The Bloodline Will

by A B Morgan

  Ella was quick to take advantage. ‘I thought you were the owner. I read up about the business before I applied. I must’ve missed something.’

  ‘No lass. You would’ve been right a few years ago, but I sold out to Global Enterprises. A retirement fund for me and Betty the wife,’ he said, gesturing towards another tall stool. Ella clambered up with some difficulty and sat, feigning an interest in his tale. She let him ramble on, even though she knew exactly when he sold out to Global Enterprises and how much money exchanged hands. While he talked, she stared into his eyes; storm-cloud grey and slightly hooded, with age-faded lashes, and filled with sorrow. She was transfixed. She had looked into eyes just like them, in St Cuthbert’s Hospital. Abigail Nithercott had her father’s eyes.

  ‘I’m semi-retired. Married for over forty years, me and Betty, more than most blokes get for a life sentence. Now then, Ella, tell me…’ Without warning, a thought took him elsewhere and he never finished the sentence. Instead, he gave an order in a flat tone. ‘Rosie, take these and switch off from listening to us. There’s a good girl.’

  He handed over a set of enormous headphones and Rosie plugged herself into the hi-fi. She grinned and began sinuously moving to the rhythm of the music playing loudly in her ears. As camp and preposterous as he was, Ella didn’t think of Rosie as a male. She was a “she” not a “he”. And she made Ella smile.

  Oliver Renfrew, not so much. He wore an air of the hard done by, brassed off with his lot in life. He begrudgingly requested Ella make her pitch about why she wanted to work for him. His dancing knees betrayed his level of impatience.

  ‘And before you start, you need to understand something fundamental. This salon provides for a niche market; transgender, trans everything, drag, dames, theatre, film and television. You name a branch of trichology for the LGBT community and we sit on it. If you can’t roll with that then raise your hand.’

  Ella, not put off by his bolshie attitude, decided to take a calculated risk. ‘That wouldn’t bother me, the more colourful the better, as far as I’m concerned. But…’ she raised her right hand. ‘I’m sorry, it seems I’ve wasted your time,’ she said with a heavy sigh. ‘I really could’ve seen myself working here, but sadly, now I’ve been made aware it’s owned by Global Enterprises, I have to withdraw my application.’

  She allowed the words to sink in. ‘You see, I’ve met Abigail Nithercott before, and I’d rather not have anything more to do with her or her husband.’

  Oliver Renfrew looked stunned. ‘You met Abigail? No one meets Abigail. Where? How?’ His voice grew louder.

  Ella decided to be frank and she looked about her, checking unnecessarily that they could not be overheard. Rosie was humming as she worked, cheerily concentrating on the intricacies of wig making.

  ‘In hospital, a few months ago. A mental health ward. I made no secret of my problems on the application form, but, given the choice, I don’t want anything to do with the Nithercotts. Thanks all the same.’

  Oliver Renfrew leaned back on the seat of his stool and said in hushed tones, ‘So, she was in again was she? That explains an awful lot. Some smartarse decided she should start showing her face in public a bit more, I’ll wager.’ He eyed Ella up and down as if seeing her with more clarity. ‘What were you doing at the posh clinic then?’ he asked. ‘Only, you don’t look like a patient to me.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Renfrew,’ Ella said, cautiously avoiding giving out details of the hospital where she met Abigail. Although there were striking physical similarities about the eyes between father and daughter, it was hard reconciling herself with the fact that Oliver Renfrew was, both biologically and in the eyes of the law, Abigail’s father. He judiciously neglected to mention that fact. They were both circling around the truth.

  ‘Where did you get the money for private treatment?’ he asked.

  Although not expecting this level of personal questioning, Ella decided to maintain a degree of honesty to see just how much Oliver Renfrew actually knew about his daughter’s mental health. It could provide a rich seam of information.

  ‘I’ve never had private treatment,’ she replied.

