by A B Morgan
‘Clare Gray.’ Abigail whispered the name of her therapist. ‘Poor unfortunate woman. For some reason she and the ineffectual GP seem to think I’m already making astounding progress. Ha! that’s a joke. She’s so incredibly boring, I quite often switch off from what she’s saying. Boring, boring, boring. Anyway, why am I recovering from this dreadful disorder or whatever it is they’ve wrongly labelled me with?’
Again, she attempted to side-step the question, Guy was venturing into a topic of conversation to be avoided. What went on in her head was her business.
‘Because we need to bring this to a conclusion under our control,’ Guy said, staring at her intently. ‘Konrad Neale will rue the day he tried to destroy our family name. We are way ahead of him, and he hasn’t the brains to suspect he’s being played. I want you to give the therapist woman the spiel about you being infatuated with Logan Peplow. Ham it up. Make it dramatic but not dangerous, otherwise you’ll be locked away permanently. Then my plan is for you to front the escape room project on your own.’
Abigail looked askance. ‘In person? I thought you were joking about that.’
‘Why would I? You are the carrot to dangle in front of Konrad Neale and, as far as he and his happy band of pilgrims are concerned, this will neatly demonstrate how well you are coping with your astounding recovery, my darling.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Besides, I’ll be in Le Mans. And with me out of the way, guess who’s going to make sure he gets a look in? It will be the best chance he’s ever had.’
‘Are you planning to sue him from here to kingdom come for breach of his injunction?’
‘Something like that.’
Abigail heard her husband’s breathing quicken and she smiled to herself. He’d given her an idea.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Time to go
Ella sat on her hospital bed, a paper pharmacy bag packed with boxes of tablets clasped between her hands, an empty feeling spreading its way from her toes right up to her befuddled head. This room had been her home for nearly two years, and although bare and soulless, it at least gave her a limited sense of emotional security. At St Cuthbert’s she was locked in and by the same token the harsh and critical world was locked out.
The suitcase by the bed contained some of her clothes, shoes and personal items; the rest of her belongings were placed, without care, into three black bin liners. Not much in the way of effects and nothing to truly reflect her colourful life story. She once owned furniture, household items, and the trappings of normality but with no likelihood of needing such things for at least a decade, they had to go.
Mal was as good as his word and sold what he could on eBay. He was the one who had gone to the trouble of emptying her lowly bedsit, and he’d paid for her furniture to go into a managed lock-up facility. He’d even found a good home for Gordon her goldfish. The cash from the sale of her belongings was deposited in Ella’s bank account and until that week she hadn’t reviewed her financial situation. It didn’t make her doldrums any more bearable when she did.
Reaching across to the chair, she felt inside her handbag. Although she didn’t really need to check again, she was compelled to. The notepads inside were her only currency in the outside world, and she’d not even begun to work out how to use them to their best advantage; especially as the written words on those pages could potentially take Konrad Neale’s career to new and undeserved heights. Should she take revenge against Konrad or help him? Was it counterproductive to hold such bitterness, she asked herself.
When she was first admitted to St Cuthbert’s, Mal sent her three colourfully bound journals to write in, to help her record her time in the unit. He said documenting her life as a patient would give her a way to occupy her mind. She hadn’t written much, a few musings and the odd question about Dr Yellnow’s lack of knowledge, but recently she’d scribbled down random insights into Abigail Nithercott. She sometimes quoted what she said, but mostly made sketchy notes and observations.
Out of sheer boredom she began to trace Abigail’s backstory from online articles and genealogy websites. There wasn’t much to help answer the questions she had. Who was this woman? What happened for her to end up in psychiatric care? What were her parents like? How had she managed to marry a man like Guy Nithercott? Was he really capable of murdering his own parents, and had Abigail been an accomplice to such a horrific family tragedy?
To an outside observer, Abigail was the height of passivity, almost disengaged from the real world. She appeared cold and empty, sometimes vague to the point of absent. However, she positively encouraged Ella to listen to her story.
