The Dungeon House (Lake District Mysteries) (4 page)

In sentimental moments, Malcolm saw Nigel as the son he and Lysette would never have. She’d suffered a series of miscarriages, and both her final pregnancy and Amber’s birth were a nightmare. At one time it was touch and go whether mother and child would survive. The medics were brilliant, and everything worked out fine, but Lysette made up her mind that one near-death experience was enough. She’d insisted on Malcolm undergoing a vasectomy. He’d hated the thought of it – who wouldn’t? – but eventually surrendered to the inevitable. Nothing illustrated more clearly the depth of his devotion. And how had she repaid him?

‘Thank Christ that’s over for another year.’

Amber’s tone was sulky, her pretty mouth contorted into a pout. Her slender, tanned body looked stunning in that skimpy crop top and bikini pants, whatever her
mother said, but Nigel hadn’t made enough of a fuss of her. Sensible lad, he was way too old for her. Malcolm wasn’t ready for Amber to have a serious boyfriend. Plenty of time for that, she was still only a kid, even if her curves said otherwise. It had been very different with him and Lysette. They were made for each other.

Joanna Footit said, ‘Oh, it’s been a lovely day, Mr Whiteley. Thanks so much for inviting me.’

Her pale cheeks glowed, her voice cracked with excitement. Joanna and Nigel had been canoodling in the back of Robbie Dean’s car the night he drove it into a tree. Although both of them walked away without a scratch, the horror of the crash had left Joanna an emotional wreck. Only Nigel escaped with no scars of any kind. Born survivor, that lad, cool as you like. At long last Joanna seemed to be sorting herself out, and that strapless dress made the most of her slender figure, even though she was the ultimate titless wonder. At least she had long, long legs. Nigel’s hand had sneaked on to her bum, but he could surely do a lot better than Jo Footit. Never mind, if she distracted him from Amber, good luck to her.

‘He only wanted another lackey,’ Amber grumbled. ‘Isn’t that right, Dad?’

‘We couldn’t have managed without Joanna,’ Nigel said.

The compliment made the older girl simper. Only the other day, Lysette had predicted that Joanna and Nigel would get back together. Lysette had become a sort of surrogate mum to Nigel, and Malcolm often wondered if she used him as an excuse to see more of Ted. Truth was, he’d fretted about her interest in other men for as long as he could remember. As the mocking refrain of a
boyband version of ‘Love is All Around’ thudded in his ears, he told himself that the difference now was that he was
sure
.

‘Hi, guys!’ Cheryl shouted. ‘Any of that Bolly left?’

She and Lysette emerged from the rose garden, both jigging along to the music. Malcolm had never liked that bloody song; now he detested it. Ben Kind strolled behind the women, keeping an eye on everyone. Malcolm glanced over his shoulder, and noticed Scott Durham, taking care to look out to sea. Unlike Cheryl, Lysette wasn’t showing much flesh. She had a thing about skin cancer, and liked to cover up whenever the sun shone. Malcolm didn’t mind. Her body was meant for him alone.

Amber brightened at Cheryl’s approach. One of her long-running gripes was that Cheryl was much nicer to her than Lysette, which always provoked her mother into saying that was because Cheryl didn’t know her well enough. Once, the girl had even asked Malcolm why he hadn’t married Cheryl instead. There’d been no question of that. Cheryl was sexy and constantly pestered by boys, but Lysette was quieter, cleverer, more sophisticated. Malcolm only ever had eyes for her.

‘It’s boiling,’ Amber complained. ‘Look at me, I’m sweating cobs.’

‘I prescribe a glass of Bolly, darling,’ Cheryl said. ‘Now your guests are melting away, forget the buck’s fizz. Your Dad’s cellar has two whole racks full to bursting with vintage champagne.’

‘So you do have a dungeon in your house?’ Ben Kind said. ‘Even if it only accommodates alcohol?’

‘I’d love to be incarcerated down there,’ Cheryl
announced. ‘You can lock me up and throw away the key. Just me and the booze.’

Amber sniggered. ‘I bet Ben has an even better idea. Every policeman owns a pair of handcuffs, doesn’t he?’

‘Do you know our helpers, Ben?’ Lysette asked quickly. ‘This is Joanna, who works for Malcolm’s accountant. Her parents live down the road.’

‘Not in a mansion anything like this,’ Joanna said quickly.

‘We’d have invited them if they weren’t living the high life on holiday.’

‘In Tenby.’ Joanna blushed. ‘Not exactly Tenerife, is it? They rent a cottage every summer. I … I’ll probably stay in their house tonight, keep an eye on the place. Keep it safe from intruders.’

She gave Nigel a shy smile. Amber stretched in a slow-motion yawn, watching him from the corner of her eye as he withdrew his hand from its resting place on Joanna’s backside.

