The Bloodline Will

by A B Morgan

  No laughter for seven days makes one weak.

  Abigail stood. She tilted her watch. ‘I’ll just make one final check to see everything is in place.’

  ‘What if we fail?’ Kat asked.

  ‘You can’t afford to fail. People’s lives depend on you.’ The sentiment was delivered with no levity, although Zoe assumed it was meant to be.

  She waited until Abi was out of earshot before whispering to Kat. ‘She’s like one of those spooky dolls. Apart from the elasticated cherry lipstick smile, her expression doesn’t alter.’

  ‘That’s because she’s rich with nothing more to worry about except how to spend money or when the next set of botox injections are due. All this show-offiness gets on my wick.’

  Unsurprisingly, Zoe detected a note of envy. However, she didn’t agree with Kat’s interpretation. Abigail Nithercott was a curious mix of nervousness and passive aggression. It most definitely wasn’t bored rich woman on display. Something altogether more forbidding was eating away at their hostess.

  For some mysterious reason, she reminded Zoe of a chocolate Easter egg once won in a raffle. Decorated to perfection on the outside but an empty disappointment within. Being rich didn’t necessarily bring happiness it seemed.

  ‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

  ‘Guy? He’s nice enough if you can get past the pale ghostly washed-out exterior. What can I say? He’s fabulously wealthy, influential, and a little left of normal.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In Le Mans I would think. Hob-nobbing with the VIP guests in Porsche hospitality. Private jet. Fly in, fly out.’

  ‘Does she rattle around in their enormous mansion on her own while he jet-sets across the continent then?’

  ‘They say she doesn’t travel much. Barely leaves the house, I’m told. This must be a big step for her.’

  A door closed with a gentle clunk. Abigail appeared again, fiddling with the cuffs of her cardigan. ‘Now then, after your tea, make your way through the door over there, the one marked “France this way” and on the other side you will find some lockers. Leave your handbags in there. Take tissues, a bottle of water, asthma inhalers and anything else you may need, but no recording devices, no cameras and most importantly, no smart phones.’

  Kat picked up her cup, drained the dregs, returned it to the saucer and stood, tucking her chair in. ‘I’m ready to go. You finished, Zoe?’

  Abigail didn’t wait for Zoe to reply nor did she seem to care if she’d finished drinking her tea. She was already clearing the crockery and rattling it on to a tray. ‘Good luck. I’ll be watching and will feed you clues if you need them. Press the touch pad for help. Enjoy yourselves.’ The sickly ruby smile never wavered.

  Kat and Zoe watched as Abi trotted across the parquet floor, her heels making a tapping sound, her shimmering ash-blonde hair bouncing as she headed towards a door behind the reception desk, cups clinking together.

  ‘That’s that then,’ Kat said. ‘We’d better get on with it.’

  ‘I need to show you something in the ladies’ loo before we go,’ Zoe said, her eyes flicking in the direction of the door in the corner of the room.

  ‘Really Zoe, your fascination with toilets is weird.’

  ‘Not as weird as a poster with Guy Nithercott’s face scribbled out.’

  ‘What sort of vandals would do that?’

  ‘Neat vandals. Three posters, one in each cubicle. All the same. Headless.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  She makes me sick

  Abigail Nithercott stood over the sink, gagging. The sight of Katrina Chandler was difficult enough to manage, but being in the same room as her, being polite, friendly even, had been repulsive. She spat, aiming towards the plughole. Dabbing at her mouth with the corner of a freshly laundered hand towel she sniffed at the scent, closing her eyes briefly.

  Returning to the main office area, she strode with purpose to an oblong wooden table in one corner. On it lay a large folded knitted blanket. Beside this was a deep wicker basket containing wool. Odd sizes, varying colours. She reached for a ball of midnight-blue wool with an unsteady hand, rubbed it gently with the tips of her fingers and, finding the end, pulled a length of it towards her. Cutting the blue wool to the desired length she threaded it onto a fat darning needle and then stabbed it into a black velvet pincushion. She would need it later. She left it on the table.

