“I know,” said Elizabeth with a smile, “But I like it.”
“Yeah. Me too,” he laughed. “Goodnight, baby sis.”
“Night.” The line clicked and he was gone. Elizabeth suddenly realised that the room was full of steam and the shower was still running. She stood up, hung up the phone and stepped into the hot, cleansing water.
* * *
The drive up to Napa was cathartic, the beautiful scenery helping to ease the turmoil in Elizabeth’s mind. She had the top down on her Mercedes and the wind was rushing through her long dark hair, blowing away the painful memories of the previous night. The sun was warm and revitalising on her face, the cut on her temple concealed by make-up and a pair of huge Dior sunglasses.
She thought that maybe a trip to England to be with her father and brother in their time of crisis might help. Jonathan had been dreadfully upset by what had happened, his life now in ruins and his reputation seriously damaged. Her father, too, was not the man he once was and had taken Jonathan’s forced resignation very badly. The company that he had helped build, that he had hoped to pass down to his son had all but destroyed him. Or, more accurately, the man who had so carefully stage-managed Jonathan’s downfall had.
A trip to England would not only give Elizabeth the opportunity to visit her much loved father, brother and foster brother but would also give her and Roger some breathing space and some much needed time apart. It made perfect sense.
By the time she reached Napa her mind was made up and as soon as she had finished here today she would pack a bag and get on the first available flight to London. But first she would visit her mother.
The Green Acre Care Home for Mental Wellbeing was just an hour out of San Francisco nestling in a shady valley circled by tall trees and pretty wild flowers. It was an idyllic spot for a care home; quiet, scenic and restful. If someone couldn’t find peace there then it was unlikely they would find it anywhere. It also had the best facilities available and a staff of expertly trained doctors and nurses on hand twenty-four seven.
Elizabeth always came up here alone, she enjoyed the peace and quiet and the slower pace of life. Life with Roger was lived at full speed so the weekly slow-down did her good.
Ella Wallace was a beautiful woman in her early sixties. She was tall and elegant with fine, delicate features and long white hair that was plaited down her back in a thick braid. She had been diagnosed with dementia almost ten years earlier which had been an awful blow not just to her but to the whole family. Ella had been a doctor so she was well aware of the ramifications and had tried to prepare the then teenage Elizabeth. But in actuality, nothing could have prepared her for what she now witnessed every Sunday.
From the stoop of the terrace, Elizabeth saw her mother sitting in the shade of a large oak tree and from that distance she looked just like ‘Mom’. But it was close up where the change was most apparent, the lack of recognition and the blank expression as every weekend Elizabeth re-introduced herself to the woman who knew her better than any other. It was a killer and ripped her heart in two every time but occasionally, just occasionally there was a spark of recognition and very briefly, in those wonderful moments, her Mom returned.
Strangely, whenever Elizabeth’s father visited from England, which he tried to do as often as his work would allow, Ella always knew him, as if she had been waiting there especially for him. Their marriage had been good and their love strong but it was far from a conventional relationship.
Before the dementia took her, Ella worked at the UCSF Medical Center and was firmly based in San Francisco, whereas Elizabeth’s father, Wendel, whilst a San Franciscan by birth, was based mostly in England where his company’s head office was located. Ella kept Elizabeth with her whilst Jonathan and her foster brother both lived in England with Wendel.
It was strange and complicated to an outsider but for Ella and Wendel it somehow worked. As a child Elizabeth spent her summers in England and at regular intervals throughout the year her father and brothers visited her in California. To her it was the most natural thing in the world. Then her mother was diagnosed with dementia and all their lives slowly changed. The disease did not claim her instantly but gradually crept in over a period of time, stealing their mother away bit by bit until at last only fragments of the true Ella remained, only surfacing in all too fleeting vignettes.
Elizabeth realised now that her marriage to Roger had just been a method of avoiding what was happening with her mother. But it had not worked, it had not numbed the pain or the sorrow or deep feeling of loss, indeed, it had only heightened it.