‘What wild, exciting lives some people lead,’ Amber murmured.

‘And this is Nigel,’ Lysette said. ‘Malcolm’s nephew.’

‘You’re a detective?’ Nigel was intrigued. ‘Not on duty, though?’

Ben weighed up the young man as they shook hands. ‘Cheryl says I’m never off duty.’

‘Ever met a psychopath?’

‘A few.’ A lazy grin. ‘Mostly they were members of the legal profession.’

‘Nigel, sweetie,’ Cheryl said hastily. ‘What’s the latest about your Dad?’

Nigel frowned. ‘Not so good. The doctors say he’s got six months. Give or take.’

‘Oh, sweetie, how awful! Give him my love, will you?’

‘Sure.’ Nigel bowed his head.

‘Tell him I really will pop in and see him this next week.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you.’

The silence was filled by Celine Dion. ‘The Power of Love.’ Malcolm cleared his throat noisily. ‘I’m going inside.’

The tittle-tattle was doing his head in. Instead of shedding crocodile tears for that useless brother of his, why didn’t anyone care about how he felt? If he stayed outside, soon Scott Durham would give in to temptation and join them. No way could he bear Lysette promising to visit his brother-in-law – even though Malcolm had sent him to Coventry – and exchanging jokey small talk with the man she was shagging.

Enough was enough. Soon they’d see he wasn’t powerless, and understand he was still the master of his fate. You didn’t mess with Malcolm Whiteley.

‘Malcolm! Are you awake?’

He forced open gritty eyes. Lysette stood in the doorway of the study, hands planted on her hips. She’d changed into a slinky green dress, dangerously high heels compensating for her lack of inches. He’d crashed out in the armchair, sprawling awkwardly, one hand squashed under his head. His fingers felt numb, and cramp in his legs made him wince as he tried to shift position. ‘What … what is it?’

‘We’re all going down to Ravenglass for a meal. Obviously, you don’t want to come.’

What if he insisted on joining them? Her disdain made it clear that was the last thing she wanted. ‘I … I’m not …’

‘No. Stay here, and sleep it off.’ Her features were taut with strain. ‘Can’t say when we’ll be back.’

Daylight was fading. Must have been out for longer than he’d imagined. Fighting the grogginess, he managed to string two sentences together.

‘I was dog tired. I needed to rest my eyes.’

‘Recover from your drunken stupor, you mean.’ She sniffed. ‘You stink like a brewery, Malcolm. Open the window, can’t you? You’re a complete and utter shambles. As for welcoming our guests – you made a spectacle of yourself. I felt like throwing up, I was so embarrassed.’

Never had she spoken to him with such contempt. Choking with rage, he tried to haul himself on to his feet, but before he could straighten himself, she’d marched out into the hall, heels clattering on the new wooden floor like tracer bullets. He heard her yell at Amber to jump in the car. The front door slammed, and the Alfa’s engine roared into life.

He’d fallen asleep with his mouth open, and his throat felt scratchy. Hobbling to the kitchen, he filled a glass from the tap. An old man’s face glared back from a gold sunburst mirror on the wall. Bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks. Shit, he looked like a down and out in designer summer wear. He moved gingerly, testing tender muscles and creaking joints. Another reminder of the passing years. Back in the day, he could go on a bender, and then spring out of bed at the crack of dawn, fresh as a daisy and ready to take on the world.

He splashed cold water on his face. What was Lysette playing at? At least with Amber around, she wouldn’t dare to get cosy with Scott Durham. Presumably Cheryl and Ben Kind were tagging along for the meal. Had she asked Durham to join them? Surely she wasn’t that stupid. Or was she tiring of the affair? Secrecy and lies, exciting at first, became squalid once laid bare. If Durham had asked her to move in with him, that would mean taking on the son, the wannabe Bon Jovi. She wasn’t the maternal type, her constant squabbles with Amber proved that. What if
the boot was on the other foot, and she’d started getting too intense? Durham might easily have second thoughts. Lysette was high-maintenance, and commitment never came cheap. Plenty more fish in the sea, especially for a baby-faced artist with a winning smile, and a sob story about his wife’s losing battle with cancer.

Stretching his arms, and sucking in air, Malcolm gave the face in the mirror a mocking grin. Not quite dead yet, eh? Like the song in that film. ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’. Even when you’re being crucified.

Outside, the sky was streaked with orange and red. A shepherd’s delight sunset, the sort Durham drooled over. How much money did his paintings rake in? His cottage was no bigger than a phone box, he drove a rusty old Ford, his jerseys were holed by moths. Quite a come-down for Lysette. Would she really fancy slogging through the divorce courts, knowing he’d fight her every inch of the way?