  Her mobile phone vibrated.

  ‘Hello, Guy, how is France?’ she asked brightly.

  The response she received was most unwelcome. Guy was angry. He was calling from London City Airport and, despite their agreed timetable, was on his way home rather earlier than she had hoped.

  ‘But why?’ she wailed, ‘you never miss the start of Le Mans.’ Abigail listened intently for a second or two before replying to his stream of questions.

  ‘So what if I sent him flowers? So what if I wrote him a note? I can if I like. He deserves the attention.’ Abigail smiled as she listened to Guy’s protests. He couldn’t stop her; he was too far away, and that thought was so satisfying. She’d taken control. She was in charge of what happened. She would claim her ultimate prize and it thrilled her.

  ‘Peters is here, where else would he be? … Perhaps his phone is playing up … Who else is with me?’ she snorted in delight. ‘You’ll see for yourself when you get here, won’t you. No more chat. Bye for now.’ She switched off her phone and licked her lips delicately with the tip of her tongue.

  Glancing across at what looked like a belt containing a holster, hanging from the back of an upright dining chair, Abigail screwed up her face in disgust. The sheath-like design resembled a quiver used by archers to hold their arrows, but this one was much smaller and contained knitting needles. The cloth bag hanging beside it held more balls of wool and a partially knitted sleeve in moss-green dangled from three small curved knitting needles.

  ‘No more knitting. No more fucking knitting.’ She raised her head to shout. ‘Do you hear me, Mummy? When he gets here, I simply won’t need it any longer.’

  Without drawing breath, she reached for the half-finished sleeve and slid the fine needles out, forcefully snapping each one in two as she did so. ‘No more knit one, no more slip one. Finished. Forever.’

  The CCTV monitors looked out of place in the wartime room, but these were central to the smooth running of events. Abigail took a seat at the modern desk and her eyes darted from screen to screen.

  She held her palms together, as if in prayer, and placed them to her mouth, which twitched as she watched Kat and Zoe place their bags into large metal lockers and take the corresponding keys in their hands. They turned to each other; bodies held firmly erect. Kat could be seen folding her arms, an indignant pose.

  ‘Not such a sweet thing, are you, Miss Prissy?’ Abigail moved her hands forward and hissed the words, curling her top lip, impatient for her guests to begin their adventure, to walk through the door marking the way to wartime France. However, the screen was playing out a tense standoff between the two women and Abigail feared that her plans were about to collapse into farce. With no option other than to intervene, she pushed the intercom with her left forefinger.

  ‘Ladies, please make your way to the other door. Pierre is waiting for you.’

  On screen Kat and Zoe, both flinched and turned their shocked faces to the camera before doing as instructed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Little train, big people

  ‘Budge up a bit more, Matt. The big fella can’t get his arse in that small space.’ Gianni was more excitable than usual, and Logan put a hand on his shoulder to settle him.

  ‘There’s loads of room for all of us. I’ll sit with Tony in the next carriage.’ The little road train was more commonly used for tourists and designed for the enjoyment of children, but for France’s Le Mans twenty-four-hour race, and the days preceding it, several of them were put to use ferrying spectators from the various campsites at the south end of the circuit. It was
part of the transport arranged by Glamping Global and included in the price of their stay for Logan and his friends.

  The queue that morning was a scene of joyful expectation. Danish racing fans excelled themselves by dressing in style; many of them wearing colourful felt patterned hats, which rose at the crown to a tiny curled pigtail of vibrant reds. ‘These look like Laplander hats but different,’ Gianni’s brother Matt remarked, trying one on for himself at the insistence of a burly Dane. ‘I love them.’

  A cheer went up as a giant go-cart came trundling down the roadway, passing the queue for the tog, at speed. On board were three rows of bearded Vikings in horned helmets, t-shirts and shorts, pedalling for all they were worth. The Dane at the front in the middle was in charge of steering the articulated cart, and one in the back was responsible for announcing their arrival by blowing a real horn, his face puce with exertion and high blood pressure.