‘I cannot imagine why you choose to spend time with me, but I’m grateful,’ she had said. ‘I don’t concern myself with telling you what others can only begin to guess at. Someone has to know.’
‘I’m hardly likely to go dashing off to the gutter press,’ Ella had replied.
‘Do what you will, no one will ever believe a word you say.’
‘How very true,’ Ella commented, all too aware of this fact.
The more time she spent with Abigail the more she was forced to conclude that the woman was damaged to the core. The only explanation given by her was the battering of negativity at the hand of her husband Guy; he decided how Abigail should live. And she said she had to accept her fate.
‘Guy keeps his own demons under wraps, but he shares them with me to spare everyone else,’ Abigail had said. Ella shuddered at the recollection of this statement and of the vivid descriptions given of sacrifices to his eccentric demands.
❖
A sharp rap of knuckles on Ella’s bedroom door shattered her memories of time spent with Abigail only ten weeks previously. An eternity ago.
The staff nurse in charge, entered with a manila envelope in her hand. ‘You look lovely. It’s great to see you dolled up for your big day.’
‘I managed to squeeze back into this old dress.’ Ella looked down at the folds of the hem in shame. The dress used to be her favourite. Even so, she’d bought it from a plus-size shop, and was one of the largest sizes they stocked. ‘It’s astounding how a change of circumstance can galvanise a girl into losing weight. A fair way to go yet, mind you,’ Ella said, forcing herself to sound bright. ‘New knickers and bra too. Can’t go out into the world with grey undies, now can I.’
‘Have you got everything else you might need?’ the nurse asked.
Ella shrugged. ‘I think so. Pretty much. The basics, anyway.’
‘Don’t forget to make an appointment with your new GP, and you should already have a date to see Dr Yellnow for review. Don’t miss these appointments, okay?’
‘I understand,’ Ella replied, taking the envelope. ‘What’s this?’
‘Just the usual; a copy of your care plan, details of your follow-up arrangements, and leaflets about where to seek additional support. Do you have any last-minute questions? Any worries?’
‘Loads of worries, but I can’t help that.’ She reviewed her immediate plans, bolstering herself up. ‘I have a place to stay. Mr and Mrs Ribble are really lovely, very welcoming. I think I told you, they run the local garage and village shop, although Netty - Mrs Ribble - is a film editor, she works from home most of the time. They’ve gone to so much trouble. Barney decorated two attic rooms for me; one as a bedroom, the other as a small sitting room with a TV. I’ve been given a laptop to continue my genealogy course. So, even without much money coming in, I’ve plenty to keep me occupied.’ Ella tried her hardest to sound positive and confident, but the more she spoke the less assured she felt.
‘Your application for benefits has dragged on a while. How will you manage?’
‘Good will and a fair wind.’ Ella dredged up a thin smile but in that moment her efforts to appear optimistic dissolved into tears. ‘I’ll be alright,’ she muttered, trying desperately not to disintegrate into a heap of unmanageable sobs.
‘Oh dear, is this joy or sadness?’ the nurse asked, sitting neatly on the mattress next to Ella.
‘I’m not entirely sure. A bit of both. It’s all so… scary. What if I can’t cope? What if I can’t find a permanent job? I’ve been going through the local adverts and there’s a few I could consider, but what if someone recognises me?’
Blowing her nose, Ella became conscious of another presence nearby. She looked up from the sodden tissue clasped in her hands towards the man filling the doorway.
It was Mal wearing a sharply tailored suit.
‘What are you crying for you soppy mare? Today is the first day of the rest of your life and I’m here to rescue you and take you to your new palatial residence – well, lodgings…’ His broad smile and cheerful patter had an immediate calming effect. ‘Come on, dab your eyes before your mascara melts. Your carriage awaits.’
The staff nurse sprang to her feet. ‘You shouldn’t be in here. Who let you through?’
‘Sorry, luv, I tailgated. I’ve been hanging around for someone to fetch Ella and I got fed up with waiting.’ He fingered a plastic ID badge around his neck. ‘I guess they thought I was a visiting doctor or something. They all seem to be Asian these psychiatry types.’
