by A B Morgan
The volume level to their right increased again.
‘Are they going to carry on like that?’ Logan swivelled his eyes as if he had a stiff neck. Behind the sunglasses they wouldn’t be noticed. There was a group of six or so, all of them adults. Two parents, one grandfather who seemed somewhat quieter than the others, two younger women and a curly haired gangly youth in a Breton mariner’s style top, lapping up the attention from any family member who would stop talking long enough to hear his opinion.
‘Like, yeah, cool. Those guys were like awesome.’ The young man had many opinions.
Leaping up from his seat each time the urge to speak arose, Curly-Hair was unable to sit for more than a few seconds. And when he did settle, he bent his knees up to his chest and rested his feet on the back of the unoccupied chair in front.
It was not long before he committed his first major transgression. He stood, raised his leg to hurdle the seat in front and stood on it, doing the same three times until he reached the aisle where his father waited for him. Equal in height, athletic, well dressed, they headed down the steps and to the exit.
‘Inconsiderate little bastard,’ Logan muttered. Gianni nodded in agreement.
It was becoming hard to hear the updates from Radio Le Mans such was the never-ending drawl from the American women, their heads together to discuss such important issues as where they bought their most recent handbag, and earth-shattering facts about a woman called Loretta. She had apparently caused a scandal by not spending enough money on her hair and cosmetics before venturing out in public. ‘Oh, my Gaaad!’
Subjected mercilessly to their high-pitched banalities, Logan soon discovered that they had an overinflated sense of their own importance and it sickened him.
‘Men, like, keep staring at me wherever I go,’ one said, words oozing from her lips.
‘Yeah. The French really love us. Oh my Gaaad.’
Looks were being exchanged between the other spectators, especially those in close proximity to the rowdy Americans, who failed to notice everyone else settling down. Curly-Brat and his father arrived back carrying wine and beer for their family members, and yet again they took a direct route standing on empty seats rather than stepping over them, which was entirely achievable and would have avoided leaving dusty footprints for someone else to sit on.
The stand was filling up as Gianni fiddled with his phone. ‘Nothing from Zoe.’
‘That’s not like her.’
‘Maybe she’s enjoying herself.’ He attempted a smile, but Logan could feel uncertainty from Gianni when he asked, ‘What time is it in the UK?’
‘One thirty-seven. An hour behind.’
‘They must’ve stopped for lunch by now.’ He stared off into distant forests that stretched to the horizon. ‘Look. Here come the Air Force.’
The tannoy announced their arrival ‘Le Patrouille de France, Mesdames et Messieurs.’
The crowds roared and clapped, and the irritating American youth with the curly locks jumped up from his seat whooping and punching the air. People stared, shaking their heads slowly in disapproval. The American women carried on gossiping, oblivious to anything going on around them.
Logan shuddered. He hoped vehemently that no one thought he and Gianni were associated in any way with the thoughtless, rude behaviour.
The safety car came by. A ripple of applause. Curly-Idiot stood up again, fist pumping. ‘Yeah!’
Something was bubbling away inside Logan. Hurt and anger at Kat’s betrayal, self-pity at his own stupidity, but stronger than that – he felt offended. Bad manners were on display and so was selfishness, being brash, vulgar and arrogant. He could take no more. He raised his voice as soon as the crowd settled.
‘Excuse me, young man, but would you sit down and shut up. Some of us would like to see the race without you getting in the way.’
Curly-Top should’ve apologised, but he didn’t. He stood defiantly and asked, ‘Why the hell should I?’
His parents did nothing. The women threw condescending looks in Logan’s direction and talked about him as if he wasn’t there.
‘What’s his problem?’ one said.
Gianni braced for action as Logan leant towards the woman who had asked the question. Diagonally she sat no more than ten feet away. With his elbows placed on bent knees, he wagged one large extended finger in her direction. ‘Your boy is my problem. Your husband has been plying him with alcohol that he can’t handle, and he’s been walking all over the seats, constantly blocking the view of people behind him, and you are all too fucking loud.’
‘Are you threatening my son?’ the woman asked, taking to her feet.