  Logan looked at his companions in their highly unfashionable Hawaiian shirts and laughed at the sight. There was no patriotic connection to Britain in what they chose to wear, but then again what would they have worn? Bowler hats and umbrellas? Knotted handkerchiefs and red white and blue tank tops? He should’ve exploited his roots and worn a kilt at the very least.

  It didn’t seem to matter, everyone squeezed onto the short bench seats in the open carriages and chatted animatedly with other passengers, not caring about the language barrier. That had become an irrelevance after the first few beers two days previously.

  ‘So, Zoe and Kat are out together for the day are they?’ Matt asked Gianni, shouting over the general commotion as he lined up his phone to take a photo of the mad carting Vikings. They were blowing the cow horn and making a wild circuit of a small roundabout before heading back towards the tog as it set off. ‘Should be interesting…’

  Once disgorged from the tog in an ungainly manner, there was an easy consensus that the gang would head for the ACO – Automobile Club de l’Ouest. Logan and Gianni were members and secured wristband guest passes for the other two. After that everyone was free to split up and do their own thing.

  ‘You two can go to Arnage later if you like, but if I get a decent seat, I’m not budging,’ Matt informed his brother as they milled along with the flow of the crowds entering the circuit.

  ‘Suit your bloody self. But you’ll miss the good bits if you do.’

  Gianni and Matt stayed in front of Logan where he could keep an eye on them, and the sight entertained a young girl walking in the opposite direction. She pointed at Logan. ‘Look, Mum, he’s a giant!’

  Logan playfully growled at her, making her scream in delight. Her father tried to apologise but made things worse by declaring, ‘No darling, it’s just that his friends are very small.’

  ‘Hey! Do you mind?’ Matt managed to get his protest in before Gianni had recovered from the insult. ‘Who are you calling small?’

  ‘Come my little Halflings, let’s not get into a fight. Again.’ Logan pushed his friends forward, pretending to slap them around their heads.

  Bringing up the rear was Tony, debating with Logan his predictions for each class in the race, based on random factors such as the colour of the car, how well-known the drivers were or how efficient their pit teams seemed the day before.

  ‘The Aston with the Danish drivers. That has got to be favourite for the GT Pro.’

  ‘What about the overall race? Toyota? Porshe?’

  Logan felt his mobile phone vibrating against his leg. He decided to ignore it on the basis that he would be unable to hear above the noise of the crowds and the curtain raiser race now underway.

  ‘Proper breakfast anyone?’

  To a man they all nodded vigorously at Tony’s suggestion. Diverting to the nearest fast food stall, the men ordered an unhealthy selection of items and rested a while as they chomped through “frites and American steak”, which turned out to be burger and chips in French bread.

  Gianni was underwhelmed at the offering. ‘I should’ve ordered the sausage; this looks like a pile of dog poo.’

  ‘Nice. Thanks for that,’ Tony grumbled. ‘Just shut up and eat it, you ungrateful sod. You said you were hungry.’

  ‘I am, but I haven’t eaten anything green in two days.’

  Filling and disastrously calorific, the food silenced them for a few minutes.

  With Gianni’s back turned, Logan sneakily checked his phone. Suzanna had called. An answerphone message had been left. He resisted for a matter of five long seconds before retrieving the message.

  ‘Sorry for the interruption but as it’s your birthday, the boys have a present for you.’ Logan heard some chattering from Suzanna, calmly encouraging his two sons to speak before they giggled into the phone. ‘Hi Daddy. Dylan are you ready, one … two… three … “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you” …’

  Logan grinned and began to laugh at the sound of the tuneless voices of his sons shouting, rather than singing, their birthday wishes to him. He pointed to the phone, ‘message from the boys.’

  Swivelling towards the sound, Gianni listened in. ‘Aaaah, that’s a nice touch, Peps. Suze must’ve decided to forgive you.’ He put a hand on Logan’s shoulder before reaching up to ruffle his friend’s hair, apparently understanding how emotional Logan was feeling. ‘Why don’t you give them a quick ring back. We’re in no hurry.’