‘Oh my God, are you allowed to say that?’ Ella asked, grinning through the last of her tears and gathering her belongings.
Recovering from the shock of seeing a man in a restricted female only area, the nurse hurried Ella along by picking up two of the black plastic bags and corralling Mal back through the doorway. He was still chatting amiably.
‘Yeah, I know I sound like a proper London geezer, but I’m Indian so I can’t be accused of being racist against Asians. Stands to reason. Here, let me,’ he added, holding out a hand to take Ella’s bulging suitcase.
❖
The air outside smelt different, sweeter. The spring day was clear and bright and liberating. Ella stopped and closed her eyes for a moment, sucking in a long lingering lungful of air through her nose.
‘Stop dawdling, Dilly Daydream. Let’s get out of here.’
Smiling as Mal called to her, she followed him towards the car park without a backward glance. Ella had already made a couple of trips to see where she would be living and was still reeling from the generosity shown to her by Lorna Neale. Without her help it would have been practically impossible to imagine leaving St Cuthbert’s and going anywhere else other than into the prison system. Today really was momentous and so she allowed herself a wide full grin when she saw the vehicle Mal had arrived in.
‘Oh, my giddy aunt! Mal, what in heaven’s name is this?’
‘In honour of your recently rekindled love of all things rockabilly, I thought I’d surprise you with a once in a lifetime trip in this shiny 1958 Cadillac Coup De Ville.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his suit, pulling out a black patent-leather glasses case. ‘And I thought you might like these.’
Having placed her bags on the ground, Ella took the neat case and opened it cautiously. Her whole face lit up at the sight of a pair of cherry-red rimmed sunglasses, vintage 1950’s style with angled top corners.
‘So much for a quiet entrance into the village, incognito,’ Ella said, still beaming.
Mal approached the rear wings of the Cadillac and began loading the bags. ‘Plenty of room for these in the boot.’
‘I think you mean trunk. That’s what the Americans call it; a trunk, a windshield not screen, fenders not bumpers. It’s hard to believe we speak the same language.’ Checking out her new shades in the wing mirror, Ella settled her nerves while Mal talked cheerily about what she could look forward to at the end of their rockabilly road trip.
‘Netty tells me the choir meets on a Thursday evening and Weight Watchers is on a Wednesday starting at six. I’ll tell you about the rest as we drive along. Hop in, luv, don’t stand on ceremony.’
Ella wrapped her coat around her before sliding onto the bench seat. ‘Look how wide this thing is. And you drove all the way here from Crewsthorp?’
Pulling the door to, on the driver’s side, Mal chuckled and turned the key, unleashing a deep throaty growl from the engine. Ella shot him a look of excitement.
‘Three litre engine?’
‘Three, luv?’ Mal replied, feigning shock. ‘Double it and add some. It’s a V8. Bleedin’ marvellous.’
‘Which cousin did you borrow this from?’ Ella asked as she looked around at the dash and reached for a dial on the radio.
‘All I’m prepared to say is that it’s on its way to a famous auction via St Cuthbert’s Hospital and then Lower Marton. We’ll fill her up when we get to Ribble’s Garage. Home sweet home.’
After a while the conversation turned to practicalities and Ella noted the change in Mal’s demeanour. He shifted uneasily before broaching the subject of Konrad Neale’s involvement in Ella’s release.
‘We’re back in business by the way,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the road ahead.
‘Which means what, exactly?’ Ella was uncertain where this was leading.
‘You and me. Together.’
Holding her breath made her feel slightly nauseous, but she was almost scared to speak. She hadn’t dared hope that Mal would stay friends with her after everything she’d been through, let alone imagine he might still want more than friendship.
‘Together?’
‘Do you fancy Khan and Fitzwilliam, or the other way about?’
‘No, it’s no good, Mal, spell it out for me. I’m not getting it.’ She shook her head twice, slowly.
