konrad gently herded Kat into an adjoining room. They entered a studio with one camera, a microphone on a boom, two chairs and mood lighting. A thick blackout blind covered the window between the studio and the control room next-door.
In her precarious high heels, Kat was Konrad’s height. Shuddering internally, he allowed her to brush against him as she slinked into the room. Then he put a stop to her flirtations. ‘Hi, Mike. Camera all set? Sound good to go?’
Kat’s face fell. ‘Oh, I thought we’d be alone?’
‘Good grief, whatever gave you that idea?’ Konrad teased. He enjoyed watching her flounder. ‘Mike, this is Katrina. She’s Logan Peplow’s partner. Is that the right term? Or is it fiancée yet?’
It didn’t take long. Less than ten minutes later she reappeared with Konrad and made her way to where Logan remained seated, talking with Netty. Kat’s face was one of bewilderment.
‘Hello, Netty. Is our boy ready to go?’ Konrad asked, ignoring Kat as if she were no longer of interest to him, because she wasn’t.
‘All ready,’ Netty replied, tapping a clipboard held to her ample chest. She rolled to her feet with an unladylike grunt. Konrad smiled inwardly. Netty was a sharp one. She knew what he’d been up to because they’d worked together for years. ‘Just a quick word before we begin?’ she asked, flicking a switch on a console of knobs and dials as she passed by on her way to consult with him. A small red light glowed.
‘Of course, come into my parlour.’ Konrad gestured for Netty to enter the studio, thus leaving Logan and Kat alone together for the first time since they’d entered the building.
The studio was fully soundproofed; the control room was not. It held an intercom system so that studio could talk to the producer or editor who usually sat there, and vice ve
rsa.
Like three naughty school children, Mike the cameraman, Netty and Konrad listened in to the conversation taking place in a most animated fashion in the next room.
‘She’s as thick as five short planks,’ Netty whispered. ‘Plastic and stupid. How did he fall for that?’
‘I’d give ‘er one,’ Mike the cameraman piped up.
‘Yeah, well you would. Conversation isn’t on your list of priorities for a good night out.’
Pondering the ins and outs of Katrina Chandler’s behaviour, Konrad spoke his thoughts aloud. ‘She’s easy to fathom. Money and power. Those are the things that motivate her, and she uses sex to get what she wants. But she’s come unstuck trying to throw her knickers at Guy Nithercott. Something is most definitely flummoxing her. I’d love to find out what appeals to that man.’
‘They say he’s into tantric sex,’ Netty murmured. ‘But he’s always looked like a robot to me, unfeeling, unemotional, a proper cold fish.’
‘Yes, indeed, tantric sex, or as I call it … yoga with Viagra. Maybe Abigail’s skinny cardboard frame doesn’t do it for him without help, or perhaps he prefers a more natural woman like—’
‘Kate Humble!’ Mike and Netty spoke in harmony, and congratulated each other with a high five at the predictability of Konrad’s statement.
‘Yes, yes indeed, the lovely Kate Humble.’ A forlorn expression crossed Konrad’s face. ‘Sadly, it’s not meant to be.’
Logan’s resonant voice could be heard over the studio speaker as he reasoned with Kat. She complained bitterly about her contribution to the TV programme, saying it was too minimal to make an impression.
Netty looked at Konrad. ‘She’s well and truly put out. What on earth did you ask the girl? Was it the usual one?’ It was a rhetorical question. Netty had watched Konrad in action many times, and he was a master at revealing an interviewee’s true nature. He would have reeled in Katrina Chandler with a charming introduction, then exposed her with an incisive question about what sacrifices she had made in support of Logan.
‘What about him?’ Netty asked. ‘He comes across as such a genuinely nice bloke. Or am I wrong?’
‘No, you’re not wrong. You rarely are. I wonder if his stalker thinks the same as we do.’
‘What, that she’s a bitch and he made a massive mistake and deserves better?’
‘Succinctly put, Mike. You’ll go far.’ Konrad patted his cameraman on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get him in. Save the poor blighter from an extended ear bashing.’ He paused. ‘Netty, bear with me on this idea. I think I can flush out a stalker. Get hold of George on reception and tell him to take the delightful Kat shopping for a couple of hours.’ He pointed a forefinger at the door. ‘Fares and refreshments on us, but no extravagant gifts. Let’s see what happens.’
❖
With the preliminary interview completed, Konrad walked with Logan to the lift. ‘Keep in touch if anything else crops up. From what you’ve told me, I honestly believe this stalker is ramping up the threats for a reason. I’ve been where you are. I know how petrifying this is.’ He looked across at Logan who was trying not to stare too long and hard at Konrad’s scars.
‘Not allowed to show it though are we?’ Logan said.
‘No, men are supposed to tough it out – especially ones the size of you. But who do you fight back at?’
‘And how?’ Logan nodded appreciatively. ‘I’m not worried for me so much as for my kids. What if she does something to them?’
‘It’s doubtful. I would say Kat is at the biggest risk. Your Twisted Tara really hates her. Why do you think I sent George out with her?’
Konrad stopped at the lift door and pressed the call button. ‘When you said about photographs being sent to you on your phone, it worried me that the police hadn’t taken this more seriously before now. I’d love to know how she could snap you at a charity auction when phones were strictly prohibited.’