  Logan walked towards a chain-link fence to make the call but before pressing the green digital button he spotted a message from Kat. No kisses, no sign of affection.

  ❖

  ‘Abi Nithercott has made us very welcome. Zoe getting on my nerves already. Have a good day.’

  ❖

  The neatly dressed girl, manning one of the reception desks at the main ACO members’ lounge, smiled pleasantly in response to Logan’s query.

  ‘Non, Monsieur. We haven’t seen Monsieur Nithercott, but someone left this for you early this morning.’

  ‘This morning? ’ Logan accepted a large envelope.

  ‘Oui. The man said Monsieur Nithercott went home to the UK. Something to do with his wife.’

  Turning to Gianni, Logan screwed up his face. ‘Guy’s not here.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  ‘However, he seems to have left these for us. Sounds like he’s heading back to Nithercottshire to show his face at that event thing today. I’ve only just read a text from Kat saying how nice Abigail is. All positive so far then.’

  ‘It’s not like the famous Guy Nithercott to miss out on Le Mans.’ Gianni looked up at Logan again. ‘I’m not so sure Kat is telling the truth either. I’ve had a message from Zoe saying she’s sick to death of Kat being a bitch, and that Abi Nithercott is as emotionally warm as a shop window mannequin. Maybe it was a bad idea making Zoe go with Kat.’ He stretched, rolling his shoulders. ‘Stand by for fireworks.’

  ‘You could be right. Handbags at dawn.’

  The two men stared back at the envelope. ‘It won’t open itself,’ Gianni hinted. Tearing at the thin cardboard flap, Logan frowned until he produced two wristbands and two tickets. ‘Track walk passes and two grandstand seats for Tertre Rouge. Ha! Good old Guy.’

  Gianni beamed. ‘How many passes? Two? Shall we give them to Matt and Tony?’

  ‘Good idea. They can go and get crushed in the stampede. We’ll make ourselves comfortable in the grandstand and meet them back here later.’

  Logan squeezed the sides of the envelope together and, tipping it, managed to pull a small card from within.

  ‘Oh. Something else. “Enjoy your day, see you later as planned. Abi. Kiss, kiss, kiss”.’ His eyes widened and he made a down mouth grimace. ‘Apparently, these are a present from his wife.’

  He looked again at the writing on the card.

  ‘You live and learn… Although I didn’t know Guy was arranging anything for after the race.’ Logan glossed over his concerns about this revelation. ‘I should send a thank you, but I’m not sure I know him well enough to ping him a quick text.’
r />   ‘Three kisses,’ Gianni said. ‘She sounds very friendly – maybe Zoe was wrong.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Competition time

  It was Zoe who led the way from the locker room and through the door into the Café de la Republique. The smell of fresh coffee and baked bread hit her fractionally ahead of the sight of a faithful reconstruction of a wartime street. She stepped onto cobblestones. The area, something the size of a squash court, was designed as a tribute to the archetypal French street café in a hidden courtyard. Wicker chairs and round tables were placed beneath an awning. Ornate streetlamps stood guard at each corner. Accordion music was playing.

  ‘Good grief,’ Zoe announced.

  Kat was several starchy paces behind, face stormy, but when she took in her surroundings her foul mood simply dissipated, disagreements forgotten in an instant. ‘My word. No expense spared.’ Her eyes were aimed ahead.

  Next to a blackboard, displaying the “Plats du Jour”, there stood an extremely life-like waiter holding a tray. ‘Bonjour, welcome to Café De la Republique,’ it said, the mechanical voice dripping with a deep French accent.

  ‘Bonjour to you too,’ Zoe replied. ‘I take it this is Pierre. He doesn’t seem very helpful, does he?’

  ‘What are we supposed to do now?’ Kat asked scoping around for instructions. ‘Ah. There we are.’ She pointed to a large door marked “Le Bureau du Maire” in curling gold leaf lettering. Helpfully the words “Mayor’s Office” were written underneath in plain font. On the wall near the door was a touchpad. ‘Shall we?’