Logan was astounded. He laughed in disbelief. ‘Are you thick as well as self-centred? Look around you. Do you see anyone else in this grandstand acting in the same way? No, because we are here to watch the racing, now sit down, shut up or piss off.’
Curly-Hair remained standing. His father rose and shuffled past his wife to get to where Logan was sitting.
‘Bad idea, Yank. Bad idea…’ Gianni said under his breath.
‘You wanna stand up and run that by me again?’ the American challenged.
Logan sighed as he heaved himself upright, and as he did so he removed his sunglasses. ‘No. I want you and your family to be quiet and respectful. Ask your son to sit down, please.’ His voice was calm, mellow and measured. Once he reached his full height, he looked down on the American whose face collapsed in awe.
‘Well?’ Logan opened his palms.
Grandfather spoke, breaking the standoff. ‘Son, sit down. Brett, sit down. Lana, sit down. The race is about to start, and these good people would like to watch, as would I. You’ve spent my money, you’ve abused my hospitality, and now you’ve publicly embarrassed me. Sit or do as the man says and leave us in peace.’
Logan grinned. ‘Sir…?’ He looked across at the grey-bearded gentleman whose voice was so elegantly commanding. ‘Thank you. I believe we understand each other.’
‘We do indeed, and I thank you for saying what no one else had the balls to.’ He saluted Logan who returned the gesture.
‘Enjoy the race, sir’
‘I sure will.’
Gianni nudged Logan as he retook his seat. ‘You’ve blown it now.’
Faces were staring, smiling in recognition of the rugby player who had made Toulouse his temporary sporting home for a few years. ‘C’est Le Pep,’ the man to Gianni’s left said in a loud whisper just as the soft applause began, not for the race officials and track marshals who had taken up position, flags in hand, but for Logan.
Some of the spectators stood to clap their appreciation. ‘C’est Le Pep.’
Gianni laughed. ‘I eat my words. That was a great speech and you are a celebrity. Vive La France.’ He raised his beer glass and Logan, seeing this, did the same, an embarrassed smile spreading across his face.
‘If this gets out on social media, I’m a doomed celebrity. These bloody shirts …’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
No longer
The look on Abi’s face was one of deep serenity and peace as she took a final and entirely unnecessary swing of the hammer towards the side of Kat’s head. The body lay sprawled on the flagstone floor of the cellar. The end of the knitting needle protruded by half an inch and blood-streaked cerebrospinal fluid seeped from the earlobe and towards Kat’s blemish-free neck.
It had been a much easier task than Abigail had predicted and, unexpectedly, the long knitting needle had passed through Kat’s ear canal and into her brain even more smoothly than its twin had when used on the unfortunate Muntjac deer during her dress rehearsal. That poor creature was the victim of a careless driver and in any event the anatomy of the skull was not the same.
Amid the panicky sounds of Zoe calling from the room above, Abigail stood up to admire her handiwork. The light from the single bare bulb was good enough and, smirking, she examined the flat face of the ball peen hammer in her right hand. The lack of blood was a
surprise, as was the simplicity of the method. Not too much exertion required, no mess to clear up. Not that it would’ve mattered. Not today.
It was easily done. In the dark of the prison cell, in the musty air of the gendarmerie, Kat complied by way of terror. Petrified, she hadn’t moved from the strangulating headlock, and instantly slumped to her knees, making the job of subduing her so very uneventful.
With Kat passed out, floppy and unaware, all Abigail had to do was to lift the cellar door and roll her over the edge. Her victim landed with a hell of a thump almost on top of one of the cellar’s other occupants who let out an unholy groan as a result.
For a second or two Abigail thought she’d inadvertently taken another life – one she specifically wanted to be a fully conscious witness to the whole riveting crescendo of love and retribution.
It wasn’t until she switched on the dim light could she confirm that her special prisoner was missing.