‘Yeah. I keep wondering if she was a guest or one of the staff or a limo driver, or…I don’t know…’
‘And when you spoke about those creepy knitted gifts she sends, I was puzzled. I did hear that correctly didn’t I? Knitted – as in home-made.’
‘That’s it,’ Logan replied. ‘Like voodoo dolls they are, no bigger than six inches. I received one weeks ago. It looks like me; wearing a rugby shirt, shorts, holding a ball under one arm.’ He leant against the side of the lift and bent his elbow to demonstrate. ‘She sent a Kat doll soon after that. We thought these were gifts from an eccentric granny fan; she started sending baby clothes which caused a bit of an argument. Kat hates babies. She was quite taken with her little knitted look-alike though. Then, the day before yesterday, a mini noose arrives to go with it. Fucking weird.’
The lift doors opened, but before they’d even walked into the vast reception area, they heard George and Kat chatting excitedly to Lillian the receptionist, about the purchases made during their extended shopping expedition. Logan shared a despairing look with Konrad and switched on his mobile phone. The beeps rang out and Logan’s features folded into a fretful frown. ‘Oh, no. She’s got hold of my new number and she’s here somewhere.’
He passed his phone to Konrad who produced a knowing smile and felt elation creeping its way into his chest. His plan had worked a treat. There was a message.
❖
‘What did you tell Konrad Neale? Why is she there? She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t need you. She spends your money on stupid clothes and shoes. At least she didn’t bother with Harrods.’
❖
Below the text was a photograph of George with Kat outside Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge. Wide smiles and shopping bags.
CHAPTER TEN
Later that same day
Abigail glanced across at Guy as they were driven towards the motorway, heading for home.
‘Sometimes I think you enjoy this too much,’ Guy said placing a hand on Abigail’s knee. ‘The thrill of the chase is always so intoxicating and made so much more pleasurable by the risk of being caught. Just like old times. Is that it?’
Abigail glanced down to where his fingers were stroking the material of her dress, wondering where he was going with his question. He was always asking questions these days.
‘Get caught? I doubt it. I was a face in the crowd, sunglasses on, shopping bags in hand as almost every other woman in Harvey Nichols today. When people believe you are a recluse, they don’t expect to see you marching around, head held high. It’s as simple as that. Besides, I had MacDonald with me.’ She flicked a hand towards the driver of the Bentley. His haggard, baggy-eyed face set in concentration, he was only partially seen in the rear-view mirror.
‘We mingled and followed your hideous tart and her minder for nigh on an hour before I became sickened by her.’ She lifted her chin slightly. ‘How was your day?’
‘Very illuminating.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, shying away as he glowered at her with hooded eyes.
‘I was concerned by how seriously you seem to be taking your role in this particular charade.’ Guy caught the eye of the driver in the mirror. ‘MacDonald tells me you spent much of the morning mooning over photographs, video’s, reports and recordings of Mr Logan Peplow.’
‘I was doing my homework.’
‘Oh, yes? Disliking Katrina intensely is part of homework too is it?
‘No, that comes naturally. She’s a gormless tart, a heartless one at that. Why? Are you enjoying her attempts to bed you?’
Guy gave a hollow laugh. ‘She’s rather wasting her time, wouldn’t you say? And don’t change the subject. You’ve been buying new clothes, and it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’re taking more care of your appearance. Should I be worried or pleased?’
Abigail didn’t reply because she didn’t want to. What could she say? Deciding on avoidance as the best strategy, she reached into the bag at her feet to retrieve her most recent craft project, only to withdraw her hand with a sudden, ‘ouch!’ and s
he sucked on the tip of her middle finger. ‘Damn that darning needle!’ She squeezed until a plum-red globule appeared. ‘Blood will out,’ she announced, with a sideways glance at her husband. ‘One way or another.’
They travelled on in relative quiet for a few miles, the sounds from the radio barely competing with the incessant noise of knitting. Several minutes went by before Guy broke the uncomfortable mood.
‘Who’s that one for, your mother?’ he asked, looking at the intricate form of a tiny knitted woman with empty legs.
‘No, I’m working on something much grander for her.’
Guy snorted. ‘At least the days of knitting little bootees and baby shawls has been left in the past, where it should be. That’s a good sign I suppose, but this compulsion to knit dolls and jumpers to keep you occupied … I know you say it relaxes you, but it’s become tiresome. Can’t you give it a rest? How do you fancy making some more significant steps towards recovery in a different way?’
‘I’m not with you.’ Abigail stopped what she was doing, wondering what Guy had in mind for her. Rapidly concluding that Guy’s announcement wasn’t going to be good news about a special treat, or a trip to a private Island in the Caribbean, she marked time by tapping her foot. It was bound to be about Konrad Neale, it invariably was these days. She wasn’t disappointed on that score.
‘I’ve put in a special request to Dr Yellnow, and I predict that in a few weeks’ time your young confidante will be allowed some leave from the unit, or even be discharged if she’s lucky. And with the bait so well set, we could use your budding friendship with Ella Fitzwilliam to bring Konrad Neale to his knees and, once there, we shall decapitate him. Figuratively speaking.’
‘Go on. I’m listening.’
‘If you start physically attending some actual therapy appointments with the psychologist woman – rather than those pathetic telephone and email sessions you’ve been indulging in to keep me happy – then I’m willing to bet Konrad Neale will go to great pains to make sure Ella Fitzwilliam attends the same therapist. He will use that young lady to get to you, and thence to me. To us.’
