by A B Morgan
‘Actually, I’d prefer white, red gives me a shocking headache.’
‘And a bottle of white bubbly stuff please, Barney my lovely. The diet is off for one night only.’ She sat down again with a plonk and laughed. ‘He’s never really been on the stupid diet, truth be told. Still, I wouldn’t want a skinny bloke to lie down with, no warmth there.’
Netty stopped talking when she saw the change in expression in Ella’s face. She’d opened the other letter and didn’t need to say anything. Within the plain white envelope were an invitation card and a covering note.
Lorna leaned in and gave out a low exclamation. ‘Here we go.’ She waved in the air to attract her husband’s attention.
Within seconds three men were seated opposite the three women and the invitation card was placed centre of the table.
Konrad lifted his eye patch and put on a pair of reading glasses. Ella watched, transfixed by his scarred face. She’d never seen it fully before and secretly wondered what the extent of the damage was. Now she knew, it made her shiver.
‘Right,’ Konrad said, ‘one thing’s for sure, I can’t go. I’ll be in London; the Channel 7 press officer wants me on hand to deal with responses to the broadcast of Desert Island Discs with the delightful Lauren Laverne. Nine o’clock in the morning on Friday, everyone. That’s tomorrow.’
Lorna raised her hand to the side of her mouth and said in a stage whisper, ‘and woe betide anyone who should forget.’ She flicked her eyes towards the low oak-beamed ceiling. Netty caught her sarcastic comment and grinned, leaning forward to ensure Lorna saw her.
‘Let’s read this again,’ Konrad said, holding the card aloft. ‘Espionage Escapades extends a warm invitation to you and a friend of your choice. Our World War Two escape room experience is due for official opening later this summer but, as a valued friend, Abigail and Guy Nithercott would appreciate your attendance to trial and review the experience before the official opening. We look forward to seeing you on blah, blah, blah, such and such a date and time. This Saturday.’
Konrad flipped the card over to see if there was anything else written on the back. ‘Nice pictures, very tasteful.’ He dropped the card back onto the table and looked at Ella. ‘I only know of one other person who has been invited to the very same event on Saturday and now you’ve been honoured with an invitation. You evidently got to know Abigail well enough to have made the grade. The question is, who should you take with you?’
‘Is that the question?’ The sound of Mal’s warm voice made Ella stare across at him. Lorna did the same. He held his pint of beer onto the table; hands wrapped around it as if keeping it warm. ‘My question would be, are the Nithercotts actually going to be there in person?’
‘Only one way to find out,’ Ella said. There wasn’t any question about what was to happen next and the nerves were already kicking in.
‘That’s the attitude I like to hear,’ Konrad said fingering his eye patch back into a more comfortable position.
‘Can I suggest you listen to the phone call I recorded before you make any decision about whether to put Ella in the middle of crazy Nithercott country. There’s something you don’t know. And according to the medical records I lifted from Dr Sandra Yellnow’s office last time me and Ella were at St Cuthbert’s … there’s something Guy Nithercott doesn’t know about his own wife.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
What has she done?
Cartwright knocked and entered Guy’s London office inner sanctum. He stooped by the door awaiting permission to speak.
‘What is it, Cartwright?’
‘MacDonald, sir.’
‘What about him? Running late again, I suppose.’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve been unable to contact him.’
Guy exhaled in annoyance. ‘Alright, leave it with me. I’ll phone Abigail.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ Cartwright made a hasty exit, with relief on his face, leaving Guy to make a call to Nithercott Hall in private.
‘Is MacDonald with you? He’s late,’ Guy said testily into the mouthpiece of the office telephone. Abigail’s reply shook him to the core and his head dropped with the weight of her words.
‘No, he’s at the bottom of the carp pond.’
Guy closed his eyes and steadied himself, gripping fiercely with one hand on the arm of his magnificent chair. ‘Not another one… Abigail, what have you done now?’
‘He saw us this morning, he heard everything. He knew too much. He had to go.’