‘You and me are back in the private investigations business, only this time we’re partners.’
Laughing at his efforts to cheer her up, Ella let out a string of short hoots. She stopped when his facial expression remained unchanged. Why would he declare such an outrageous idea?
‘Very amusing,’ she said. ‘I failed spectacularly the last time I worked with you as a PI, remember? Things couldn’t have gone more wrong. I’m… I’m flabbergasted the thought should even cross your mind.’
Mal’s features didn’t crack. ‘Your memory is selective,’ he said. ‘You were pretty good at reading body language, detecting liars, snooping around. It was just your technical ability that was—’
‘It was absolute crap, Mal,’ Ella said firmly, swivelling on the smooth upholstery of the seat. ‘Simple cameras maybe, but anything else I was rubbish at. Then you’re forgetting my splendid fall from grace when my mental health wobbled to the brink of self-destruction and I ended up being responsible for someone’s death. Not a small matter. Not something to be brushed over as if it never happened. The whole idea of us starting up in business together is, quite frankly, preposterous.’
Mal raised both eyebrows and grinned. ‘Too late to back out now,’ he said. ‘We’ve got our first customer. He’s rich. He’s paid a deposit up front and he say’s you’re the only one who can crack this case.’
With the clues laid out plainly enough for her to see, Ella slumped. ‘Oh, no. You haven’t.’
‘I have.’ Mal sounded smug. He looked smug. ‘What a coup.’
Ella was mortified. ‘But I’ve already been offered part-time work in the shop at Ribble’s Garage to earn my keep. I’ve applied for a couple of other jobs and I’m doing on-line courses, like we said, to keep my brain sharp. If I get a certificate at the end we can take on probate work, maybe, but a case?’ She gathered herself, trying not to let the tears return. ‘I don’t need money from Konrad pissing Neale,’ she insisted.
Mal flicked his head back. ‘This sort of money you do. He’s coughed up twenty-five grand to secure our services. With a daily rate and expenses on top of that we’ll be made. Then once we have a wedge in the bank, we can take on probate work if you like. What do you say?’
Unconvinced, she considered this for a short while. ‘I say that sounds like hush money.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
A rebellion of sorts
Guy was checking up on his wife. It was the second time that day he’d phoned for an update and to ask more of his interminable questions. ‘What time did
she call by?’
‘About an hour ago, I’d just returned from overseeing the fire safety checks at the farm. You were still ensconced in your office with the horrendous Katrina woman. Has she finished the artwork? Any good?’ Abigail asked. Not that she really cared; but she’d learnt over the years how to manage her husband’s expectations.
‘Yes, surprisingly effective. I’m actually looking forward to the big event. I think it will be worth the investment.’ He paused. ‘Your new best friend Ella, did she leave contact details?’
Abigail smiled. More questions. His elaborate scheme to bring about the final destruction of Konrad Neale was becoming a permanent preoccupation, and by collaborating with him, she earned his praise for a job well done. It helped maintain the equilibrium and allowed her to organise her own plans, secret plans.
‘Yes’, she confirmed. ‘MacDonald sent her away. I’m so relieved he was here, otherwise Peters would have been left to speak to the girl and he’s not nearly as forthright. MacDonald’s on his way to collect you, did he call?’ Manoeuvring the conversation by asking questions of her own, was one way she had of maintaining some semblance of control. It wasn’t much, but it was better than continually giving in to his incessant demands. Every day, several times a day, he wanted to know where she was, what she was doing and to whom had she spoken.
‘Of course he called. The man is a stickler.’
‘He should nearly be there if the traffic is reasonable.’
Abigail smirked as she thought back to MacDonald’s fearsome response to the main gate intercom earlier that afternoon – it was quite entertaining. ‘MacDonald set just the right tone. He gave the girl short shrift and made it abundantly clear she was not permitted any contact with me. Luckily she‘s a determined sort. She left an address for me to reach her. How kind. As we know, she’s staying with the fat pair at the garage in Lower Marton.’