He lay down on the living room sofa, and stared through the window with heavy-lidded eyes. The garden was empty. You’d never guess that a few hours earlier, these grounds had thronged with people and life. Robbie and his crew had dismantled the gazebo, and shifted the trestle tables, while Durham had taken away his sodding loudspeakers. The spreading oaks cast shadows, the summer house was in darkness. The Dungeon House estate was still as a graveyard.

When he woke again, he was starving, but his head hurt, and he had a sickly feeling in his stomach, so he made do with a round of unbuttered bread. He’d been kidding
himself with that brief flash of optimism. How likely was it that Lysette had dumped Durham? Her fretfulness was provoked by a husband who couldn’t stay sober, not even when hosting a party for the neighbourhood. What if she came home this evening, and locked him out of her room again?

No!
He banged his hand down on the table so hard that for a moment, he thought he’d cracked a bone. Lysette wasn’t going to pull that trick again. He simply wouldn’t allow it.

He blundered back to his study, taking the Chivas Regal and a tumbler for company. Pouring himself a generous measure, he spilt most of it on the Axminster. No problem, plenty more where that came from. He prided himself on keeping his cellars well-stocked. For as long as he could remember, he’d dreamt of becoming a sort of lord of the manor. When business was booming, once or twice he’d indulged a flight of fancy by lodging a bid for country houses at auction sales, but something always held him back. Nothing captured his imagination until his first viewing of the Dungeon House. Talk about love at first sight. The house stood on a wooded knoll between Holmrook and Ravenglass, and had once been a hive of industry, buzzing with men and machinery. Sandstone quarried here built cottages in Ravenglass, and other villages dotted around the Western Lakes. The Dungeon House was more than a home, it was a slice of history.

Selling up was unthinkable. An Englishman’s home was his castle. But castles required a vast amount of upkeep, and he’d spent eye-watering sums on redecoration, roof repairs, and new central heating. To pay back sixty per cent
of what he’d made from selling his company would cripple him. Fifty per cent? Same difference.

A sharp pain stabbed him in the guts. Early warning of a stomach ulcer? Stress did that to people, it was a well-known fact. Not so long ago, he’d been as fit as a flea, now he was odds-on for an early grave. When was the last time he’d managed a full twenty-four hours without a drop of the hard stuff? He needed booze the way a one-legged man needs a stick to lean on.

Selling the company was the turning point. Each year, waste management became more cut-throat, and creative accounting could only take you so far. The offer from Morkel’s consortium was timed to perfection. Too good to be true? Well, yeah, so it had proved.

Once the celebratory Caribbean holiday was over, things started going awry. He’d assumed Lysette would jump at the chance to spend more time with him, but she kept heading to places like Buttermere and Ennerdale Water, to sketch or paint. Or so she said.

He savoured the whisky’s tang. No better medicine. For months he’d been sleeping badly; his GP prescribed Temazepam, but after he began to suspect Lysette of an affair, he started having nightmares for the first time in his life. Once in a dream, he’d discovered his wife naked in bed, legs wrapped around a smooth-skinned man wearing nothing but a goat’s mask. Malcolm had seized hold of the goat’s horns, determined to tear off his enemy’s disguise. Instead, his own fingers were ripped away, leaving his hand a bloody stump. He woke in a cold sweat, to find his wife sleeping peacefully beside him.

When she’d lost interest in sex, his suspicions crystallised.
At first, he gave her the benefit of the doubt, knowing her appetite was almost as healthy as his. Once or twice he’d drunk so much that he was incapable of performing anyway, but lately she kept whining that she had a headache or wasn’t in the mood. And that wasn’t all. Several times, she’d hurriedly silenced her chirruping phone for no obvious reason, making excuses that wouldn’t convince a child. One afternoon when she was out sketching, he rifled through her things until he found a folder of credit card statements. None of her purchases looked dodgy, though he cringed at the sums she frittered away on clothes. At least he’d put his mind at rest – until Robbie Dean had set him wondering again.

‘Saw your missus in Seascale yesterday, while I was filling up the van.’

‘You did?’ She’d told him she’d spent the afternoon at Wasdale Head, had rhapsodised about the light playing on the surface of the lake.

‘Yeah, gave her a wave, but she didn’t wave back.’

‘Too busy enjoying the sea breeze, I suppose?’

Robbie shook his head. ‘Dunno. When I glanced round again, she’d dipped out of sight.’

That evening, he’d told Lysette that Robbie had seen her. She brushed it off, pointing out that he’d admired the watercolour of clouds scudding over the peaks of Great Gable and the Scafells, her afternoon’s work. It sounded convincing, but panic flickered in her eyes before she recovered her nerve. You could paint clouds and mountains any time. Had she stockpiled watercolours, to corroborate her alibis? Next chance he had, he resumed his search of her personal belongings. Her bank statements proved more mysterious than the credit card transactions. She’d
made a series of sizeable cash withdrawals. Unusual for someone who never liked to carry much money in her purse. What was she spending the money on? Gifts for her lover surely couldn’t account for all of it. Hotel rooms for their assignations surely explained the rest. Seascale boasted several hotels and guest houses, and if she wasn’t making use of them, why else would she be there? In a small town she disliked, nestling under the brooding bulk of the nuclear power station at Sellafield?