  ‘Then we are at cross-purposes, young lady, because our Abigail only ever has the best and most expensive treatment. She has a private psychiatrist.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Ella said, not daring to look away for fear of being disbelieved. ‘But that psychiatrist also worked in the NHS. Abigail wasn’t a long-term patient like the rest of us, she was only there for a matter of weeks, and she went home at the weekends.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not party to her comings and goings other than when she decides to show her face here. What she gets up to in the rest of her private life is nothing to do with me. But I take it you met her and didn’t take a liking to her.’

  ‘Something like that, yes. I’d rather not run into her again.’

  ‘Aye, lass, I can’t blame you’ he said unexpectedly. Then with unfocussed eyes he muttered rhetorically, ‘Cleopatra. Fucking Cleopatra. Why can’t she stay in her palace and out of the way?’

  Ella didn’t understand the reference, so she kept quiet.

  Rosie gave them a quick look but seeing no real problem averted her gaze and returned to her work.

  ‘This was my business once,’ Oliver said, as his careworn face suddenly came too close to Ella’s. She swayed back. ‘Mine. All of it,’ he declared, waving both arms in a wide arc, tears of loss in his eyes as they travelled towards the ceiling. ‘I gave up the stage for this.’ He stopped to stare again at Ella. ‘What did you make of her, when you met her?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. It wouldn’t be fair. She isn’t the easiest of people to get to know. She’s …’ Ella struggled for the right words, not knowing if she was about to cause offence. ‘She’s unpredictable.’

  Oliver blew out his lips. ‘Diplomatic of you to say so, but what you really mean is you reckon she’s a psycho. And you’re not wrong.’ He looked about. ‘They kept me on as a favour to Betty. Can you believe the fuckin’ cheek of it. Who the hell did they think could run this place if I wasn’t in charge?’

  By making him boil over a little, Ella was given the chance to talk about Betty Renfrew.

  ‘A favour to Betty? What did your wife have to do with it?’

  From the wall behind her, Ella could hear a clock ticking, like a countdown to something spectacularly doom laden. ‘… in a nutshell.’

  ‘Nutshell?’ Oliver said, glaring at Ella. ‘It would be a monstrously large nut. Listen, Ella do yourself a favour and walk away.’

  The sincerity in his tone made Ella reconsider her approach. ‘I think you’re right. You see I feel as if she’s somehow hounding me. She found out where I’m staying and she’s invited me to the opening of her new project up at Top Field Farm, but I’m not going. I think it best if I keep our brief acquaintance just that. Brief.’ She stood as if to leave.

  Only then did Ella spot the photograph on Oliver’s office desk. He was pictured in a smart suit, chest puffed out, back straight, younger and painfully thin. The rotund woman with him wore a long salmon-pink dress, silver-grey hat angled over her rounded face and short curled hair. Oliver caught her looking.

  ‘Our Isla’s christening, that was. Twenty-three years ago, almost to the day. Isla was a blessing to us all and we’ll never get over her loss. She worked for one of those nursing care agencies, you know. She always said she never had the brains for university, but she was wonderful with the older patients. Gifted. What a tragedy.’ Oliver wiped at his nose again, this time with a sweep of his forefinger before reaching out to pick up the framed photograph as a quivering smile crossed his lips.

  ‘Betty may not be strong in the body these days, but she’s the canniest lass I ever met in my whole life and she loved that bairn the moment my brother placed her in Betty’s arms.’

  ‘No children of your own?’ Ella ventured.

  ‘Just the one. A Midwich Cuckoo.’ His previous soft loo
k turned immediately thunderous.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Derreck said you’d had a recent bereavement. I didn’t realise it was your niece. I’m so sorry. Who’s the Midwich Cuckoo? I don’t quite get—’

  ‘No, you never will, lass, so you do yourself a favour and mark my words. Those Nithercotts are bad news. You stay well away.’

  ‘But you work for them,’ Ella countered.

  He was a difficult man to read. He was as spikey as his nickname and perhaps not as ordinary as she’d first thought.

  ‘Not really, lass.’ Shooting a sour look at Ella he walked off, a sarcastic laugh accompanying the sound of his clogs on the wooden floorboards.