Guy cast his mind back to six thirty that very morning, to when MacDonald unexpectedly entered the dining room, unannounced, ostensibly to report a problem with the Bentley and to ask permission to make use of the Jaguar for the commute into London. Indeed, when Guy thought through the sequence of events, replaying them like a video in his mind, he realised MacDonald must’ve witnessed the unacceptable breakfast-time interplay between Abigail and himself.
It wasn’t that Guy hadn’t been quick enough to withdraw his hand, but he had, if anything, drawn attention to it by being too hasty.
Worst of all, MacDonald would almost certainly have heard the words Guy uttered, which left no doubt about a shared guilt. The deepest darkest family secret was spilled in one sentence and one lustful act at the breakfast table.
It was down to Abigail and her teasing. She would insist on talking about Logan Peplow at the breakfast table as if he were to become a real lover. ‘I bet he’ll be a thoughtful Casanova. Slow and patient to begin with then rough and throbbing,’ she’d said, dragging a hand up her inner thigh, allowing her silk dressing gown to fall open. Offensively, she even had the audacity to challenge Guy’s sexual prowess, debating whether Logan would have more staying power. Her whole conduct that morning was flirtatious and downright deserving of his response.
As Guy predicted, MacDonald denied it. ‘Never heard a thing, sir. Far too busy concerning myself with your transport requirements, sir. The security arrangements for France were uppermost in my mind at the time.’
However, there was a nagging uncertainty Guy knew he shouldn’t have ignored. Abigail, on the other hand, had been so bothered by the incident that she’d called him at the office to ask how it was being handled. He’d barely had time to sit at his desk before Cartwright transferred the call.
‘It’s dealt with. MacDonald is sound. Trustworthy. He’s on his way back to the hall and I suggest we let it drop, otherwise the mere fact that we’re making an issue out of his unfortunate interruption this morning will pique his interest. You know what these ex-military types are like; he’ll take it to his grave. Let it drop.’
Abigail hadn’t let it drop.
‘Did anyone see you?’ Guy asked, bracing for the details of Abigail’s latest assault on a member of staff. It wasn’t her first.
‘I’m not stupid. The gardeners were the other side of the walled garden and as for the rest of the morning staff, the cooks, the cleaners, they were busy getting on with what we pay them for.’
Guy could hear in her voice that Abigail was smiling. In itself this was a bad sign. Not wanting to stem the flow of terrible news, he didn’t interrupt her.
‘Mac did his usual exercise routine, and by a stroke of luck, he’s started using weighted clothing; a waistcoat with pockets in like a terrorist’s suicide vest, and he puts on wrist and ankle weights while he runs round the park. All very Action Man. He always stops on the patio area of the carp pond to do stretching and such like. He listens to rock music, did you know? Those wireless earphones are hardly noticeable, but it means he can take calls while he’s running. Ingenious.’
‘Do go on. I can’t wait for you to tell me how you, so slender and delicate, my darling, managed to overwhelm a man of steel. I gather it wasn’t a case of poisoning.’ Rubbing thumb and forefinger across his brow, Guy was clinging forlornly to the hope that Abigail, cruelly teasing him, was making all this up. Any second now she was actually going to admit that MacDonald was stuck in traffic with a broken mobile pho
ne.
‘Well, Guy, I sat in the summerhouse, tucked out of sight, like I do when I want a cheap thrill at MacDonald’s expense. When the Mac settled into his routine of squat-thrusts and press-ups, I, Abigail the Ninja, approached from behind, barefoot, threaded his sweat-stained towel through the handle of a kettle bell and swung it like a hammer thrower. Crunch. Stove his head in a treat, it did. Not as much blood as I thought and, very helpfully, he toppled into the pond without making a mess anywhere.’
Abigail began to laugh quietly at first, but as Guy listened with a sick feeling gnawing away at his gut, the loudness of her hysterics increased until he shouted for her to stop.