‘What the hell?’ she spat. ‘Where’s—? Where’s he gone?’ She staggered about stepping over Kat’s legs, reaching out to hold herself steady by placing the flat of one hand on the wall. She turned towards a heaving mass, a person still alive, sobbing, chest heaving with the desire to breathe, to live. This desperate victim was wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy under layers of knitted clothing. Only the eyes could be seen in the dusk, the horrified eyes of Betty Renfrew.
The huge woolly maggot, resembling a Russian doll, was propped into a corner, immobilised and bound so tightly that any attempt at movement was futile. The stench of fear and urine permeated from beneath the woollen layers.
Abigail approached and patted the top of the balaclava head.
‘He left his blood all over you. How very careless.’ She was panting with the exertion of dispatching Katrina. Looking at the floor she saw the clue to the whereabouts of her escapee. ‘Hansel and Gretel left a trail and so have you…’
Her attention returned to the matter at hand and she spoke again to the person wrapped in wool.
‘You see,’ she whispered, ‘what did I tell you? She came along and thoroughly enjoyed her last few hours on earth. Why did I kill her?’ Abigail arched away a little, as if offended. ‘I told you. She doesn’t deserve him. He doesn’t even love her, not one iota. He’ll be on his way here soon enough and I am dribbling with anticipation. Salivating and as horny as a teenager.’
She prodded at Kat’s lifeless shoulder with a shoeless left foot. ‘You were an unfaithful whore, Katrina Chandler, flashing your tits in Guy’s office, offering your moist panties for him to smell. Tut, tut.’
Harpooning Kat’s lifeless head with a scornful look, Abigail laughed. ‘What a lot of wasted effort. Guy have sex with a slapper like you? Never.’
She tossed her head before sweeping her glare towards the woolly maggot. ‘He’s not so easily won.’
Abigail padded to a door where she bent her knees, preparing to collect her shoes, the hammer still held in one hand. She placed the tip of one finger against a shining globule of deep red liquid on the floor, she dabbed, raised her hand to her face and sniffed at the blood before licking it. ‘My fault… entirely my fault. I was sloppy,’ she said, ‘and in too much of a hurry. I should’ve locked the dratted door.’
Looking across the room she surveyed the scene.
‘Katrina Chandler, a prize-winning parasite and a gold digger you may be, but I owe it to Logan to inform him of the unfortunate accident that has just this second befallen you. You must’ve tripped in the dark and slipped on a stray knitting needle. Health and Safety will be annoyed about that. Oh dear, what a fucking shame.’
She lingered in the doorway slipping one court shoe at a time on to her feet. ‘I suppose I’d better park your car in the barn, Katrina. You won’t be needing it.’
Once her shoes were in place, she stood and gave a mawkish grin.
‘Mummy, Daddy, I won’t be back for you later. As neither of you can move and I’m not strong enough to carry you, then you will stay here and burn to death with the rest of my guests. In a while I am going back to the hall to change into my most flattering outfit and ready myself for the arrival of my true love.’ She waved her hands like a fingered butterfly.
‘I’m so incredibly disappointed that you fell and hurt yourself, Daddy. You got too close to the edge of the cellar hatch. Too close. Mummy will miss you, won’t you, Mummy?’
Then she let out a laugh, a hearty laugh, as if for the one and only time in her life she felt incredibly amused by something.
‘Daddy. You went a proper purler! Straight down here. Long drop, don’t you think? Hell of a long drop.’
She laughed again, eyes widening.
‘Hilarious. My Mummy is a mummy’. She looked at the shape in the corner. ‘A knitted mummy. My biggest doll to date. Knit one.’ She then turned her head and stared at Oliver Renfrew’s disfigured body. ‘Purl one.’ Focussing her eyes to the right where Katrina Chandler lay, she said with a bitter twist, ‘stab one.’
She let out a satisfied sigh. ‘Knit one, purl one, stab one. How poetic. How utterly brilliant! Bet you never thought knitting would come in so handy, Mummy. All those hours spent teaching me while Daddy pranced around in his wigs pretending to be a woman. No great surprise that you had to borrow someone else’s baby, is it. The ugly fat hairy housekeeper and the pantomime dame, and you wonder why I preferred to spend time with my real family?’