With trepidation, Elizabeth made her way across the beautifully cut lawn to the bench under the oak tree upon which her mother, Ella, sat, dearly hoping that today was one of the good days, that she would be visiting Mom as opposed to just an elegant, rather confused old lady. But as Elizabeth approached, she knew it was a forlorn hope. Ella was just staring blankly at her as she neared, her daughter completely unfamiliar to her.
Elizabeth smiled as she arrived at the bench and warily sat down beside her. “Hi, Mom,” she said brightly. Her mother, clearly horrified by the close proximity of this ‘stranger,’ gazed at her with fear-filled eyes. “How are you today?” Elizabeth continued, “You look really pretty.”
Ella was rigid with fright, her eyes wide with absolute terror, then suddenly, quite unexpectedly, she lashed out with her fist and caught Elizabeth hard on her cheek bone, directly under the same eye as the cut. Then she lashed out again with her other fist, this time catching Elizabeth a glancing blow on the chin. “Fuck off, leave me alone you bitch - whoever you are, whoever you work for - I’m not coming with you, you can’t take me. Fuck off, fuck off. FUCK OFF!” The use of foul language had became more frequent as the dementia took greater hold. Very rarely before her illness did Ella swear.
Every time Ella cursed she got louder and every time she struck out again. One blow had knocked the sunglasses that were perched on Elizabeth’s head onto the ground and two others had hit her shoulders before she managed to grab Ella by the wrists to stop the barrage. But the moment she did so, her mother began to scream maniacally.
“It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay. Please, it’s me, I’m your daughter. Please not today, I could really do with your help I need you.” Pleaded Elizabeth but it was to no avail the screams just got louder and Ella became increasingly more hysterical.
“I don’t have a fucking daughter you lying fucking bitch!” Her mother squealed as two orderlies came rushing over to help. “You’re a liar, a goddamn lying whore!”
Elizabeth stood up, treading on her sunglasses and breaking them, utterly shaken by what had just happened as the orderlies tried to calm Ella. The swearing had happened before but the insults and the violence were all new and horrible to witness. Before today, her mother had never struck her, barely ever even raised her voice let alone a hand.
Elizabeth, forcing back the tears, kept trying to explain who she was. But Ella would not have it and eventually the orderlies had to take her back to the familiarity of her room to try and settle her.
Elizabeth remained on the bench alone, her heart full of sadness. With trembling hands she took out a cigarette and lit it, as the tears finally came. She coughed as the first drag of smoke hit the back of her throat. She was only an occasional smoker, but today she felt as if she needed the comfort of it. But it didn’t help and as she coughed again she stubbed it out. “Dammit!” she said aloud. She missed her Mom so much.
How Elizabeth wished she could talk to her like she used to, to seek her wisdom and her counsel.
The old Ella would have known what to do about Roger. She would have taken one look at the cut on Elizabeth’s temple and told her to leave him. Then she would probably have found her wayward son-in-law and given him a peace of her mind. She would also have known how to console Jonathan and reassure Wendel. Furthermore she would know how to deal with this un
scrupulous and highly ambitious partner that was so hell bent on removing them from the firm. But sadly Ella could do none of these things as her mind was no longer her own.
Elizabeth sat on the bench for a while longer trying to compose herself. It had been an unpleasant end to an emotional week but eventually, feeling drained of energy, she climbed back into the Mercedes and reluctantly headed back to the city.
She had been on the road for less than ten minutes when a call came into her cell. She saw the caller ID and smiled, it was Ronny, the very man she needed. At last a friendly voice to comfort her. She flipped open the phone and said, “Hey, there, you. I’m so pleased you called. I’ve had a terrible day.”
“Hi, Elizabeth,” said Ronny, uncharacteristically solemn. “I’m afraid I’m not going to make it any better. I’ve got some very bad news.”
“Oh, God, What?” Said Elizabeth, “That bastard hasn’t tried to get rid of Dad now has he?”