‘For God’s sake, Abigail! Get a grip. Where is Peters?’
When she replied, her voice was steady, reverting to her normal clipped tones. ‘He’s gone to collect the Bentley. The garage phoned to say they found the fault, some sensor or other. I told him MacDonald’s mother has been taken seriously ill and he may not return for some time. He couldn’t care a jot. They despise each other. Do you need him to take you directly to the airport? Shall I meet you there?’
Guy stammered his reply, perturbed by Abigail’s ability to revert to normal practicalities so soon after describing how she walloped a fatal crater into the back of a man’s head - a man he admired for his loyalty and dedication. Plainly, MacDonald hadn’t planned to test their trust of him that morning. It had been an accident, an oversight on his part, and it didn’t deserve a summary execution in response.
It was too late to argue that point, however.
Without his trusted bodyguard, his trip to Le Mans would be cut short and Abigail would need managing with a firm hand, otherwise his careful plan to entrap Konrad Neale would fail, which would never do.
He ended the call to his wife having instructed her to remain at the hall and make no plans to go anywhere, other than within the boundaries of their sprawling estate, until he returned home.
He retrieved his mobile phone and lifted it to his ear, rising from his seat in order to pace the room. After a brief pause he pulled the phone away and stared at it. ‘What do you mean number not recognised?’ He sought an alternative and pressed the required option for St Cuthbert’s hospital switchboard.
‘Put me through to Dr Sandra Yellnow.’ He baulked at the answer to his request. ‘Well, page her then, but whatever you do, I suggest you get on with it, this is an emergency and I demand to speak with her in person.’ He pivoted on his heels and began striding to the other end of his vast office. ‘Are you telling me she no longer has a position at your hospital? … She was there only last week. We had a meeting.’ He waited while the voice on the other end of the line gave an explanation. ‘In that case I need her contact details… Yes, I did have her personal number, but it seems not to be working.’
Guy halted. Enraged at the unhelpfulness of the person he was dealing with, he threatened to sue the hospital for dereliction of duty of care but refused an offer to be put through to the general manager.
‘What good is that to me? Don’t you have any other psychiatrists who will see a private patient at short notice?’ He threw one arm in the air. ‘Look, young man, three weeks is not short notice and I am not in a position to take the patient to the nearest Accident and Emergency department, nor to make a referral for an assessment under the Mental Health Act. This situation has to be dealt with in strictest privacy and with as little fuss as humanly possible. Dr Yellnow has my authority to do so and I therefore demand that you put me in touch with her. Immediately.’
Baring his teeth, he seethed at the phone. ‘How dare you hang up on me. How dare you!’
There was little he could do. MacDonald was dead. Sandra Yellnow had disappeared, and Abigail was increasingly unpredictable.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have entrusted her with the task of setting up Espionage Escapades, because with Abigail in the mood for tidying up, their plans had the potential to change without warning. However, like it or not, he needed to go to Le Mans. It’s what he always did at this time of year and any alteration to this routine would merely attract unwanted media speculation.
If at all feasible, he would stick to the original timetable and he would hold hard to the belief that Abigail would play her part, as they’d agreed. He would show his face at the usual haunts at Le Mans then make excuses and leave.
Guy tugged at the hem of his jacket, cleared his constricted throat and pressed the intercom on his desk.
‘Cartwright. Order me a taxi to take me to the airfield. There’s been a change of plan. MacDonald is indisposed, so I need you to arrange for security to send a replacement to meet me at the plane within the hour.’
‘Everything alright, sir? You sound upset.’
‘Keep your thoughts to yourself, Cartwright. If you know what’s good for you.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eavesdropping
As pub landlords went Rob was particularly amenable, allowing Konrad use of a small private room in which to listen to Mal’s recording of a phone call made by Clare Gray, the therapist. Barney, not privy to the latest goings on in the world of Konrad’s documentary series, made his excuses, preferring to remain propping up the bar. He was far keener to talk to one of his garage customers about motorbikes.