Oliver Renfrew’s head was lolling on his shoulder at an impossible angle, lifeless eyes staring. His legs were buckled and bent beneath him. Next to his body was an empty upturned wheelchair, partly wedged across an old wooden sawhorse.
‘Why now, Mummy? Is that what you want to know?’ Abigail straightened. ‘You are here, my dear parents, because instead of guarding your little secret you sent your darling niece to spy on me in hospital. Was she working for Konrad Neale? Was she?’
There was a long moan from the woolly mummy who tried to shake her head in denial. Betty Renfrew made one final whimpering lamentation before her breathing returned to being rapid and irregular. What could be seen of her glistening face was taut with fear and loathing.
‘Must go, more guests have arrived, and I need to track down Guy,’ Abigail said airily. ‘God forbid he should miss the finale.’
There was a buzzing noise coming from somewhere at the top of the stone steps and Abigail, taking her time to be quiet in each movement, switched off the light and closed the door behind her as she headed back to the main office.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Light and dark
Shouting proved futile. Zoe thought she’d heard voices, but no one replied to her pleas for assistance. She shuffled round on her knees seeking out the faint glow from the touchpad at the opposite end of the room from the prison cell. Her rational brain was telling her there had been a mistake, a power cut, that Abi would be dealing with this and in minutes the lights would come back on. Then she would be able to see where Kat had fallen. However, instincts told her the reverse was true and to save the battery power in the blue torch.
Darkness had an unhelpful impact on her ability to manoeuvre safely. She bumped into one of the desks, stumbled into a chair even though she saw its indistinct outline in the gloom. She pressed the touchpad. Sure enough it lit up the door she and Kat had entered by. It sent a misty halo across the wooden floor for a few feet and brought some comfort. What it did not deliver was a hint as to what she should do next, neither did it offer a means of communication nor a voice of calm. No words shone out at Zoe.
‘The key is in the plan,’ she said to herself.
At a loss she rattled the door, twisting the knob, pushing and pulling, willing it to spring open. ‘Come on. Give.’
It didn’t.
She spoke louder, this time assuming Abigail was watching and listening. ‘Abi. The power has gone o—’
The electricity had not failed. There was power to the touchpad and if there was power to that then the door release mechanism should work.
‘Abi? Can you release the door please?’ As she spoke she could hear the tremor in her own voice from the rising levels of anxiety.
She shouted again.
No reply.
After what seemed like an eternity, the touchpad made a tinkling noise and seemed to brighten as a message appeared on the screen.
‘Solve your way out or do nothing. The choice is yours. You are of no interest to me. You have seventeen minutes.’ As she read the words aloud, Zoe shivered. The room wasn’t cold.
‘What the fuck is this about? Abi?’
Zoe waited for an acknowledgement, but as the seconds ticked by, the light dimmed, and the message disappeared leaving only the green foggy glow around the touchpad. She was on her own with her racing pulse, shaking fingers, dry mouth and nausea.
Her hands reached to her belly. ‘Not alone though, isn’t that right? We’ll do this together, kiddo. Solve our way out and find Kat.’
Zoe’s left hand reached for her back pocket. The rolled-up plans were still there. ‘The key is in the plan. In which case let’s look at the stupid plan and find the key.’
She looked once more at the solid wooden door. There was no keyhole, so maybe the way out was via a different door. Unfolding the plans onto the floor she knelt down and pointed the torch at the pages.
‘These aren’t plans.’ She shook her head. ‘What sort of code is this?’ As she moved the torch from left to right, she followed lines of writing and on nearly every line a word then one or two letters would illuminate in reaction to the blue light from the torch. Moving the light to the bottom of the page she saw it.
‘The key. The key is in the plans.’ A laugh escape from her throat; relief at solving the riddle so easily. ‘This is a knitting pattern; these are the abbreviations and by using the key we put them in the right order to make the next clue. Come on, kid.’
Turning her full attention to the game gave her direction, purpose and resolve. She didn’t have time to be a wimp. She was responsible for her unborn child and she was going to make her escape quickly and quietly. No dramatics, no screaming, no panic.