  ‘Yeah, well I’m not interested in their money. I’ll find a job elsewhere.’ Ella’s words were almost lost when Oliver pulled out the jack for Rosie’s headphones and the room filled with Tom Jones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Cleopatra’s confirmation

  It was a relief to see Mal’s hunched figure, slumped in the driver’s seat where she’d left him, and she hastened to open the passenger door. The car smelled of coffee and stale breath. Not massively unpleasant, just noticeable after the strong perfumes of a hair salon.

  ‘You can turn that off now,’ he said, nodding at her cleavage.

  It took a moment for her to remember the pen; the pen that was a microphone, the pen that she was supposed to have left somewhere at Pearls and Curls.

  ‘Spy equipment is only any good if it’s used as intended, and not as an accessory to an interview suit,’ Mal said, shaking his head and smiling with humorous tolerance.

  ‘Bum, … I completely forgot. I told you I was rubbish at this undercover stuff,’ Ella said in reply to his derision.

  ‘In which case you’ll be thrilled to hear that Konrad has said a flat no to you going in with Ada tomorrow. A big negatory, good buddy.’ He was mocking her again with his stupid big grin, so she punched his upper arm.

  ‘He’ll be saying no to paying us if I carry on like this,’ Ella said, frustrated with herself. ‘I didn’t even find out what we wanted to know.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Mal said, taking a moulded earpiece from his left ear.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Cleopatra. That’s what Oliver Renfrew said about Abigail. That proves he knows about her and Guy.’ Mal took the spy-pen from Ella and placed it back in its original case alongside the earpiece.

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes. Cleopatra married two of her brothers.’

  ‘Did she?’

  Mal shook his head. ‘Are you going to continue this all day? Question after question. You sound like a three-year-old.’

  Ella laughed and couldn’t resist one more. ‘Do I?’

  ‘I rest my case. Now shut up and listen, you daft cow. I checked on Google and Cleopatra was as incestuous as it gets, the filthy baggage. Midwich Cuckoo is a reference to—’

  ‘A book by John Wyndham, I know that one. But does it mean that Oliver Renfrew suspects Abigail of killing her natural mother? Everyone else thinks it was Guy who polished them off – to get the money early.’ She looked at Mal. ‘You know Oliver’s wife was injured in the botched burglary when Guy’s parents were killed by some unknown assailant?’

  ‘Was she now?’

  ‘And that she was paid an awful lot of compensation.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘She and Oliver own a huge holiday home in southern Spain and a motorboat so he can go sea fishing. I did a fair amount of digging into their personal finances. They are absolutely loaded.’

  ‘Then why does he still go to work?’

  ‘He loves it. He’s proud of the business he’s built up, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s done a few seasons at the end of the pier.’

  ‘What? Is that some sort of euphemism?’

  ‘No, you silly arse, he worked in the theatre, darling,’ she said wafting her hands about. ‘In pantomimes. I didn’t get the chance to ask, but I’m convinced he was in the photos on the wall appearing as the Widow Twanky and at least one Ugly Sister.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m also sure that you are now asking a series of questions just to irritate the hell out of me.’

  ‘Am I indeed?’

  With Ella laughing musically, Mal reached forward and pressed the ignition button. The car rumbled as he pulled out into the road and headed for Lower Marton.

  ‘You did blindingly good in there,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Thanks. So, what now?’

  ‘We’ve got to get back to the Ribbles’ place. Barney has come up trumps.’

  Ella listened as Mal filled her in with some welcome news. It concerned June, the prune-faced grump who worked with Ella in the village stores. June’s husband ran an architectural salvage business in a yard not a mile from Ribble’s Garage. Further along the same lane, there was a farm owned by a man named Joe. Barney and Joe had known each other for as long as they’d been alive, and Joe’s farmland abutted the boundary of the Nithercott estate.

  ‘By road it’s a good six or seven miles to Nithercott Hall,’ Mal said.

  ‘My thighs know that only too well,’ Ella replied, recalling the arduous journey by bicycle she’d made recently in an attempt to meet up with Abigail Nithercott.