The only puzzle left to solve was the identity of the boyfriend. Scott Durham had his cottage, and Gray Elstone lived on his own. Robbie did too, for that matter, in the cottage where his grandfather had brought him up after his parents died. Why bother with a hotel, unless the sheer danger of it all was part of the appeal? He thought the culprit must be someone else, someone he’d never even met, until it occurred to him that her hotel visits might coincide with times when Josh Durham was at home from school.

The sound of the Alfa pulling up outside jerked him back to consciousness. Hearing someone fling open the front door, he called out, ‘Amber, is that you?’

His daughter looked into the study. She was wearing a party dress that showed far too much flesh. Her hair was tangled and her cheeks were stained with tears.

‘You’re pissed. The stench in here is disgusting.’

‘What’s up? Who made you cry?’

‘What do you care? I hate you. And I hate Mum.’

She turned away, and ran up the stairs. He heard the click-clack of Lysette’s heels as she came inside, and struggled to his feet. Okay, it was now or never. His life was
falling apart. Time to start putting it back together again.

‘Lysette!’

She appeared in the doorway. Her face looked stretched, her expression unnatural, like a woman who’d undergone too much cosmetic surgery. ‘What do you want?’

Anyone would think he was the one at fault. ‘Who upset Amber?’

‘She’s fallen out with Nigel, that’s all. She finally woke up to the fact that he’s more interested in Joanna. We were in the restaurant at the Eskdale Arms, but she was an embarrassment. In the end, Nigel went off with Joanna, and Amber’s wailed all the way home.’

‘Who else was there?’

‘Gray, and Ben Kind, and Cheryl, why do you ask? Robbie was drinking in the bar, and playing darts. Oh, and Scott Durham turned up later on, after he’d taken Josh back to the cottage.’ Her green eyes were cold. ‘Happy?’

‘It’s you I want to be happy, Lysette.’

‘That’s not true, is it?’ Her voice trembled with anger. ‘What you want is for Malcolm Whiteley to be happy. The man with the big house and big dick. Successful in business, and brilliant in bed. Adored by his family, and …’

‘Lysette!’ He put up his hand. She was needling him into doing something he’d regret. ‘We need to talk.’

It was a good line, the sort of shit peddled by those women’s magazines she lapped up in the hairdresser’s, but she shook her head. ‘You’d never listen to me.’

‘I’m all ears.’

She breathed in, as if summoning up her courage. ‘Okay, Malcolm, you asked for it. Tomorrow, I’m leaving. My solicitors will be in touch. I want a divorce.’

He swallowed. ‘I don’t think I’m hearing you right.’

‘I said you wouldn’t listen.’

‘You haven’t even got any fucking solicitors!’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. It’s one of many things you don’t know about me.’

He grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘What else don’t I know? Tell me that. I know you’re shagging Scott Durham, you little whore.’

‘Let go of me!’ She struggled, but his grip was too strong for her to escape.

‘You seriously think I’d surrender you to that pathetic toerag?’

‘Surrender me? You talk like I’m something you bought in a raffle.’

He was breathing hard. ‘Lysette, you’re not leaving me.’ The instant he relaxed his hold on her, she wriggled free. She was panting, and her cheeks were crimson.

‘You’re so wrong. Tomorrow, I’m off, and I’m never coming back. We’re finished, Malcolm, and if you don’t sort yourself out, you’ll be finished too. Look at you. Your life’s a mess. Everybody thinks you’re a swollen-headed oaf. They only tolerated you because you had money, and now that’s dribbling away, you’ll soon find out who your friends are. The real question is whether you’ll find any at all.’

She ran out into the hall, and up the staircase. He hesitated before following. She’d reached the half-landing and was staring back at him. Taking care not to fall, she took off first one of the high-heeled shoes, then the other. He took a stride forward, and she threw one of the shoes at him. It struck him on the forearm, a glancing blow that
didn’t hurt but took him by surprise. As he hesitated, she spun round and raced off barefoot, up to the third bedroom. Not moving a muscle, he listened to her fiddling with the key in the lock.

‘Bitch,’ he mumbled.

That was it, then. He’d tried everything, now he’d run out of options. Nobody could blame him for what happened next.

For a long time, he sat in the armchair in his study, endlessly polishing the barrel of the Winchester. His mood was almost serene, thanks to the Chivas Regal. The long struggle was over, the uncertainty at an end. Once hope died, it was easy to move forward, and do what had to be done.