‘Right,’ said Mal. ‘Pin your lugholes back and cop a load of this.’ He used his phone to play back the call.
Clare Gray’s voice was clear and Konrad, Ella, Netty and Lorna listened to every intonation, each word.
❖
‘…So you see, Niall, although she changes, fluctuates in her presentation, leaves me unsure and uncomfortable about her strange absences, forgetfulness and mannerisms, I’ve come to expect that. But this … this was completely out of character. I’m wondering about dissociation.’
There was a brief pause as Clare drew breath. ‘The knitting stayed in the bag, which was unusual enough, but then she told me to go fuck myself.’
Hesitancy could be heard in Niall’s voice when he replied. ‘What’s this man’s name?’
‘Logan Peplow.’
‘Abigail Nithercott who rarely peeks out from behind her own curtains believes she’s in love with Logan Peplow and that he is in love with her, although they may have never actually met? That’s about the gist of it, is it?’ There was a strong note of disbelief in Niall’s summary.
‘Yes. She’s obsessed.’
‘And you’ve never heard of him?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘If you were taking part in a pub quiz, you wouldn’t play your joker on the sports round, would you?’ Niall Jameson asked as if astounded by Clare’s response.
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ There was a pause before a heavy breath came from the phone. ‘Clare, with a name like Gray, how can you be Scottish and not know who he is?’
‘Well, I’m not Scottish, if you don’t mind. Never even married a Scot. I’m as English as they come. Red roses, pot of tea.’
‘So is the game of rugby and so, out of interest, is Logan Peplow, but he has Scottish parentage and played rugby at international level for Toulouse and Scotland. He only retired last year. If you’re a Scottish or French rugby fan you practically hero-worship the man.’
‘News to me.’
‘Clearly. Is it also news to you that Logan Peplow appeared in a documentary, only recently, describing how his life is being destroyed by a stalker, a female stalker, one who has sent knitted items? Jesus, Mary and all things holy, don’t you realise what that means?’ The doctor’s words became more shrill as the enormity of the dilemma was revealed.
‘I’d no idea, none at all. What do we do now?’
‘Listen, you were right to call,’ Niall said, his voice taking on a more serious quality. ‘We should consider that this may be nothing other than a simple infatuation, although all things considered that seems unlikely. Our biggest issue here is confidentiality versus risk. Do we have enough evidence to suggest that Abigail Nithe
rcott is a risk to a member of the public?’
‘My response to that question would be to ask - what if we don’t report our suspicions to the police? What is the worst-case scenario here?’
Niall Jameson exhaled with a whoosh. ‘There is no way a man like that would take any interest in a woman like her, let alone one so notoriously eccentric. From what I read, he’s got quite enough to contend with at the moment and is highly unlikely to be seeking a love interest who would lose him his job. He works for her husband, for goodness sake. Whether she’s behaving oddly is a matter for debate, Clare. It could be entirely normal when judged against other millionaire reclusives.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ Clare’s emphasis was unmistakable. She was not finding his flippancy helpful.
‘You could be right about some sort of dissociative state or alternatively we could be seeing her true colours. That’s all I’m saying.’
Clare could be heard clearing her throat. ‘Like I said before, I agreed to take her on because you were insistent she would benefit and because you said her diagnosis was straightforward. But you deliberately misled me, Niall, and what’s more, if what you say is correct, the diagnosis they gave her at the hospital is way off. Whoever that bloody psychiatrist is, they should be sent back to shrink school. This is so much more than an eating disorder and an adjustment issue.’ She sounded cross.
‘Now hold on there. Are you trying to say I lied?’ Niall replied, offended.
‘You know jolly well that I fall for your charm every time you manage to convince me one of your difficult HSPs should come my way instead of cluttering up your surgery.’
❖
Konrad raised a hand and Mal paused the playback. ‘What is an HSP? Anyone?’ He looked around and caught sight of Ella as she put up her hand, waggling her fingers.