  ‘However, according to Barney, as the crow flies it’s only a couple of miles. Using Joe’s farm track, it’s short hop to Top Field Farm where June’s husband, Victor Carboloy, has a couple of containers he rents for additional storage.’

  ‘What a great name – Carboloy. I never knew June’s surname was Carboloy.’

  Mal tutted. ‘Pay attention to what I’m telling you. This is important.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Barney has persuaded Victor to purchase a load of old agricultural junk. But he said he’d only accept it on the understanding that Barney transport it to Top Field Farm and place it in storage. Victor says he can’t deal with it until next week as his busy days in the yard are Saturday and Sunday. People drive for miles to buy an old chimney pot, apparently. Mad bastards.’

  ‘Where are you going with this?’

  Mal huffed at her. ‘Keep up. You and I are spending tomorrow inside a rusty metal shipping container. Don’t panic. It’s got electricity and all the mod cons.’

  ‘Toilet?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Marvellous. I can’t wait.’

  Mal smoothed over the issue. ‘We’ll take food and drink, a couple of comfy chairs, bins…’

  ‘Bins? What do we need a bin for?’ Ella asked, puzzled.

  ‘No, Dippy … bins … as in binoculars. We’ll take a digital camera with a long lens, the usual paraphernalia, and stake out the place, watching the comings and goings from a safe distance and out of CCTV range. We keep Konrad and Lorna informed and wait for Madam Nithercott to react when you don’t show up.’

  ‘And how are we getting there without being seen, may I ask?’

  ‘Tinkerbell.’

  ‘Tinkerbell? Barney’s old tractor?’

  ‘Yes. In a trailer-load of old scrap. Or hadn’t you worked that out for yourself.’

  ‘That’s the plan?’

  ‘Got better one?’

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Zoe and Katrina head for trouble

  ‘Did you tell Logan about this latest letter?’ asked Zoe, seeking the truth in her companion’s eyes as they sat together in the car. The traffic lights changed to green and Katrina Chandler focussed on the road ahead as she changed through the gears, accelerating onto the motorway slip road.

  ‘I take it by the lack of response that you didn’t tell him,’ Zoe continued.

  ‘There’s no point in him fretting any more than necessary about some nutty woman who’s blatantly lost the plot. It’s all bluster and idle threats anyway,’ Kat replied, before looking over her shoulder to check the way was clear for her to merge with the traffic on the inside lane. ‘Why
get him all worked up for no good reason.’

  Zoe let out a nasal drone. ‘Who are you trying to convince exactly?’ She pulled at the sheet of typed paper held between her hands. ‘Right. Now that we’re on a straight bit of road and I won’t get car-sick trying to read while you do an impersonation of a rally driver, let’s have a look at what delights the screwed-up bitch has sent this time.’ Raising the paper to a better height, Zoe took a breath and began to read aloud.

  ‘“Interloper. You do not deserve your place beside my love. You’ve deceived him and he must be set free. He is mine by rights. He comes to me at night and touches me. He wants me and he needs me”. – blinkin flip,’ Zoe said, eyebrows raised to their zenith. ‘She needs locking up. What a complete load of bonkers barmyness.’ With her head bowed a few degrees Zoe read on silently. Kat turned to her briefly when she began to fold the letter and place it back in the plain envelope.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Another one for the police, I would say. Quite what they’ll do about it, God only knows. Nothing, just like last time. Shame really. I’d love to know what her real name is.’

  Kat gave a crooked smile. ‘At least I don’t have to suffer those persistent texts from her, like Logan was getting.’

  ‘The change of phone number worked this time?’

  ‘Yes, it seems to have done the trick, for now at least. These days he only gets hassle from Suzanna about the shitty kids. It’s gone quiet from Twisted Tara since last week, but that’s probably what’s set her off with these letters again. I should just throw the stupid things in the bin and ignore the silly cow, whoever she is.’

  ‘I like the name Twisted Tara, who came up with that one?’

  Kat poked herself in the chest.

  ‘Assuming it’s a her of course.’ Making use of Logan Peplow’s nickname, Zoe then asked, ‘what if Pep has landed himself a male stalker?’