“I’m afraid it’s worse than that.”
“Don’t say he’s actually done it - that Dad’s had to resign too?”
“No. He’s not had to resign, Elizabeth. I’m afraid I don’t know how else to say this but - I’m so, so sorry - he’s dead. Dad’s dead and–” the voice on the end of the line cracked with emotion, “And so is Jonathan.”
Upon hearing the words, Elizabeth felt nauseous and her head began to swim, her vision blurred as darkness suddenly came over her. As she blacked out with shock, the Mercedes, travelling at over fifty miles an hour, careered off the road, bumping unchecked over the rough grassy verge and crashing through a mile marker and on through a fence into a field full of grape vines. The car eventually came to a halt about thirty feet in, stopped by a tangled mass of wrecked vines. Elizabeth was slumped over the wheel, the voice on the phone, which was now laying in the foot well, shouting to her over and over again, but she was oblivious.
* * *
In her hospital bed, two days later, Elizabeth was nursing a broken leg and some very bruised ribs, but that was all secondary to the pain she felt in her heart. She had spoken again to her extremely concerned foster brother who was relieved to hear her voice and after making certain that she was up to it, he told her in more detail what had happened.
Jonathan, shamed and ruined and unable to prove his innocence had taken his own life. He had been found hanging in his bathroom. Upon hearing the news of his beloved son’s suicide, Wendel, Elizabeth’s father, suffered a massive heart attack and had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.
The loss of both her father and brother on the same day, within hours of each other, was unbearable and as Elizabeth lay in her bed grieving, she knew the blame for their deaths lay squarely at the feet of that greedy, unscrupulous partner who had framed Jonathan. Peter Bearing.
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Northamptonshire, England, 2008
He had been asleep for only about an hour when the harsh beep, beep, beep of the alarm woke him. Groggily he threw out a hand and slammed it down on the LED clock, his fingers quickly finding the button to turn off the infernal din before his head burst.
Jake Sawyer had only slept sporadically throughout the night, half an hour here, ten minutes there but he certainly hadn’t gotten a full night as he was too anxious to sleep. Today was too big a day, too important. His whole future was riding on it.
He hadn’t really been tired during the night, as his mind was too active, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say and how he hoped it would all play out. But, of course, now he was tired. That last hour he must have fallen into a very deep sleep and the harsh beeping of the alarm had violently shaken him out of it.
Slowly he sat up and as he threw off the duvet the cold of the morning hit him immediately. It was freezing but he stood and pulled on his boxers and an old t-shirt, then grabbed up his towelling dressing gown and quickly slipped it on, wrapping it tightly around himself, shivering as he did so. He stuffed his feet into a decrepit pair of sheepskin slippers as he stumbled over to the window and pulled open the curtains. Momentarily he was blinded by the pure white of the morning. Where he had expected to see spiky brown trees, dull green grass and the row of drab grey houses opposite, he saw instead a winter wonderland. Everything that had been so ugly the night before had suddenly been beautified by a light dusting of snow. But flakes were still falling and the sky looked fit to burst with a lot more. “Shit!” said Jake aloud. “Just what I need.”
Jake lived alone now in the cheap, rented flat. None of the furniture was his, not even the bed. The only things that belonged to him were the few clothes in the half empty wardrobe, a laptop, a mobile phone and a few photographs of his children which he had dotted around the place in mis-matched frames. Everything else had either been taken by his estranged wife or sold to keep his failing business afloat, including the family home and car.
But today, all that was going to change. Today was going to be his salvation, his and Angie’s and Zack’s and Poppy’s. Today was the day when he was going to turn it round and when all their lives would reboot. Today the crushing, unrelenting weight of debt and worry would finally be lifted. The new contract was certain, in the bag, needing nothing more than Jake’s artistic signature along the bottom before the first, desperately needed instalment was transferred into his business account, and then he could breath again. He’d even planned to take Angie and the kids out to Pizza Hut for a celebratory meal. Nothing fancy, just enough to prove to Angie that things had changed. That he was back on top. A success, just like before. When she loved him. He could show her, prove to her, that he finally had a way to get out of debt.
The two year contract, putting together a monthly magazine would not only give them a fresh start it would also give him the time he needed to rebuild his business, to win other contracts and new accounts. A vital shot in the arm.
Admittedly it was not the most creative work, but it was regular and it was for Plancom, one of the biggest companies in Europe. Not some small little company with no budget, but a huge corporation with massive resources. Which meant no problems getting paid and right now, that was all that mattered. A safe account with a safe income.
Jake had to pitch for the job. His company, Sawyer Design, was up against two others - both larger than his which was, essentially a one-man-band. But even so, Jake knew the contract was his. The creative director of the magazine, Bob Hart, was an old friend and ex-colleague of his and he had guaranteed, with a nudge and a wink over a pint the previous week, that Jake’s would be the winning pitch.
The contract was being awarded today, in Manchester, and Jake’s signature, he had been told, was just a formality.
All he had to do was get to Manchester, a two hour drive away in normal conditions, but with an inch of snow on the ground that could easily turn in to three or four.
It was now 7am. The meeting was at 4pm. That meant he had to be on the road by twelve at the latest. No problem, all he had to do was call in at the office to grab his portfolio and he could get off, just take a slow, steady drive up, no sense in risking anything as the meeting was far too important.
Bracing himself, Jake stripped and jumped into the tepid, spluttering shower in the small, dank bathroom of his one bedroom flat, wishing more than ever that it was the hot powerful stream in the spacious wet-room of his old family home and that Angie was downstairs waiting for him with a nice cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast. Just like she used to be before he went off to work.
“Soon,” he said to himself as he scrubbed the grogginess away, “Let’s just get today done and dusted and then everything will be fine.” Jake’s biggest hope was that he and Angie would set up home together again, in a nice area, with a nice school for the kids. He didn’t ever let himself think, for fear of believing it, that she was, in fact, gone for good.
Jake was thirty-three but looked much older. His glasses were out
-dated, newer, trendier ones were an unnecessary expense. His beard was bushy and his sandy hair long and unkempt, both were flecked with grey. Once he had been supremely fit, a school boxing champion - he even had a black-belt in karate somewhere. Now though he was pudgy and out of shape. Exercise was a thing of the past, something that happy people did in their spare time. Once he had girls queuing at the door, now they didn’t even look twice. It was not hard to see why.
Jake could barely look at himself in the mirror as he brushed his unruly wavy hair. He should really have had it cut but twenty quid for a haircut - were they kidding? Hair-cutting was just one other thing that Angie used to do. He hadn’t had to go to a barbers for years - the last time it cost him less than a fiver, which was sometime back in the nineties.
By the time he was dressed and ready to leave the snow was coming down harder but he didn’t even own an overcoat any more. And he was wearing his one and only suit. A smart blue Armani which was about the only thing of value he had left in his wardrobe. That and the shiny black Paul Smith loafers he had on - which were only worn on very special occasions.
Jake looked at the skies and then at the icy driveway, not wishing to spoil his suit and shoes, but the car was only a few feet away so it shouldn’t be too bad. The car was an old, second hand Mondeo badly in need of a service, but a car nonetheless and dry too, with a working heater.
He made a dash for the car and got to it without slipping over. Jumping quickly inside, he shut the door and thrust the key into the ignition, wanting to get the heater on as soon as possible as his hands were already like ice.
There was a horrible wheezing sound as the engine slowly turned over then nothing. “Bollocks!” Jake said. “Not today, please not today!”
He tried again and the same thing happened. Then again, but this time it just clicked. “Fuck!” Jake yelled. Then he composed himself, trying to remain calm. “Okay, okay,” he said. “It’s just cold. No need to panic. Give it a minute.”
Finders Keepers Page 3
